Behind Every Lie(73)

The walls curled around me, tilted inward. Beads of sweat broke out on my upper lip and beneath my arms. I could feel myself breaking into a million pieces.

Guilt encased me like a sleeve, hot tears tumbling down my cheeks. If I couldn’t trust myself, how could anybody else?

The phone went silent, this time for good.

I don’t know how long I sat there, trying to figure out what to do. I thought of all the men in my life who controlled me. Detective Jackson, Andrew, even Liam. And I’d let them. Yes, even Liam. For so long, I’d relied on him to fix me. But even he couldn’t fix this.

Only I could do that.

I would turn myself in to the police. Tonight. I wouldn’t even take the lawyer. I deserved everything I got. Arrest. Prison. My brother’s hatred.

I called Liam to let him know, but his phone went straight to voice mail.

“Liam, can you call me back right away? It’s important. I’m going to the detective’s office now.”

Even with my new resolve, I tried to delay leaving until Liam called me back. I wiped up the tea I’d spilled, washed the kitchen counters, and went through the pile of mail gathering on the kitchen island. Liam would like the house neat and tidy when he came home.

I pulled out the bills that were addressed to Liam and climbed the stairs to the third floor to put them in his office. Masculinity dominated the décor: charcoal tile flooring, green-shaded lamps, dark-gray walls hung with local and state business awards. A huge glass desk overlooked the lake outside. Black leather couches were positioned in an L-shape in one corner, an expensive black-on-white rug under a glass coffee table.

I put the envelopes in the inbox on his desk, my eyes falling on a document lying there. It was a letter from the building inspector listing the building code violations Liam had been cited for. Asbestos in the drywall joints. Spliced electrical wires without a junction box. The wrong size circuit in the light fixtures.

I frowned. Those sounded like very serious violations. No wonder the building permit had been turned down. I immediately felt guilty for thinking that. Liam wouldn’t cheat and lie and risk people’s lives for a building site. Would he?

For Liam, the goal was never as much about developing a property as winning at developing it. He liked beating his competitors, proving he could do something better than them. Actually, if I really thought about it, his desire to win was less about winning than it was about not losing. To him, losing was the same as being rejected.

But these were actual crimes.

I almost laughed out loud. Who was I to judge? If Liam broke the law, his offenses were tiny in comparison to murder.

I set the letter down and turned to go, but my eyes had already snagged on something else. A spreadsheet of properties Liam owned, with check marks next to the ones that had been sold. Right at the top was a property that rang a distant bell.

Vista Square Condos.

Where did I know that name?

Adrenaline hit me, as if my body remembered what my mind couldn’t.

Outside, a murky gray gloaming had rolled in. I turned on the desk lamp and sat in Liam’s chair, reading through the spreadsheet details. The condo he’d sold was a one-bedroom, one-bathroom in downtown Seattle. But he bought and sold properties all the time. It was part of what he did as a developer.

I ran my fingertip over the scab on my palm. My brain felt like it was turning to liquid. I couldn’t trust where my mind was going.

Suddenly the unmistakable thunk of a chain snapping came from downstairs. Then Liam’s voice: “Babe?”

I dropped the spreadsheet back in the inbox, turned the lamp off, and scurried downstairs. The front door was partially open. A slice of Liam’s face appeared through the narrow crack allowed by the door chain.

“Could you undo the chain?” he called irritably.

“Sorry!” I slid the chain free and opened the door.

Liam scowled. He was probably still upset that I’d wrecked the living room last night. He dropped a backpack and his briefcase onto the couch and started peeling layers from his body: hat, gloves, windbreaker, fleece jacket, wet spandex.

“Were you rowing? I thought you had a meeting.”

He grunted a reply but didn’t look at me.

“I was trying to call you.”

“I went out on the lake after my meeting. What’s up?”

“I …” I hesitated. How to tell my fiancé I was a murderer?

I went into the kitchen and grabbed a tumbler from the cupboard, filled it with water. Liam followed in his boxer shorts, his face pinched.

“Eva.” He sighed, exasperated, and took the glass from my hands. “That’s a juice glass. It’s not for water.”

He took two tall, skinny glasses down from the cupboard and filled them both with filtered water. He handed one to me and drank the other in one long gulp. When he’d finished, he rinsed his glass under the tap and put it directly in the dishwasher, then took mine and did the same.

“Are you okay?” He tilted his head at me. “You look strange.”

I picked up the newspaper and handed it to him.

“Look.” I pointed at the headline. My guts twisted. “Sebastian Clarke is dead! He’s been dead this whole time. It wasn’t him following me in London. Do you know what that means?”

Liam shook his head.

“It means I killed him! I was there. I remember being there. I remember holding a knife. I—” My voice cracked. “I did it.”