Behind Every Lie(76)

A sudden scratching sound from the window made me jump—but it was just the branches of a tree scraping against the glass. Opening my filing cabinet, I reached to the back and pulled out Barnaby, Eva’s old teddy bear, and rubbed the faded bloodstain on his ear, memories pulsing like a scar.

I sighed.

Eva. My poor girl. Would knowing the truth help or harm her?

Answers, I know, are rarely absolute. We each intend to do the right thing, and yet we are all helpless in the face of fate. We make a choice and must then move forward with the consequences. But perhaps a day would come when she would need to know. And so I began to write.

Dear Eva,

I’ve written this letter a thousand times and thrown it away each time. The truth is you are not my daughter. I should have told you about your past—our past—many years ago, but I wanted to keep you safe. If anybody knew who we really are, we could all be in very grave danger. Perhaps it is not an excuse, but your safety has always been my priority.

I am so sorry.

Mum xx



I found Eva’s birth certificate and the scrap of paper on which I kept David Ashford’s address and slid them into an envelope with the letter. At least now I was prepared to tell her, whenever the time might come.

A racking cough launched up my chest. When it had passed, all I could do was slump weakly in the chair. My heart was racing so fast I feared I would have a heart attack.

“Blimey,” I muttered.

Pain tugged just beneath my breastbone. I lurched to my feet, throwing a hand out to steady myself. A sound came from somewhere in the house: a click, or perhaps a scratch.

I froze.

I do not feel safe.

It was a fleeting thought, gone as quickly as it had come. I made my way downstairs, glancing around warily, to check the front door, then the back. Everything was locked. I set the alarm, trying to remember if I had armed it when I first got home.

I climbed the stairs to check that the windows were locked, gasping at oxygen that had turned to syrup in my lungs. The bathroom door was closed. I pushed it open slowly. The rusty hinges creaked in protest. My whole body flinched in reaction.

At first I didn’t understand what I was seeing, my vision distorting with those strange yellow halos.

But then I saw a tube of lipstick lying uncapped next to the sink.

And written across the mirror in scarlet letters were the words:

I

Found

You





forty

eva




NIGHT WAS AN OBSIDIAN FIST squeezing me in its grasp as I neared the ferry dock. Five minutes until it left. My thoughts knotted, spinning like tires in mud. I felt so much I almost felt nothing.

I paid the ferry fee and pulled onto the car deck. Headlights bounced up and down as other vehicles drove up the metal ramp. I put my car in park and waited. Nobody got out of their cars. The wind had picked up, the water choppy. The heavy purple clouds from earlier had turned black, releasing icy drops of rain that pummeled the water. I watched as the lights of the dock receded into the distance.

Memories flashed in my mind: the cottony smell of Mom’s hand lotion; her guiding hand on my back as she ran alongside me when I first learned to ride a bike; listening to the sound of rain drumming against the roof while we watched Monty Python; the cup of tea she’d made me the morning I came home from the hospital.

The thought that I’d hurt her was unbearable, a shard of glass twisting in my eyeball. I laid my head on the steering wheel and smacked my palm against the dashboard over and over and over. Goddamn it. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t deserve to. Not if I’d killed her.

But still, that seed of doubt persisted. What really happened that night?

It had been a long time since I’d trusted myself. I didn’t think I was good enough, worthy enough. I’d kept secrets. Secrets from myself and secrets from others. And now here I was, on the edge of something huge, and nothing I said or did would ever be worth anything if I didn’t tell the truth now.

The ferry docked with a gentle bump. Workers in orange high-visibility jackets waved their wands. I started the engine and slowly made my way off the ferry, my car bumping over the metal ramp.

There was one last truth I needed to tell—one person I had to speak to.



* * *



“Jake!” I pounded on Jacob’s front door. “Jacob!”

After a moment, the porch light flicked on. The metallic sound of a lock sliding open came from inside, and Jacob opened the door.

“Eva?” He blinked in surprise. He was wearing black sweatpants, a dusty black T-shirt, and a leather tool belt, a hammer gripped in his right hand. His hair was tousled, dust clinging to the ends.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Come in.”

Jacob set the hammer on the hallway table, and I followed him inside.

I gaped at the mess. The house was in complete disarray. The hallway from the front entrance to the living room had been smashed through, a massive hole of crumbling plaster and rotting wood exposing the living room. The wall that had blocked off the kitchen had been demolished, ancient brown appliances, green-and-yellow wallpaper, and dark-veneer cupboards showing through.

“I needed a project,” Jacob explained. “I couldn’t live here the way it was, so I thought I’d do a bit of remodeling.”

I stepped over piles of drywall and crumbled plaster. The house smelled of cooking grease, the stale scent of booze and cigarettes. Jacob and I sat on the sagging corduroy couch that had been in the living room for as long as I could remember. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust.