Page 18 of Tell Me Your Lies

“I guess so.” Oliver glances at the tray of sandwiches and opens a can of soda sitting beside them. “Do you mind if I eat while we chat? Dad is always checking I’m eating.” He pokes at a sandwich, shrugs and takes a bite. “He still figures I’m six. I don’t believe he looks at any of us as adults—well, maybe Lucas.”

I get the overall feeling that Oliver doesn’t trust me. He has a wary expression. Maybe he has been burned by media attention before and sees me as the enemy. I smile at him. “I’m here to write your mother’s memoirs and I want to show her in the best possible light. I’d also like some anecdotes or something we can put in the book as a hook for the readers. Your dad has told me a couple of stories from his past. I’ll be writing a chapter on each of you. Maybe we can start with: How do you get along with your mother?”

“I don’t get to see her that much but when I do, I guess we get along.” He turns his attention back to the sandwiches and drink.

The two incidents that Linc divulged would be stories that came up over the years. Oliver had likely overheard them when Linc’s group of friends got together, so I ask him directly but he just shrugs and interacts with an AI assistant, asking for information about the incidents.

“I don’t recall my parents talking about either incident but my AI assistant confirms that they both happened.” Oliver twirls around in his chair to look at me. “I guess you’d better ask them.”

I laugh. “I have and they both give me different stories so I’m not exactly sure which one to write.”

“Why don’t you grab one of the chairs over there and sit down. You’re making my neck ache.” Oliver indicates to one of the chairs in front of the many desks. “Well, I’m assuming you’re speaking around the time I was maybe two or three years old. Up to the time I went to high school I rarely saw my parents. My dad was always away on tour, much the same as he is now, and he’d come home for, say, four weeks and then be off somewhere else. My mom was always on a movie set.”

I nod. “I’m actually finding it difficult to discover anything exciting to write in the book. Most celebrities I write about have a skeleton in the closet as they say. They might have had affairs with other famous people or tell me scandals about people who have passed away. I’ve only spoken to your mother twice and both times she seems to be guarding her every word. This is why I decided to speak to the three of you.”

“I figure you’re asking her the wrong questions.” Oliver places the can of soda on the tray and wipes his hands and mouth on a paper towel before turning back to look at me. “My mother was in the public eye for a long time and she enjoyed all the attention. When the contracts began to dry up, she became very resentful toward my dad. He’s always been the center of attention wherever they go. Everyone loves Linc Boswell.” He removes the headphones from around his neck and places them on the desk, unties his hair and runs his hands through it before tying it again. “Here lies the problem. Jenny tried to write the truth, but the truth isn’t that nice, is it?”

Dumbfounded, I look at him. He’s giving me information but it’s as if it’s coming in coded messages. “I’m not exactly sure what you mean. My first interview with your mother was mostly about struggling and bussing tables to survive prior to getting her first small part in a movie.”

“Ah, I see.” Oliver snorts and shakes his head. “My mom never bussed a table in her life. My dad had two number one hit albums by the time they married. My mom didn’t get her first movie deal until after she had Lucas. They’d been married for about two years or so prior to her going to that audition and not long after the film wrapped, she was pregnant again with me.” He taps his fingers on the arm of his chair and shakes his head slowly. “Maybe you should ask her why she wants a different version of her story told? She met my dad at high school and we have photographs of them on tour together before they married.”

I’m surprised he’s divulged these revelations to me. “Is this the reason she fired Jenny, because she insisted on writing the truth about her?”

“Maybe.” Oliver frowns and rubs his chin. “You know, Jenny came to me a few days before she left and asked me if I’d tampered with her files. Apparently some of her work was deleted. I asked her to bring the laptop to me so I could see if I could retrieve the files. She seemed very wary. It makes me wonder if my mom told her something that she wants people to forget and regrets it. She often says stupid things after a couple of bottles of wine.” He gives me a long considering look. “I’m surprised she decided to try again and wonder why she chose you to write the story. Has she got some dirt on you? If she has, she’ll use it.”

I clear my throat. As he appears to be being truthful with me, I decide to do the same. “Maybe it’s because Sam covered up the shooting that happened here recently. It’s a serious crime for a doctor not to report a gunshot wound. Maybe she believes she can hold it over my head if I decide to go public with anything she doesn’t like—not that I would. Everything I do with this family is in complete confidence and my contract states that I can’t send a partial manuscript to my publisher without Isabelle reading it first. In fact, all of you will be reading it before I allow anyone else to look at it.”

“I’m sure my mother wouldn’t like to have that bit of information in her memoirs.” He looks at me and a half smile curls his lips. “Does it make you wonder what else in her life she wants deleted?”

Is Isabelle trying to manipulate me? Maybe she wants her own sanitized version of her life, filled with lies, and believes I’ll write it for her, to protect my adopted father—fat chance of that. “People would know, wouldn’t they? I’m sure like most famous actors she was under the media spotlight twenty-four seven. It would be difficult to hide anything, wouldn’t it? If someone did know something about her, it would get out eventually. Someone always talks for the right price.”

“Maybe.” He chuckles. “The thing is, I’ve been playing around with deepfake. I can write my own code to do just about anything. My work, which no one in the family seems interested in, is creating games, apps and security programs. I own my own company and it’s going real well.” He blows out a breath. “The thing is, if my mom wanted me to create a video about her and her friends flashing my dad, I could make it and change her actions any way I see fit. I could take stills from the fake and use them in the book. These days, even the truth can be manipulated—soon we won’t know what really happened in history because it will be changed—sanitized. The same goes with my mom. She doesn’t believe she’s lying to you; she’s just editing.”

My mind is reeling. “So, you’ll back anything Isabelle says with fake images?”

“If she asks me to, yeah. She’s my mom.” He shrugs and turns back to the screen. “Nice talking to you.” He puts on his headphones.

I walk out of the door and go back to my room. I need to get the first chapter outlined but I feel as if this assignment is a complete waste of time. Maybe I’ll just talk to Isabelle and ask her what she wants from me. I sit down and make a few notes. The next second the door flies open and Isabelle is staring at me, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders and a face like granite. I play it cool. “Hi Isabelle. I’m just making notes for the first chapter.”

“Why are you talking to everyone about me?” Isabelle crosses her arms over her chest. “I watched you on the monitors. You shouldn’t disturb Oliver when he’s working and you can’t believe a word Allison says about me. She’s a gossip. I should fire her but training another assistant would be a pain.”

I turn in my seat to look at her. “I needed to get some background on you. Little anecdotes from your family to add flavor to the book. Readers love insights into private lives. I wouldn’t add anything without your approval. You know that, right?”

“So you say.” Isabelle pouts as if it would make an impression on me or move some feelings toward her but it doesn’t.

I shake my head. It’s like speaking to a child. “I’ll write what you want me to write but I need more than what you’re giving me. I need what’s in the shadows, Isabelle. There must be something you’re not afraid to divulge. Something sensational the publisher can use in the advertising. It’s a must or likely the book will be rejected.”

“Rejected?” Isabelle glares at me, her eyes like slits. “You better make sure that doesn’t happen.” She turns and slams the door behind her.

I stare at the door. What have I gotten myself into?

TWENTY-FOUR

The way Isabelle spoke to me upsets me. I don’t like being threatened or intimidated, so I just collect my things and decide to drive to my parents’ house. I see Linc’s bodyguard in the foyer and tell him I need to pick up some personal items from the store. He calls the front gate and I drive through without a problem. I turn in the direction of my parents’ house and then change my mind when I see a beat-up old Dodge following close behind. I noticed it parked a short distance from the front gate as I left. I make a few unnecessary turns and it follows so I head for the mall. If this is some creep, I don’t want him knowing where I live and the crowded mall will offer me plenty of protection. I park and scoot across the parking lot and disappear. I hope the mass of mostly tourists will cover my back. I walk slowly, watching behind me in the reflection from the store windows, and purchase a nice loaf of bread and a pastry. The aroma of coffee calls to me and I order one from a quaint little place I frequented before I went to college. Nothing has changed in the mall, apart from a few new stores, and I take my coffee to a table and sit down to drink it. With people all around, I’ll be safe enough.

It’s nice being away from Isabelle’s scrutiny, and even with the buzz of conversation and chinking of silverware around me as people eat their meals, I can think. There are so many questions to be answered. The entire setup of the Boswells’ home is unsettling and the strangest thing is none of the males in Isabelle’s family seem to like her—they just tolerate her. Oliver is a strange one, lost in his world of gaming but making a fortune. I’ve noticed him watching me, whenever he leaves his room. It’s unsettling to feel eyes on me and turning to see him staring at me unblinking. He seemed honest enough when we talked but it’s as if he has a secret to tell me and can’t muster the courage.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and I scan the food court. A man is staring at me. He is unkempt and wearing dirty coveralls, with a ballcap pulled down low. Is this the driver of the old Dodge? My heart races at the thought. I drop my gaze to the pastry in the open paper bag and tear off another small piece and then peer at him from under my lashes. His gaze is intent and he’s just sitting there, both hands flat on the table each side of a to-go cup. I want to get up and walk away but instinct tells me to wait for him to leave first. I sip my coffee and stare in the opposite direction but I can still feel his eyes on me.