Behind Every Lie(24)

I grabbed a flashlight from the glove box and hurried across the road. The green shutters of Mom’s Queen Anne–style house were pulled tight, the lights all off. From the outside, it just looked cold and lonely, not like the location of a horrible crime.

Going around to the back, I fumbled under the bottom step for the spare key and unlocked the back door. The arc of light from my flashlight swept across white kitchen countertops, a hulking black stove, silver pots hanging from a ceiling rack. A cluster of daffodils was drooping in a crystal vase on the island, crumpled petals just starting to fall. Drops from the kitchen faucet plinked against the bucket sink.

On the hallway walls were some of Jacob’s best black-and-white shots: a Cuban man with smoke curling around his head; a painted woman stretching into the immensity of the Maasai Mara. In the living room, I swept the beam of the flashlight over the room.

Loose white powder dusted every surface. Vases and knickknacks were broken, knocked to the floor. I ran my fingers over the dusty fireplace mantel, picking up a photo of Mom, Andrew, and me playing in the sand at the beach. Next to it was a baby picture of Andrew. There were, I realized for the first time, no baby pictures of me.

Next to the fireplace, Mom’s favorite armchair was missing. On the floor where it used to be, a large pool of blood had drenched the sand-colored carpet, the fibers glued together into a dark, crusting mass.

I stared at it, trying to remember, but there was nothing but whirling fog, like trying to catch the tail end of a dream. I held a couch cushion to my chest. Mom’s smell gusted off it. Childhood memories buffeted me so relentlessly I literally felt homesick: Mom reading me Little House on the Prairie before bed; making lemonade together; her shouting for Andrew and me to turn the bloody telly off and get to the dinner table.

The other not-so-beautiful memories came too: how brusque and critical she could be; the irritated fold of her brow when we argued; her cruel words before I moved out: Stop being a victim and start being a survivor.

An unbearable sadness knuckled into my ribs. Tears filled my eyes. Was the detective right? Had I, in a moment of rage or fear or extreme anxiety, killed my mom?

I thumped my forehead with my palm. With the pain came a sudden memory. I was reading a book in bed, like I always did to help me get to sleep. Liam was asleep next to me, both arms thrown over his head like a child. My phone chimed with a text message.

Mom: Hello Eva. Can you come over? I realize it’s late but it’s urgent.

Me: Ok, but I’ll have to wait for the ferry. Can prob get next one but will still be an hour or so.

Mom: I’ll be waiting. Love you.



I snapped back to the present and pulled my phone from my purse. I scrolled through my texts, but there was nothing from Mom. Not since we’d met at the restaurant, a text saying she’d arrived.

I must have deleted the texts.

I must have.

Either that, or I was going completely fucking crazy.



* * *



I prowled the house, hoping to trigger another memory. In Mom’s office upstairs, I rifled through science magazines and a stack of high school physics papers, shuffled through academic books on string theory and quantum mechanics and the history of time. The light from my flashlight bounced around the room. I flung down the book I was holding. It landed with a hard thud on the filing cabinet next to the desk.

I yanked the top drawer open. One of the hanging folders at the back was crooked, the metal claws dislodged. I pulled it out. Inside was a small, brown teddy bear with a faded daffodil-spotted tie and a sealed, letter-size envelope marked with my name in Mom’s familiar neat handwriting.

I turned the teddy bear over, trying to remember if it was mine as a child. I didn’t recognize it. I set it down and slit the envelope open. Inside was an old British birth certificate for Eva Clarke. Mine, I supposed, before Mom and my adopted dad, Mike, got married. There was also a letter folded into a small square and a ripped piece of an envelope with an address in London for a David Ashford, written in unfamiliar block handwriting.

I smoothed the letter on the desk, my damp fingers smudging the ink.

Dear Eva,

I’ve written this letter a thousand times and thrown it away each time. The truth is you are not my daughter. I should have told you about your past—our past—many years ago, but I wanted to keep you safe. If anybody knew who we really are, we could all be in very grave danger. Perhaps it is not an excuse, but your safety has always been my priority.

I am so sorry.

Mum xx



I sank slowly into the leather chair, my legs like whipped cream. I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach, breathless and bewildered. A dark, wet horror rose in my mind.

She wasn’t my mom.

We were in danger.

But why?

I set the flashlight on the desk and pulled my phone from my back pocket to google the address on the scrap. The results showed a website for Selwyn House Art Gallery, owned by David Ashford. Clearly he’d been writing to my mom. Who was he?

A door clicked shut somewhere in the house, loud as the crack of a gun. Then the low thud of boots on hardwood. My whole body tensed. Goose bumps rose on my arms, fear turning my stomach to liquid.

Someone was in the house.

I stood, heart hammering. I looked around for a weapon, remembering Melissa’s words. Whoever killed your mom might come back.

Thump, thump, thump up the stairs. I froze. Fear crawled up my back like bugs. The silhouette of a masculine form appeared on the other side of the smoked-glass french doors. I snatched the flashlight from the desk and clicked it off, plunging the room into total darkness.