Behind Every Lie(27)

I laughed. “Well, I also grew up Catholic, so there’s that. Perhaps I inherited some of the guilt my mother never had.”

She threw back half her drink. When she spoke, her voice had tilted into a slur: “There was this woman at the park who said it was a relief becoming a mum because suddenly there was someone more important than her. I thought it was a stupid thing to say. Perhaps I craved domestic bliss and rushed into marriage to ensure that I would have a family, but now I’d almost give it all up.”

Her eyes glittered, and for a second she looked rather mad. But she was drunk. She didn’t mean it, so I smiled and tried to lighten the mood. “Surely domestic and bliss don’t belong in the same sentence. Domestic is a euphemism for a servant, and the idea of blissful servitude is an oxymoron.”

Rose threw her head back and laughed for a long time. I laughed with her, the booze loosening my limbs. She looked so comfortable sitting there half-naked, so utterly certain of herself.

She flopped onto her side so she was facing me. “I wish we could drink Irish lemonade every day.”

I opened my mouth to reply—but just then the shrill sound of a child’s scream sliced through my body.

“What was that?” Rose jumped up.

“Eva.” I raced for the stairs, Rose stumbling behind as she yanked her skirt on, and we burst into the playroom.

Laura was sitting on top of a chest-high bookcase next to the open window. The pale drapes fell over her shoulder like a shawl. Her eyes were wide, face pale. One knee hung over the edge of the bookcase, the other over the window ledge.

“What are you doing?” I shouted, yanking her to the floor. “Where’s Eva?”

Laura’s cheeks hollowed as she sucked in deep breaths.

I gave her a small shake of the shoulders. “Where’s Eva?”

She pointed at the open window. I lunged toward it, looked left, then right. I only saw row after row of Regency houses, pale stone and red brick, shiny cars glinting in the white sun. Up and down the street, trees were drooping, their leaves flaccid as day-old lettuce in the heat.

Rose stuck her head out the window and looked down.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

She backed away. Her fingers clawed at her hair, tearing at it. Her eyes were wide, the whites stark and haunting, her voice turning into one long, mournful keen. “OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!”

Finally my eyes latched on to what she had seen: the broken figure of a little girl crumpled on the ground. Her long blond hair was fanned around her face, her back and neck twisted at an impossible angle. She looked like a porcelain doll, so still, her blue eyes wide and staring, sightless, at the blue sky above, a puddle of something dark expanding around her head like a halo.

And then I saw Barnaby, Eva’s teddy, lying next to the girl’s tiny, unfurled fist. A few feet away lay the trumpet-shaped hat, now torn from his head.

And I knew.

I knew.

Eva.

I threw myself down the stairs, bursting out the front door, across the gravel to where my daughter lay in a crumpled heap.

My knees buckled and I collapsed, a howl launching from deep inside me. A widening pool of blood crept from my baby’s head. It soaked into the fabric of my trousers as I reached out to touch her, to hold her and beg her to come back to me.

But she didn’t. She wouldn’t move. She lay limp and lifeless in my arms.

And I screamed and screamed and screamed.





fourteen

eva




THE IMPOUND TRUCK BEEPED LOUDLY from outside Mom’s house. I looked at Jacob through the shades of sepia cast by the yellow street lighting.

“I have to find out what happened the night Mom was killed,” I said again. “Maybe this letter has something to do with it.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” Jacob asked.

“I’ll go to London. Tonight. I’m going to talk to this David Ashford guy myself.”

Jacob looked uncertain. “Really? Don’t you think leaving the country’s a little extreme? You said you’re a suspect.”

“My mom’s been murdered, Jake! And, oh, it turns out she wasn’t actually my mom. I need to find out what ‘dangerous’ thing she was involved in and if it led to her murder. If anything, I’m not being extreme enough! And they haven’t arrested me yet.”

“Well, why don’t you tell that detective about the letter?”

Jackson’s words echoed in my head: Don’t go too far, Eva. We might need you for further questioning.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“This is motive!” I shook the letter at him. “They’ll think I killed her!” I covered my face with my hands. “What if they don’t believe me? I could end up in jail!” The thought winded me. I shook my head hard. “I’ll be back before the detective even finds out I’ve left.”

For a second Jacob looked conflicted, but then he shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and lifted his shoulders. “Okay. What can I do to help?”

I handed Jacob my credit card, and he booked me a seat on the next flight to London while I grabbed a backpack and filled it with a handful of the clothes I’d left at Mom’s when I moved out. Fortunately, my passport was still in the bedside drawer in my old room, so I grabbed it, too.