Behind Every Lie(68)
“Rose.” I puffed my cheeks out and exhaled, long and loud, then sat next to her. I pinched the skin between my eyes. “You didn’t open that window. I did. It was my fault Eva died.”
It was the first time I had admitted it to anybody but myself, and the pain was a sharp skewering in my chest. What sort of mother opens a third-story window when her child is inside?
My mind darted back to Eva’s tiny, broken body sprawled on the ground. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to suppress the memory, the way I always did. I would never, ever forgive myself.
Rose’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“I opened the windows and put the fans upstairs.”
“But I remember …” Her voice trailed off.
“I did it. I know because the playroom was on the shady side of the house, so I opened the window and pointed the fan inward. I remember thinking you did it wrong downstairs, in the kitchen.”
“The detective said it was me—”
“Memories can be distorted when trauma is involved,” I said. “Whoever questioned you could have easily planted an initial memory of you opening the window. They do that, you know. They look for vulnerable points where they can manipulate you. But I can promise you this: You did not open that window. I did.”
Rose wrapped both arms around herself, tears spilling over her cheeks, making them shine like glass. She cried quietly for a moment, her eyes closed, an enormous weight lifting from her shoulders.
“You were right,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t look for you hard enough at first. Part of me enjoyed working and being successful.” She lifted her gaze to mine. “But I’m her mother and I love her. I’ve spent the last eight years trying to find her. Please. We must tell her everything.”
My stomach sank, an inky horror spiraling through me. Rose would take Eva from me. My stomach churned with the familiarity of it, the potential to lose my daughter. I could not allow it. Eva was already afraid Mike didn’t love her because they didn’t share the same DNA. I could not allow her to find out I wasn’t her real mother. It was my job to protect her, even if that meant protecting her from Rose’s selfish impulses.
I forced a smile, brain ticking rapidly as I formulated a new plan. “Eva is rather fragile right now. Let’s give her some time.” I took a crumpled receipt from my bag and wrote my phone number on it. “Phone me in a few weeks. We will tell her together then.”
* * *
That night I composed a long letter to David Ashford telling him the truth—that I had taken Laura, but explaining why I had to. I knew David would be the ace Rose thought she had up her sleeve. She would threaten to tell him I’d kidnapped Laura, and if she did that, he would involve the police, and the police would inform Seb. My letter would protect us against that.
David needed to hear my version of events first, and then I had to repeat it to validate it. If you repeat something enough, it becomes the truth. When people hear the same story again and again—especially when they want to believe that story—a new type of reality can be created.
In the end, David wanted to protect Eva as much as I did, and he agreed she should stay with me. Rose, however, was far less agreeable.
“You bitch!” she spluttered, her pale skin mottled with fury. She had arrived with an unexpected snow flurry just after Thanksgiving, bringing the cold along with her. “You went to David? You devious fucking cow!”
I glanced anxiously at the door. I expected Eva home from studying at the library with Jacob at any moment.
“Calm yourself, Rose. I didn’t tell him you were still alive, just why I took Eva. He knows Sebastian is still a threat. He’s agreed I should keep her safe.”
“I can’t believe you went behind my back like that!”
“That wasn’t my intention. All I’ve ever wanted was to keep Eva safe. Surely by now you realize that. If you went to David without him understanding the full story, he would go to the police, and they would tell Seb. You know what that could mean.”
Rose stilled, the fire in her eyes slowly receding. She slumped onto the couch, pulling a cushion to her midsection. She sat very still for a long time, as if one wrong move might incinerate her, turn her to ash. As if all I had to do was blow one quick puff, and she would disappear.
“I used to hide in the bathroom crying,” she finally said, staring across the living room with tear-glazed eyes. Did she see the photos of Eva framed proudly on the walls? The Mother’s Day card still propped on the fireplace mantel? “I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Cooking and serving and getting meals on the table, at the time it all made me so angry. I suppose I wanted to find myself, but I didn’t think I’d lose her along the way.” She lifted her eyes to mine. “I don’t know what to do.”
I sat next to her. “Sometimes the right choice is the one that feels the worst. And sometimes the wrong choice brings us to the right path. Being a mother comes from making the best decisions one can in the best interests of her child. That’s why being a mum is the hardest job in the world. We have to do what’s right for Eva.”
She nodded and swiped at her wet face. “Yes, you’re right. Of course you’re right. She must stay with you. It’s safest.”
Keys jangled in the front door, and Eva came in, snow clinging to her eyelashes. I wondered what she looked like to Rose after all these years. She was still fine-boned, her skin the milk-pale of a redhead, but her hair was now dyed that shocking black, her eyes thickly lined, her clothes a weird mix of deliberately ripped black jeans and an oversize green-velvet top. Artsy, I believe she called it.