Behind Every Lie(43)

“David’s out of town!” Rose’s eyes filled with tears. “He had to get a piece for a client. He won’t be home until next week.”

“Take Laura and go without him. This is important, Rose. You must listen to me.”

“Go where? How?” Rose was panicking, dragging in tiny sips of air too fast.

I handed her an envelope. “It’s Eva’s birth certificate. Use it for Laura. Nobody will ever question it. My passport is in there too, for you to use. They won’t look if you go to France. Just get out of the country. You can send word to David later.”

Rose stroked a hand down Laura’s hair, a burst of color against her pale, bony fingers. A streetlight shimmered on, casting a golden glow onto the street. I looked around, expecting to see someone, anyone, but the street was quiet, empty as a wish.

“David’s never around,” she said. “He can’t keep her safe!” Then she reached for my hand, her eyes aglow. “Come with us.”

“Don’t be daft.” I snatched my hand away. “I can’t leave.”

“Come with us,” she repeated, more forcefully this time. “Did you think I hadn’t seen your bruises, Katherine? Of course I know your husband beats you. You will suffer horribly if he learns you warned me. Do you really want that for the rest of your life? Would Eva want that for you?”

I inhaled sharply at the sound of her name.

My memories of my daughter were already slipping away. When I pressed my face to her sheets, I no longer smelled the mango scent of her hair. The exact sound of her laughter, too, was already fading. Her laughter was contagious, and now I couldn’t even remember it. But her name, the daughter I’d loved and lived for, she was still here, in my heart.

Rose wrapped her arms around me and pulled me tight to her. I dropped my face to the soft skin at her throat, the familiar scent of lemons coiling around me.

“We’ll start over together,” she whispered. “Without David or Sebastian. We’ll live the way we want. Come with us.”

I teetered there on the brink of a momentous decision that I knew would take my life in one of two polar-opposite directions. Stay or escape. I was like Schr?dinger’s cat, sealed in a box of my own making, both alive and dead. Until I decided, both realities were equally possible.

My daughter was dead. There was nothing tying me to Seb except fear and lies. I let myself imagine what it would be like to be free.

“Yes,” I breathed. “Yes, I’ll go with you.”

“Oh, thank God.” Rose closed her eyes in relief. “What do we do now?”

I racked my mind, trying to form an escape plan. “We need money. Clothes. Your passport.”

She nodded and handed me back the envelope I’d brought. “Take Laura with you,” she said. “I’ll get my passport. I have to wait for the bank to open tomorrow, but I’ll meet you after. Where should we meet?”

I thought fast. “Ibis Hotel near Heathrow Airport. After you arrive, we’ll fly to America.”

“Mummy?” Laura tugged on Rose’s hand. “Where are we going? Is Eva coming?”

“Not today, Laura-loo.” Rose knelt and tucked a lock of hair behind Laura’s ear. “I need you to go with Katherine now.”

“I don’t want to.” She scowled. “I want to stay with you.”

Rose pushed her gently toward me, and I grabbed her arm.

“Mummy!” Laura tried to squirm out of my grasp, her fingers clutching onto Rose’s coat.

I threw the envelope with my passport into the car and used both hands to tug her off Rose. She screamed, a sound that ripped through the quiet street like a banshee’s cry.

“Laura, stop it!” I said sharply. “We will see Mummy soon.”

“Muu-mmy!”

Rose took a step away, her hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face.

“Katherine, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed.

I covered Laura’s mouth as she opened it to scream again and hoisted her into the car. She flailed against me, her tiny fists hitting me like little hammers. I strapped her into the backseat, then got in and started the car. I rolled my window down, and Rose reached in through the open window and hugged me hard, her face wet and hot.

“Keep our girl safe,” she said.



* * *



We waited for Rose at the hotel for two days. I fretted constantly, growing increasingly worried when Rose didn’t arrive as planned. On the second day, the hotel receptionist flagged me down and handed me a letter that had arrived in the post. Inside was a slip of paper with a series of numbers. A bank account number and sort code.

We took the lift to our room, and I settled Laura with a coloring book and crayons while I called the bank. The account was in Eva’s name, matching the birth certificate I had, with me as the co–account holder. It held enough money to get the three of us to America and settled somewhere new.

I sat on the bed next to Laura and leaned against the headboard. There was nothing to do but keep waiting.

I flicked the telly on. The BBC was reporting on a breaking news story.

“. . . that Rose Ashford and her daughter, Laura, have died in a murder-suicide after finding a note taped to the young girl’s buggy. The note indicated Mrs. Ashford jumped into the Thames with the girl because of guilt over the death of Eva Clarke, her nanny’s young daughter. Mrs. Ashford’s note reportedly admits full responsibility for opening the window the child …”