We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 27
Are you?
Sunlight creeps across my blanket. I’m wake again with both eyes open this time. A machine connects to a network of tubes that end in the back of my left hand and the crook of my elbow. I take a deep breath and don’t hear myself wheeze.
“Progress,” Dominique says. “Happy Friday.”
I clear my throat, and my mouth tastes like blood and rot, metal and mucus.
Dominique hands me a cup of water and watches as I take long sips through the straw. “I FaceTimed with Shane. He blows my phone up, like, every hour to check on you. He’s in San Francisco for a court case, but he’s gonna call me the moment he leaves the courtroom. He says you two are gonna work on your comic timing.”
I chuckle and whisper, “Thanks.”
She scooches her chair closer to me. “You have to stop digging around and asking people questions. Somebody really got pissed enough to—”
“Jump me in the desert? And who have I bothered with questions? You? Mom? Kayla?”
“Just stop, okay?” she says.
“You haven’t asked what sent me running to the desert in the first place.”
“Cuz I don’t care, Yara. Did you see who jumped you?”
“No,” I say. “They wore the same hoodie the prowler wore. A black gaiter. Sunglasses.”
She releases a held breath. “Okay.”
“Did you think I was gonna recognize him?” I ask.
“Him? What does that mean?”
“You just seem relieved,” I say, eyebrow high. “Who do you think I may have seen?”
Dominique sits back in the chair and massages her temples. “No idea. This whole thing is just crazy. You come here, and all—”
“Dad was married before he married Mom.”
She gawks at me. “What?”
I tell her about the marriage certificate and divorce decree for Dad and Elizabeth Marsh. “I think Liz jumped me. She texted that she’d hurt me if I didn’t leave her alone.”
Dominique holds up a hand and shakes her head. “Stop. No. I don’t wanna hear.”
“You need to know the truth.”
She swipes at her tears with the back of her wrist. “I can’t take any more truth.”
I clutch a pillow to my chest. “I wanna cancel the party.” The words taste slick as snot, but saying them leaves me light and almost refreshed. I should enjoy this feeling before Mom squeezes it out of me.
Dominique yanks tissues from the box on the nightstand. “Fine. I don’t care anymore. It’s your money.” She blows her nose and pushes out of the chair. “I never really wanted this stupid party, but you had to work out your mommy issues and bribe her with a party to love you more, and see what happened? The Ghost of fucking Christmas Past is trying to take you out, and now, canceling this party that never should’ve happened anyway will make her like you even less. Good job. Hope you’re happy.”
The puff of air from the opening door washes over me, and I gape at the now-empty chair. Sunlight has moved from my thighs to my feet, but my prickling fright is managed by a cocktail of drugs.
A freckle-faced nurse wearing pink scrubs pops in to take my vitals. Her plastic name tag says MAITLYN, and I wonder if I knew her from high school. “We’re gonna let you go in a few hours,” she tells me. “Your father’s picking you up. The doctor’s already put in prescriptions for amoxicillin, prednisone, and Vicodin for your injuries. But wow, your respiratory system is really messed up. That dust storm didn’t help at all. When you got here, your oxygenation level was at ninety percent.”
“Geez,” I say. “That’s pretty bad.”
“You should probably find a way to quit smoking. We have special programs—”
“I don’t smoke. You smell my mother’s cigarettes.”
“Ah. That sucks for you, then.” She chuckles. “Anyway, whoever it was really roughed you up, but those are all surface injuries. It’s what inside that counts.”
No truer words, Maitlyn.
As I flip from television show to television show, my door opens again.
It’s Kayla. “Knock knock.”
I say, “Who’s there?”
“Owls go.”
“Owls go who?”
“They certainly do.” She hugs me, and her touch spikes my skin like millipede feet. “So is this, like, the special two-hour season finale with you? I mean, Yara. Dude.”
I laugh. “Tune in next time.”
Kayla plops into the chair Dominique abandoned. She wears a brown sports coat that muddles her complexion and kills the sparks in her eyes. “We’re pretty sure who jumped you. The same person who slashed your tires.”
“Yeah?”
She nods. “The last time I visited the cabin at Lake Paz, I asked the neighbor lady a few questions, and she gave me this.” Kayla cues up a video on her phone.
“She showed me that video,” I say, shaking my head. “Couldn’t see a face.”
“Right,” Kayla says. “But another one of their cameras had a better vantage point.”
Like before, the stranger slashes my left back tire, then the right back, then the passenger front tire, and, finally, the driver’s side. The stranger hustles away and looks back at the cabin. But this time, once the hoodie slips back, I see the face.
I know that face.
I know her face. I whisper, “LaRain?”
“Yep. And yesterday, after the attack, one of your neighbors saw her running away toward Ritter Siphon. We don’t know where she is right now, but we’ll find her.” She squints at me. “Why is she targeting you like this?”
My throat is tight. I can only shake my head.
“Strange, right?”
I nod. “Did the anonymous caller show up at Red Roof Inn last night?”
She shakes her head. “Remember when I took your DNA to compare against the DNA found beneath Felicia’s fingernails?”
“Yes.”
“The results came back and . . . you are not the father.” She grins.
I snort, not surprised.
“I asked Dom for her DNA.”
“Why?”
“Because you both told me that she grabbed your necklace from Felicia’s hand. So there was touching and a possible transfer of skin cells.”
“But wouldn’t our DNA be the same?”
“Not completely, but yes, you’d both share mitochondrial or maternal DNA. I know, I know, but if this case goes to court, I don’t wanna be the Mark Fuhrman of the LA Sheriff’s Department. I wanna say that I did everything and collected everything I was supposed to, and I didn’t let my friendship with the Gibson family override my duty or judgment.”
“What did Dom say to your request?” I ask.
Kayla smirks. “Take a guess.”
“Did she give it?”
“Ultimately, she didn’t have a choice. Especially after I told her that your parents had.”
My eyes widen. “What? Why?”
Kayla bites her lip, then takes a deep breath. “Because that letter we found in Felicia’s car? Their fingerprints were all over it.”
55.
Kayla’s words make no sense. “There has to be a good explanation,” I say, near tears. The hospital room goes all wiggly. The television has doubled, and there’s suddenly too much light.
Kayla’s face flushes. “We talked about—”
“We?”
“Your parents. We talked all day today. About the letter, about some other stuff. That’s why you haven’t seen them.”
I gape at her. “You arrested my parents?”
“No! No, no, no.” Her green eyes bug. “Just asked them some questions.” She pats my hand. “Calm down. They told me all that I needed to know. I’m totally caught up now.”
“On?”
The bags beneath Kayla’s eyes have darkened just in the minutes she’s sat with me. “Family spectacle.” She pauses, peers at the IV bag hanging from the pole, and stands. “Get some rest, Yara. I’ll call and check on you later.”
An hour later, Dad pushes me in a wheelchair to the Suburban. Women flick their eyes at the bald, tall man with the easy smile.
I carry my bags of meds and dirty, bloody clothes on my lap and squint against the still-bright day. Outside the hospital, the world smells like dust and Del Taco. I want to flip down the truck’s visor to see the damage, but I wimp out. My skin feels busted and tight, my hair coarse, tangled. My tongue feels too fat and full of blood, and my muscles—my heart, too—feel like they’re pumping too much of everything for me to just be sitting here.
“You good?” Dad asks.
I nod, lying. “Thank you for picking me up.”
“No place I’d rather be than taking care of my girl.” He smiles a true smile with light in his eyes.
The potholes we hit during our short drive make my stomach wobble and my head brighten with pain. Dad sings along with the Doobie Brothers, telling me in between the verse and chorus that the group guest starred in a very special episode of What’s Happening!! back in the day.
The Suburban keeps hitting potholes. I keep wincing.
He glances at me each time the truck dips. “We’ll be home in three minutes.”
I clear my throat and say, “Maybe . . . Well . . . I don’t think we should have the party. I don’t think it’s a good idea at this point.”
He sends his eyes to the rearview mirror, then exhales. A hint of a smile plays on the edges of his lips. “To be honest, I don’t wanna have this party, either. We’re not in a good place right now, but that doesn’t surprise you, right? Your mother, though. It’s all she’s talked about, and whatever Barbara wants, Barbara gets.”
Trembling with anger, I grab hold of the door handle to calm myself.
He thinks this admission protects him from any heat I’m about to hurl his way. He doesn’t know that I know that he’s lied to me. He doesn’t know that I know he’s had another life prior to Mom. That he and Elizabeth Marsh hadn’t even been divorced for a year before he and Mom married. That it was obvious he and Mom had an affair back then.
Dad follows the road that brings us closer to home. Every sound scrapes my nerves—from the retching whir of the tires against asphalt to the squeak of the back of my head rubbing against the headrest. Michael McDonald’s singing makes me wanna cry.
“LaRain jumped me,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens. “Yeah. Kayla told us. They can’t find her.”
“Who’s Beth?”
His knuckles whiten as he squeezes the steering wheel. The spots at his temple and the scoop of his neck pulse.
“Beth Gibson,” I say. “There’s a magazine at home with her name on it. Who is she?”
He chews the inside of his cheek. “No clue. Probably just junk mail. Magazine companies sell lists of people’s names. One year, we received a subscription for a whole year for someone named Allyne Stanley. I don’t know anybody named—”
“You’re a liar,” I say. “And you know what? It’s fine. I now understand Mom a little better than I did just a week ago. I see why she’s been such an asshole to you.”
“Yara—”
“I don’t wanna hear anymore,” I say. “My head hurts. My heart hurts. You didn’t want this party after I’ve spent time, effort, and money putting it together, and I wish I’d just stayed in LA and not bothered with this place until Thanksgiving. I hate it here.”
We don’t talk for the rest of the trip. He comes to my side of the truck to open the door, take my bags of pills and clothes, and help me up the porch steps.
Mom waits for me at the front door. She brushes my hair away from my face and kisses my forehead. She wraps her arms around me. She’s wearing the most “Mom” outfit she owns: a pink fluffy sweater and capri leggings. No makeup. Headband and ponytail. “You okay?”
My skin feels hot and feverish. Her touch hurts. I say, “No,” then ease out of her grip.
As I work my way up the staircase, she asks Dad, “What happened?” I don’t hear his answer. Doesn’t matter. He’d be wrong anyway.
Mom has cleaned my bedroom and changed the linens to shades of yellow. The vaporizer sends plumes of steam into the air. The shortbread candle flickers from the bureau. A drinking glass and a pitcher of cold water sit on the nightstand. Beads of condensation make a puddle that now drips onto the carpet.
Such a lovely prison.
Mom joins me in the room and doesn’t speak as she arranges my pill vials on the nightstand. She helps me out of my jacket and shoes, then helps me change into boxers and a pajama top. After I dip beneath the duvet, she hands me the television remote control. Once I settle on The Office, she opens one pill vial after the next. I’m on an intensive regimen to control my asthma and respiratory infection as well as painkillers for injuries that resulted from being assaulted by my mother’s best friend. We haven’t even unpacked that yet.
She retreats to the door. “Need anything else?”
What did Kayla ask you?
Why did LaRain try to kill me?
Why did you sleep with a married man?
Why were your fingerprints on that letter to Felicia?
Need anything else?
I need answers.
I say, “No.”
She waits a beat, frowns, then says, “Fine.”
Fine.
We are so far from fine.
56.
I open my eyes, and the bedroom smells medicinal again, with the added notes of infected mucus and healing cuts. Dominique finds me in bed, half-asleep and watching That ’70s Show. She holds a cup of peppermint tea, probably an offering from our mother. She’s stripped her face of makeup. Her nose is red, her eyes puffy. She’s been crying.
I ask, “You okay?”
She gives a small shrug, then sets the tea mug on the nightstand.
“You wanna talk about it?”
She shakes her head. “You talk to Shane?”
I squint. “I think so.”
Dominique tries to smile. “He said you were totally out of it.”
Beneath the laugh track of the sitcom, I hear unfamiliar murmuring somewhere in the house. “Who’s here?”
“Auntie Cece and Uncle Skip. She’s gone platinum blonde again,” Dominique says. “And it’s buzzed close to the scalp. She looks good. Tired. Sad. But y’know: hot.”
I sit up in bed, and the bones in my neck and face creak. I take the mug. “She mad?”
Dominique shakes her head. “Just . . .” She sighs. “My words aren’t working right now.”
“I was wondering . . . why did LaRain jump me? Why would she slash my tires?”
Dominique takes a deep breath and releases it through clenched teeth. “Probably because she knows how you feel about Ransom. You think he’s trash. And you think she’s Mom’s slave and guinea pig and not her own person. You always have. She hates you for that, for looking down on them. She’s hated you since we were kids.”
“I don’t think she’s trash,” I whisper. “I don’t spend my days thinking about LaRain.”
“See? She’s no one to you.”
“Why do this now, though?”
Dominique cants her head. “Menopause?”
I point at her. “But that’s what I’m talking about. I mean . . . I don’t want you to be with someone whose mother would straight kill someone else because she’s insulted or having a hot flash. Who will she come for next? Mom? Dad? You? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Dominique pads to the other side of my bed and grabs pillows that fell to the carpet.
Downstairs, Cece laughs, and it’s musical and light as a xylophone. Mom says something, but her words sound blurry.
“Do you feel like you can’t leave him?” I ask.
Dominique throws up her hands. “Ohmigod, Yara!”
“It’s a real thing, Dom. Women feel stuck, that he’ll kill you if you try to—”
“Stop.”
“I can help you. Shane knows people—”
“You are so extra.” Dominique shakes her head. “Now you’re getting the US freaking Marshals to free me? From what?”
I lean back in bed, one arm over my head, my dissatisfaction as heavy as the moon. “Okay. Do what you want. I’m leaving soon, and you and Ransom can continue to be ratchet together. When he beats your ass, or LaRain comes back and does it for him, I’ll send a moving van to pick up your furniture and a few of your teeth.”
She grabs a pillow from the carpet and tosses it to the foot of my bed. “Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow. We don’t have to talk about him or you anymore. I’m done.”
“Oh,” she says, lip curled. “So now, you won’t pay for school?”
“No,” I say. “I’ll keep paying. Just so we’ll be clear who’s at fault when you drop out, have baby number three, and lose parts of yourself because Ransom’s hands got away from him again. I want you to know and to remember that I was never the enemy, that I wanted better for you.” I squint at her. “Go ’head on with your bad self. I know how this story ends.”
“You have completely lost it.” She laughs, but there’s something in her tone that signals reluctance, that maybe I haven’t completely lost it. She settles beside me in bed, another sign that she worries that I’m right. We sit in silence, until . . . “Mom says you’re mad at her and Dad.”
“I don’t wanna deal with them, either.”
“Because they lied?” Dominique chuckles and arranges her braids into a high bun. “Dude, you are so tender. No wonder you stay medicated.”
“We don’t have to talk, either, you know,” I snarl. “And I was fine before I came here.” Losing keys, credit cards, index cards, having nightmares, smoking, getting hypnotized, slowly feeling peeled away . . . Not fine.
I shake my head to clear it, then say, “And where’s my pendant? You said you’d fix it.”
“And I did fix it. I put it on the dresser.”
I shake my head. “It isn’t there.”
“Maybe you lost it like you lost Beloved.”
“Or maybe you just didn’t put it there.”
Her lips tighten. “So I’m lying now?”
“Why not? It’s the Gibson family’s honored tradition.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re really shook that Mom and Dad lied to you?”
