Behind Every Lie(32)

I threw my backpack on the sofa. Fatigue dragged at my body. My eyelids felt like they were made of glue. I took a quick shower to wake myself up, turning the water up to scalding. There was a bottle of Tesco lemongrass all-in-one soap and a razor in the metal shower tray. I almost laughed, thinking of the expensive handmade soap Liam had imported from Paris.

After I dressed, I heard the sound of my phone ringing from the living room.

“Hello, Eva.” Detective Jackson’s voice was smooth and unreadable when I answered. “Thanks for sending that copy of your mom’s letter.”

“Sure.”

“Do you know what she was referring to? The danger you were in?”

“No, I don’t. She never said anything, and I never felt in any danger when I was growing up.”

“It must be difficult,” he said, “finding out your mother wasn’t biologically yours. How did that make you feel?”

“What, are you a shrink now?” I snapped. I gritted my teeth, trying to fold my irritation away. I felt like little pieces of me were leaking out.

“Hmm,” he said, as if he were placating a testy toddler. “Listen, there are a few things I wanted to ask you about your mother.”

“Like what?”

“Our crime scene investigators found a gun in her house. Do you know why she bought a gun?”

“A gun?” I shook my head. “That’s not possible. Mom was very antigun. She never understood America’s obsession with firearms.”

Even as I said it, I was thinking that it was totally possible Mom had a gun. She was very private—or maybe secretive was a better word. She’d kept a million secrets, big ones and small ones. Or maybe you couldn’t even call them secrets. Maybe they were just straight-up lies.

“It’s a nine-millimeter purchased and registered to Katherine Hansen in May 2017. Did she have a reason to buy a gun?”

“I don’t think so.”

“We’ve done some digging into Katherine’s background. Do you know much about her life before she moved to America?”

“I guess as much as any kid does about their parents. My father died in London when I was a baby. Mom’s parents died when she was young, so we moved to America to start over. She met Mike in Chicago, and when they got married, he adopted me. Why? Is there something I don’t know?”

“We’re still trying to establish some details. Have you been able to remember anything else?”

I pulled the sketch of the man I remembered at Mom’s house out of my purse. “No,” I lied. “Nothing.”

A beat of silence.

“Have you heard of Interpol?” Jackson asked. His voice had chilled noticeably. “It’s an international policing agency, so no matter where you go, Seattle, Whidbey Island, or London, we can still arrest you.”

I licked my lips, trying to moisten my mouth. He knew. He knew I was here.

“I know you know something about your mother’s murder, Eva. And I’m going to find out what it is.”

His words at the gallery floated back to me. I never would’ve stopped until I found the guy who did that to you.

I realized now he’d been warning me.

“You have nothing on me,” I whispered.

“Not yet, but I will,” he growled. “Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, maybe the day after, my CSIs will give me their results— your fingerprints, DNA, your car on the ferry to Seattle the night she was killed—and I’ll have proof. And when that happens, I’ll issue an arrest warrant to Interpol. And no lawyer will be able to save you from a murder charge.”

“I have to go, Detective.” I was proud to hear that my voice didn’t quiver, even though my hands did. “Thank you for your call.”

I hung up. Liam was right. Jackson was tracking my credit card, maybe my bank account, my passport. Could he track my cell phone? I turned my phone off and slid the SIM card out. I stared at the tiny chip in my hand, then squeezed my fingers tight around it.

Maybe I didn’t remember the night Mom was murdered, like I didn’t remember the night I was attacked. But I wasn’t going to slink away and take the blame for something that wasn’t my fault. Not again.





sixteen

kat




25 years before

“KATHERINE?” SEB CRACKED the bedroom door and peered into the murkiness. Light from the hallway spilled inside, along with the faint, ashy smell of smoke still left from when I burnt the ironing board. I tried to focus, narrowing my eyes against the sudden onslaught. My body was thick and heavy with the weight of the drugs in my system.

I reached for the bottle of pills on the bedside table, dry-swallowing two. This was my routine when I woke. Pills. Swallow. Sleep. Wake. Pills. Swallow. Sleep. I found anything else quite beyond me.

Seb slid a plate of toast and a steaming mug of tea onto the bedside table and sat next to me, his weight dipping the bed as I lay back, clutching Barnaby to my chest. On some level I recognized his gesture of kindness. But he smelled of stale sweat and cooking oil, and it took everything in me not to retch.

“You have to get up.” Seb’s voice was wooden. “You haven’t come out of here in almost a week. We have to pick a casket.”

I rolled away from him and didn’t reply. My daughter was dead. What did it matter what casket she had? Cell and tissue, skin and bone, we were all just particles of matter, obeying the laws of physics as we grew and lived and breathed and died and turned to nothingness in our graves.