We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 6
I think about this as my mother and I watch Maddie and David edge closer and closer to consummating the relationship that fans wanted. This evening, we laugh, and I place my head on her shoulder. She doesn’t light up a cigarette, and after I announce that I’m staying at the Holiday Inn so that I can be there for our out-of-town guests and finish a big project, the Barbara Nicole McGuire Gibson says, “Okay. That makes sense. I’ll let it slide this time.”
Holding my breath, I kiss her good night, then head to the front door. I glare at the designer bag tucked inside the foyer nook and head out to the driveway.
Dad sits in the lawn chair beneath our silver maple tree. Though there’s a notepad and pen on his lap, he’s texting on his phone.
I say, “Hey.”
He startles and fumbles the phone to the grass. “Leaving?”
I peck the top of his head. “Yep.”
Who is he texting?
He scoops the phone from the lawn, then slips it into his pocket. “No arguments?”
“You’re kidding, right? We argued, but I survived. What about you? Everything okay? You guys good?”
He says, “Yep,” then stretches. His legs and arms are as long as a spider’s.
I toe a dandelion in a small patch of weeds. “Why doesn’t she unpack that thing?”
He knows that “thing” I’m referencing. “I don’t think she even sees it anymore.”
“Move it, then.”
He runs his hands over his face.
“Ask her nicely to move it. She doesn’t need it anymore.”
His jaw clenches. “I’m not trying to have that argument.”
“But it’s . . . I don’t . . .” I sigh.
“It bothers you.”
I wring my damp hands. “She may not think about it. She probably didn’t even mean it when she said it, probably didn’t think it affected me as much as it did—but it does.” I pause, then ask, “Do you know what’s inside?”
Dad stares out into the darkening desert. “Nope.” He finally meets my eyes. “It’s her business, what’s in that bag. You don’t have to know everything all the time.”
“Fine.” My shoulders drop. “I won’t say anything. Don’t wanna ruin the week cuz she’s pissed at me.” I’ve already flirted with my beheading over stupid loan documents.
He chuckles with no hint of mirth. “I’ve said that—don’t wanna ruin the week cuz she’s pissed at me—probably more than I’ve said my name.”
“And yet, you made twenty years,” I say, eyebrow cocked.
“That’s because Bee and I wanted to give you and Dom what neither of us had.” He squeezes my hand, then pulls me closer. “We were right to stick it out, because look at you, Yaya. Your career, yeah, but just who you’ve become. You’re thoughtful even when you don’t wanna be, and your mother would’ve . . .” His lips clamp, and his phone chimes from his pocket.
“Mom would’ve what?”
He stands from the Adirondack chair. “Would’ve loved for you to stay. Me too. But I understand.” His chin quivers as he hugs me. He’s quivering as he hugs me.
His phone chimes again.
“Should you get that?” I ask.
He says, “Nah. Parents tripping over why their boy can’t catch a ball.”
That’s a lie. Like my “stuck in the writers’ room” lie, “unreasonable football parents” is Dad’s. I’ve tried to move him from this, hoping that I’d become old enough that he’d trust me.
“Find anything good in the attic?” he asks, walking me to my Jeep.
My heart jumps in my chest. “I did! I found the wedding picture of you and Mom beside this gorgeous infinity pool.”
“I wanna see that,” he says, grinning.
I show him the picture I took of the picture. “Where was it taken?”
“My booster’s house up in Bel Air,” he says, zooming in on the shot. “He was like a dad to me. Passed a few years ago.”
I make a sad face. “I wanted to re-create it.”
“That’s okay.” He tugs my ear. “You’re doing enough as is.” He nods toward the house. “You should get out of here before she changes her mind about you not staying.”
Why did Daddy lie about that text message?
If that wasn’t a football parent, who could have been texting him?
His buddy Corbin?
His cousin and assistant coach, DeShawn, absolutely the worst influence ever?
Another woman?
My bladder feels heavy because I’ve seen firsthand that same cell phone fumble in my own love life before Shane, and it’s always been because of another woman. And growing up, I’ve heard angry whispers between my parents. At least twice a year, I’ve seen my mother’s folded arms and tight lips and Dad shaking his head.
Feels like Another Woman Drama.
As I turn left onto Lake Paz Road, my phone buzzes with a text.
You need to know the truth RIGHT NOW!!!
Ohmigod, this lady.
“What ‘truth,’ Felicia?” I ask.
That you’re crazy, which is why no one invites you anywhere, which is why I’ve never even met you? Mom, Aunt Cece, Nana . . . no one has ever mentioned Felicia. I’ve never heard stories about Mom and Lee-Lee or Shay-Shay or whatever Felicia’s Gen X nickname would’ve been while kickin’ it at RadioShack back in the day.
And if the Felicia back then was anything like the Felicia today, I understand Mom’s desire to keep this woman at arm’s length.
A bell dings in my head. Now that’s a helluva plot for Queen of Palmdale. Annoying Relative shows up out of nowhere bearing bad news right before the big party of the year. They barge into the party and proceed to be an asshole and spill the secrets about the handsome groom. Next morning, Annoying Relative is found beaten to death on the ninth hole at the country club’s golf course. Everybody wanted them dead—and everyone’s fingerprints are on a Big Bertha driver that was ditched in a sand trap. Whodunit?
Ha. Maybe I should invite Felicia. Not to have her killed by annoyed family members. But just to see the dynamics between her, Mom, and Aunt Cece. Hoo boy!
No, I’d never wish her dead.
8.
Not many cars driving around or pedestrians strolling the sidewalks. No one walks in this town, especially at night. Over on the 14, the red and white lights from cars and trucks zoom back and forth like fireflies or tracer rounds. Beyond the 14, there’s only desert.
I spot the green glow of the hotel sign, and the promise of breathing cleaner air makes me smile. For the next ten hours, I won’t have to watch my words or listen to Mom’s cracks about Dominique’s student loan.
Okay: I kinda remember a conversation with her about signing those papers. Knowing my schedule, though, I probably was preoccupied with outlines, beat sheets, and series bibles. I do forget things, lose things. And she did have receipts with those text messages. But what did she mean by, You do this all the time? Refuse to automatically roll over any time she accuses me of deception? Do what all the time?
I open the door to Room 303, and clean, crisp air rolls out to greet me. On the carpet, there’s an envelope that has been slipped beneath the door. My name is handwritten on its face.
A bill so soon?
I toss my bag on the bed, then tear open the envelope.
Two keys. Nothing extraordinary about these keys—the gold hexagon can be found on any person’s ring. The other key is a silver square. The keys come with a handwritten note that doesn’t fill the entire page.
Yara, this is Felicia again.
What I must share with you is very important. Please meet me tomorrow morning at ten at your mother’s favorite place. I have critical information that will change your life. Please keep this to yourself for now! Here’s the address.
Mom’s favorite place?
1224 Stardust Way, Lake Paz, California.
Mom’s favorite place is the Atlantis resort in the Bahamas. Stateside, it’s the Bellagio in Las Vegas. Closer to home, Target.
Also: hell no. As much as I enjoy writing forty-two-minute-long episodic mysteries for a living, I’m not into meeting strangers (and Felicia is a stranger) at random spots in the freakin’ forest. Why? So that some Nazi Low Rider can follow me cuz he thinks I’m trying to steal his hidden stash of meth? So that some Black Guerilla asshole can jump me cuz he thinks I’m homeboy’s girl who stole that bag of weed over at the Red Roof Inn?
I text Dad since he’s probably still holding his phone.
Made it to the hotel
OK I love you
I grab the IDEAS journal from my purse and write down every thought I had for Queen of Palmdale—more on the ballroom scene and the distant cousin showing up.
Before taking a shower, I search for Cousin Felicia on the internet. Her LinkedIn page tells me that she is a big deal at Northrop Grumman. She graduated from California Institute of Technology, majoring in information and data sciences with a minor in history.
She’s also past president of the graduate chapter of Alpha Kappa Alpha—we’re sorority sisters. A class-reunion page on Facebook says that she attended Inglewood High School from 1985 to 1988, same time as Mom.
I log on to www.kanga.com, the inspiration for the people-search website Cookie uses on the TV show, and I find more personal search results on Felicia Campbell. She has a home in El Segundo, two ex-husbands and a current one. The single divorce petition I find names Darius Montgomery. A peek onto his social media pages shows me a curly-haired, squinty-eyed man who favors loud suits and expensive cigars. I find an obituary for her first husband, Aiden Rivers, a white guy who resembles the director of Twin Peaks. He died of a heart attack.
No arrests. No criminal convictions.
Although she checks out as legit on the web, having three husbands suggests that Felicia Campbell may have a messy personal life.
I type 1224 Stardust Way into the search bar. While there’s no street view available, there is a satellite image of a house built on the banks of Lake Paz. It’s a thirty-minute drive north from my parents’ house.
Is it a B&B? A spa? And why does Felicia say “critical information”?
I click on www.lakepaz.com/visitinglakepaz.
Lake Paz, 65 miles north of Los Angeles, sits atop the San Andreas Fault. Fed by an underwater aquifer, this lake—3,550 feet above sea level—cuts through the Angeles National Forest, making it a popular destination year-round. From hiking and camping, to cross-country skiing and water sports, Lake Paz has it all!
As promised, I call my cousin. Felicia’s line rings . . . rings . . . No answer.
I don’t leave a message, but she’ll see in her call history that I called at nine o’clock.
Critical information . . .
I wonder about this as I shower, as I spray my hair with dry shampoo, as I Febreze my clothes to get rid of the smell of smoke. I sneeze and sneeze again, my eyes burning. My allergies, along with the quick tugs of anxiety, have returned.
I take two hits from my inhaler, pop a Benadryl, and crawl into bed. Right now, I can’t even smell the clean, bleached sheets, one of the best things about hotel room beds. I skip the Ativan, because with the Benadryl in my system, I’d never open my eyes again. Since Cheers isn’t on, I find Iron Chef America on the television just in time for the bacon battle. As the competing chefs prepare dishes featuring one hundred types of bacon, the little pink pill kicks in and . . .
My phone vibrates from the nightstand . . .
Bacon . . .
The phone . . .
Nightstand . . .
Whatever it is . . . can wait.
Whatever . . .
9.
Lake Palmdale
10:00 p.m.
The note that the hotel clerk handed Felicia had been the greatest thing ever written.
I miss you so much. And I couldn’t stay away anymore. I heard about the party. They’re ridiculous and I’m ready to fight back. But I need your help. Please, I’m asking you to make it up to me. I will forgive you for everything if you come and meet me. Call me and I’ll text you the location. We’ll meet there, and then we can talk.
Felicia had called that number, but only a fool would actually answer. She left a voice mail, and a minute later . . . Tap, tap, tap—text message sent.
And now, it is the darkest of night out here. The parking lot is empty, and nothing moves across the flat horizon. Not even the full moon can make this inky lake water beautiful.
There! A pair of headlights shines in the rearview mirror. Hopefully, Felicia’s alone. Hopefully, she isn’t armed. Felicia’s not well, and so she’s unpredictable. If she is armed, she won’t be the only one.
The Benz careens into the parking lot and stops beneath a sherbet-colored safety light.
Here we go . . .
The smell of lake water is sickening. Cold out here. Fortunately, the walk over to Felicia’s Benz is quick.
The sedan’s passenger-side door is unlocked. The inside smells of rum and dead things.
Felicia presses her hand against her heart. “Oh my goodness, it’s really you!” Tears stream down her cheeks. She moves in for a hug but stops short.
“Are you drunk right now?”
Felicia gasps. “What? No! I can’t believe it—”
“Why are you here?”
Felicia’s smile falters. Her lips tremble, and her breath hitches in her throat. “Because . . . I thought . . . You . . . The note, you left it for me.”
“Did I ask you to do any of this?”
“No, but—”
“What did I ask you to do?”
“I’m sorry,” Felicia says now. “I . . . just . . . want to be happy, once and for all.”
“Always about what you want, right?”
Felicia blinks, then looks away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Out comes the gun.
Felicia sees the weapon glint before it rests against her forehead.
“Start the car.”
Giant tears spill down her cheeks. “Please don’t, no, no, please, oh God, help me.”
The gun nudges her sweaty forehead. “Start the car.”
Felicia barks like a seal, then pushes the ignition button. “Where . . . ?” She can barely speak and wipes her face with the backs of her hands.
“To the other side of the lake.”
The Benz’s tires crackle against sand dumped by the afternoon dust storm.
“Money—is that what you want?” Felicia whispers with a side eye. “I’ll give you anything you need. Whatever you want.”
So dark out here. The parking lot on this side of the lake doesn’t have many streetlights.
Felicia parks in the space closest to the water.
“Get out.”
Felicia barks again, then exits the car.
So cold. Gotta be forty degrees . . .
“Walk.”
Felicia refuses to move.
A push.
Felicia pushes back.
A slap. Another slap.
The gun raises, and reality sets in as Felicia clutches her stinging cheek.
“Walk.”
The gun pushes into the space between Felicia’s eyes, and she laughs.
“Turn around and walk.”
“What did I do?” Looking straight ahead now, Felicia inches closer to the lake, the lapping water becoming louder with each step. “Why are you doing this?” she asks. “I’ll give you anything. I’ll give you everything. I’m not well. I have a brain tumor—glioblastoma. I’m dead anyway.” Felicia stares back at the gun—she’s thinking . . . thinking . . . Is she weighing death by gunshot against death by drowning?
“Don’t even think about it. This gun? That’ll bring certain death. At least out there”—a nod toward the dark waters—“you can try and hold your breath.” A chuckle.
And if you do, I’ll still be here with this gun, waiting to finish the job.
Felicia blinks, then looks out to the lake. She walks and yelps, the cold water shocking her. She clutches her elbows as the lake water hits her knees . . . her thighs . . .
Felicia throws one last look back at the shore.
No sanctuary here.
She takes deep breaths as the water hits the middle of her back . . . her neck . . .
And now, it’s like she was never there at all.
10.
Spiders—big, small, hairy, thin—swarm my condo. They drift like commandos through the windows on silky parachutes. I lift my sneaker, and millions of spiders spill out of the shoe as my foot throbs from bites. I collapse onto the couch, but black spiders and red spiders erupt from the cracks between the cushions. I want to scream but can’t. A hairy blue spider crawls up my arm, and a bigger, hairier spider crawls out of my mouth. Thunder rumbles . . . rumbles . . .
My eyes pop open. They feel weird, stretched out and achy from the spiders. My throat is sore. The dream was so real that I swallow to make sure any spiders in my mouth are now en route to my stomach.
My vibrating cell phone has pulled me from this nightmare.
I grab it from the nightstand. It’s 10:50. I’ve been asleep for only an hour?
Dominique is calling.
“Dude,” I growl at her. “I’m asleep.” My eyelids weigh more than a turbine engine, and even as I talk, a snore tumbles from my mouth.
“Mom wants you to stay at the house.” Dominique says this with no emotion or surprise. It’s a done deal for her.
“Too late, I’m asleep.” My head falls back onto the pillow. “It’s easier to be here—”
“I know, you gave me the speech at the Holiday Inn.”
“I took a Benadryl, Dom. I’m not driving over there.”
She says nothing.
Nerves taut as a tightrope, I sit up in bed. “Shouldn’t she be getting ready for the track meet tomorrow? Wrapping batons with tape? Polishing her whistle? She hates it when I’m home. I hate it when I’m home.” On television, Iron Chefs have launched into a canned-tuna battle.
“She’s upset,” Dominique says. “She and Dad got into a huge fight about you staying at a hotel. Dad called her a bully and said he totally understood why you didn’t want to stay here. She called him crazy, and you know that makes him lose his mind. He shut down, and she stormed out and drove off and won’t come home. The end.”
