Behind Every Lie(38)
A dozen articles popped up, all featuring David Ashford’s name. Judging by the headlines, David was prominently known in the art industry, actively involved in his community, and a generous donor to a number of charities.
“What about older articles?” I said. “Maybe twenty, thirty years ago?”
The librarian filtered the articles from oldest to newest. I scanned the first few, which were mostly media releases about his art gallery. And then I saw it.
Woman Held for Murder after Tot Dies in Tragic Fall
“Thank you,” I said, reaching for the mouse.
“Just click each one when you want to view it. When you’re done, hit Back.”
I nodded, waiting until she’d moved away before I clicked into the story.
Woman Held for Murder after Tot Dies in Tragic Fall
A woman has been arrested on suspicion of murder after three-year-old Eva Clarke died at the Mayfair home of David Ashford, owner of a local art gallery.
Officers were called to the property at 3.45pm on Friday following a call that the girl had fallen from a third-storey window, sustaining fatal head injuries.
Police said they were not looking for anyone else in connection with the incident.
A police spokesman said: “A report is currently being prepared for the coroner and a woman has been arrested in connection with the death.”
I put a hand to my mouth. Murder. I actually felt sick. Charlotte Ashford was right—Eva Clarke was dead. Was Mom the woman ar rested for murdering her? It didn’t seem possible. Just a few weeks ago, she’d been awarded for saving a little girl’s life.
I clicked Back and went on to the next article.
Wife of Gallery Owner Kills Self and Daughter in Thames Suicide Jump
The watery grave of the Thames has claimed two more lives this year after Rose Ashford, wife of art gallery owner David Ashford, jumped into the river with their young daughter.
Mrs Ashford was arrested last month after her nanny’s daughter, Eva Clarke, was found dead following a three-storey fall at the Ashford property. The fall was subsequently ruled an accident and all charges were dropped, but Eva Clarke’s parents issued a statement to the media condemning the police’s investigation as insignificant, calling for an inquiry to be held. Sources close to the family say Mrs Ashford’s suicide note apologizes for her role in the toddler’s death.
There are no other suspects in the murder-suicide.
I sat back in my chair, stunned. Mom wasn’t the murderer; it was David’s wife. And she’d gone on to kill herself and their child out of guilt. A wad of bile filled my mouth, bitter as a chewed-up aspirin.
I zoomed in on the grainy black-and-white photo next to the article. Eva Clarke’s parents had been captured leaving their house. The mother had her hand up, as if her eyes couldn’t adjust to the light.
I leaned in, squinting. There was no denying it. Eva Clarke’s mother, Katherine Clarke, was younger, blonder, thinner, but definitely the woman who’d raised me: Katherine Hansen.
My mind went dull with shock.
Once when I was about six or seven, I ran away in a huff because Mom had forgotten to take me to a friend’s birthday party. Andrew had been a baby, and Mom was exhausted caring for us both, but at the time I didn’t care. I was furious I’d missed the unicorn party I’d been looking forward to for weeks. So I ran away to the backyard and climbed the gnarled limbs of our old oak tree.
Mom knew where I was—she was in the kitchen watching me the whole time. At some point I dozed off and fell maybe ten feet to the ground, landing, arms splayed, on my back. Mom shrieked my name as she ran out of the house and collapsed at my side. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs, and I lay there, suddenly awake but not sure if I really was.
That was how I felt now, like I had fallen and landed with a rude jolt and all I could do was lie there wondering if this was really happening. The truth was here in front of me, but only partially. I still didn’t know what to believe.
I squinted and looked at the picture again. There was something familiar about Sebastian Clarke, Katherine’s husband. I rifled through my purse, pulled out the sketch I’d drawn earlier, and compared it to Sebastian Clarke.
The man in my drawing was much older, his nose larger and more crooked. He had facial hair and his forehead was a little wider, but there was something between the eyes, maybe the shape of his jaw too.
I covered my mouth to stifle a gasp.
Was Sebastian Clarke the man I remembered at Mom’s house the night she was murdered, the man following me earlier?
nineteen
eva
BACK AT JACOB’S FLAT THAT evening, I changed into a Bendy AF T-shirt and yoga pants and made myself a cup of tea. I feverishly called Andrew over and over, wanting to ask if he’d known anything about this. But he didn’t pick up. I then tried Liam, but he didn’t pick up either.
I took my tea to the living room window and looked outside. I could barely process that I wasn’t me, and that my mom, who wasn’t my mom, had been murdered, and that maybe I had murdered her, but maybe I hadn’t. Maybe somebody else had, and now they were after me.
What did it all mean?
I felt like I’d been trapped in a bubble where all sound had been muted, only the vibrations reaching me, thrumming inside my chest. What I really needed was time to grieve, to mourn, but I couldn’t even have that. I had to keep going, keep moving, keep running so I could unravel this mystery.