Behind Every Lie(81)

“I had a little time to think while you were out,” he finally said. “I don’t need Rose. You’re to blame for our daughter’s death. So I thought about it. What should your punishment be? And then it came to me. Laura. Eva, as you call her now. I’ll kill her, and you’ll know forever it was your fault.”

“It won’t bring our daughter back,” I wheezed, clutching my chest. Blood oozed from my split lip, and I licked it, my tongue sticking to the dry skin.

“Maybe not, but it’ll make me feel better. I might even let you live, just so the guilt can eat you up.” He smirked when he saw my expression. “You don’t believe me?”

I glared at him, but he just shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter.” He waved my phone at me. “I found Eva’s phone number and texted her for you. She should be here soon.”

I closed my eyes and thought about Eva. The way her dark mahogany hair shimmered in the sun. How she tilted her head to the right when she laughed. The sound of her calling out for me in the middle of the night when she was small. The feel of her cheek when she pressed it to mine and whispered, “I love you, Mama.”

I should have told her how I felt. I should have said the words out loud. I love you, too.

In my mind, she was all the ages I had known her: the three-year-old torn, terrified, from her mother’s arms; the precocious little girl asking a million questions; the twelve-year-old with knobby knees, unused to her sudden breasts; the sullen fifteen-year-old locking herself in her bedroom, uncertain of who she was or her place in the world; the terrified woman doubting herself after a horrific attack.

Seb was wrong—I didn’t just slot her in to fill the space where our daughter should have been. I loved her; I had always loved her. I was just too scared to acknowledge that love because it meant accepting that my daughter was truly gone.

I had held my blame and unforgiveness up like a flag, wrapped my body in it, and heralded it for all to see. It had made me hard and abrupt and distant.

But I had to forgive myself. Maybe then Eva could forgive me too.

A rumble of thunder boomed outside, the living room lights flickering on, then back off. And suddenly the front door creaked and swung open. An outline filled the doorway.

Eva.





forty-four

eva




I SHOVED MY KEYS AND phone into my back pocket and reached for the door handle. I froze. The door was unlatched, open a few inches.

“Mom?” I pushed the door open with my toe and felt around in the dark for the light switch. I’d sneaked in late at night enough times when I was in high school to make it feel instantly familiar.

“Mom, I’m here. Is everything okay?”

The living room light flickered on. I gasped, barely able to comprehend what I was seeing. Mom was slumped in her old armchair, which had been turned to face the front door. She wasn’t wearing her glasses. Her lip was split, blood dripping from a gash in her cheekbone. Her arms hung limply on either side. Her skin was waxy and gray.

Suddenly the world lit up, fireworks zipping along the insides of my eyelids as a private bomb exploded somewhere inside my head. My knees loosened, but a thick arm snaked around my neck, holding me up. Something cold and hard pressed against the tender skin at my throat.

“Let her go, Sebastian,” Mom rasped. She didn’t move from her chair, her eyes drooping, chest heaving. “It’s me you want, not her.”

The man—stout and grizzled, with dark hair and a misshapen nose—ignored Mom, shoving me into the chair next to her. He ripped off a length of duct tape and bound my wrists together behind the chair.

Blood rolled hot and sticky from my temple, splattering onto my coat collar and pooling in the crevice of my collarbone. Pain rocketed in bands around my head.

“Mom,” I whimpered, terrified. “What’s going on?”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I tried to keep you safe.”

Think, I told myself. Think!

My car keys. They were in my back pocket. If I could reach them, maybe I could cut through the tape.

I rolled my shoulders, pretending to stretch my neck as I maneuvered my fingers to slide the keys out. The movement sent off an avalanche of pain. I gritted my teeth and pushed through it. I had to do something. I had to keep going, or Mom and I would both die.

A moan rasped from Mom’s throat.

“What have you done to her?” I asked.

“Foxglove.” He had an English accent, the word hard and round, as if his mouth were full of rocks. “I mixed the leaves into her tea.” He looked pleased with himself.

“The flower?” I shook my head, trying to cover the movement of me sawing at the tape around my wrists. Pain surged from my blood-soaked temple through my entire body.

“Flower. Poison. Whatever. Her heart will stop soon.”

“You poisoned me? Really, Seb?” Mom managed a quirk of her lips, a mocking glint in her eye. “How very passive of you.”

“Technically, you poisoned yourself,” he replied, smirking.

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered. “What do you want from us?”

“Tell me where Rose is.”

I glanced at Mom, confused. “Who’s Rose?”

Sebastian looked at me for a long time. “Rose Ashford. She’s the reason I texted you.”