Behind Every Lie(21)

“Eva!” The front door banged open, the bell ringing wildly. I pushed past Detective Jackson and rushed out to the gallery, Jackson right behind me. Liam strode across the gallery and shoved a finger in his face. “You! You can’t interview her without a lawyer present.”

Melissa peered in the front door uncertainly.

Jackson shook his head, his lips twisted in the barest of smirks. “Not an interview.” He glanced at me. “We were just talking, right, Eva? Although I could arrest you and bring you in for questioning … if that would suit you better?”

Liam thrust his jaw out. “If you had any evidence, you’d have arrested her already. Now, get out of here, or I’ll report you for harassment.”

Jackson shrugged and walked to the door. At the last second he turned, impaling me with his pale eyes.

He’d already made up his mind about me. I could see it. His suspicion was shaping my story.

“Don’t go too far, Eva,” he said. “We might need you for further questioning.”





eleven

kat




25 years before

I MENTALLY TICKED OFF the chores I’d completed now that Eva was asleep: toys tidied, floors mopped, counters gleaming, laundry washed and folded. Everything just the way Seb liked it when he arrived home after work. I half-listened to classical music murmuring quietly on the radio as I finished ironing Seb’s shirts.

The music ended abruptly, and a reporter started speaking: “A fire has broken out at a restaurant in Camden Police believe the fire started just outside the kitchen of the Gardener. Two people are missing and fire engines are working to contain the blaze. No official cause has yet been released.”

Horror braided my stomach. The Gardener was very near Seb’s restaurant. I wondered if he knew the people missing.

The front door slammed and Seb entered carrying a rather large, heavy-looking box. I set the iron down and followed him into the kitchen. He dropped the box on the counter while I filled a glass with water and handed it to him.

“Hello, love. Let me get your dinner heated,” I said, squeezing past him to open the oven, where I’d kept the stew I’d made for dinner. I poured a large serving into a bowl and put it in the microwave.

“Here.” Seb dug in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-pound note. “Get us a beef roast for Sunday.”

I put the money in the jam jar I kept on top of the refrigerator, along with the rest of the weekly allowance Seb doled out for groceries. I looked around to ensure that everything was perfect, already trying to gauge his mood, to preempt his every need.

“I like your watch.” I nodded at Seb’s wrist.

Seb smiled. “Rolex. In this business, the face you put on becomes your identity. This watch says, Don’t fuck with me.”

“Did you hear the Gardener caught fire tonight?” I asked. “Two people are missing.”

“Bloody hell!” Seb’s blue eyes widened. “That’s tough luck, innit? Maybe I should head over and have a gander in a bit, eh?” He chuckled, as if watching his competition burn to the ground was funny. It made my stomach roil. “Bung my keys over, would ya, love?”

I plucked his keys from the key hook and handed them to him. He sawed at the box he’d set down, throwing a glance to me. “The paperwork came through for Eva’s school today. She’s been accepted at that Catholic one you liked.”

“Seb, that’s wonderful!” I exclaimed.

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am! Thank you!” I kissed Seb on the cheek.

It had taken a bit of convincing for Seb to agree to pay for private education, but ultimately he had caved. For all his flaws, he wanted the best for Eva too.

The microwave beeped, and I pulled out the bowl of stew with a cloth as Seb withdrew two large tins of cooking oil from the box, followed by a packet of shortbread biscuits.

Suddenly I froze. The unmistakable odor of smoke wafted in the air. Seb smelled it too, I could tell. He lifted his head, nostrils flaring.

“What’s that smell?” he asked.

I shook my head, a sickening feeling churning in my stomach.

The fire alarm screamed to life. We raced toward the source of the smell: the living room. The ironing board was billowing smoke, the iron facedown. Seb’s shirt and the fabric ironing board cover were on fire. Orange and yellow flames licked at the air above the metal skeleton.

“Water!” Seb roared.

He dropped to the floor, beneath the smoke, and yanked out the iron’s plug. He cursed as a flaming piece of fabric fell next to him. I hurried to the kitchen to fill a pot with water and rushed back to the living room, water sloshing over my feet. Seb was beating at the flame with a rug, ashes and sparks flying into the air. When I dumped the water over the remaining flames, it hissed, a quiet, dying whisper. I threw open the sliding glass door and hot, black smoke billowed outside.

Seb turned off the fire alarm, plunging us instantly into a thick silence cinched tight with his fury.

“Seb, I’m so sorry!” I breathed. “The iron—it must have tipped over. I didn’t think—”

“No. You didn’t think, did you, Katherine?” he snapped. “You never do.”

He was right. What rational person walks away and leaves a hot iron unattended?