Page 22 of Tell Me Your Lies

I shake my head as if he’s in the room with me. “No, and I don’t know why she was so secretive about it.” I think for a beat and realize I need to tell him the entire story and damn the consequences. “I’m ghostwriting Isabelle Croft’s memoirs. It’s only by coincidence and because of a hurricane she ended up in the same hospital as Rachel, giving birth to her daughter Mia. It was the closest medical facility available. That’s not something to murder someone for, is it?”

“I wouldn’t imagine so, no.” Peter sighs and taps away at his keyboard. “I figure we need more information on Barnes’ son. Although, now I think about it, when you add Barnes’ son’s involvement, and Linc Boswell’s song, into your mother’s murder, the implications are mind-blowing. If there is a tie to the night you were born, something maybe your mother told Isabelle, and Barnes got wind of it, he’d need to wait until his psycho son was old enough to silence her, wouldn’t he? Conspiracy enthusiasts would have a field day with that info.”

I drop into my office chair and stare out of the window to the peaceful garden. Palm trees and drought-loving plants fill the area. My attention moves to the endless blue sky and the white caps dancing across the ocean in the distance. Willow has built a tranquil place over many years but right now, it does nothing to soothe my nerves. The last thing I want is to involve the Boswells. It’s like no matter what I do, just mentioning Isabelle has lit the fuse. I run a hand down my face to wipe the beads of sweat over my forehead. “I don’t want to go there. I’ve spoken at length with Linc and I know at the time, he was across the country on tour. He had a concert that night and even mentioned his family back in Florida with a hurricane bearing down on them. It’s all on video. Anyone who tries to incriminate him is an idiot.”

“Okay.” Peter laughs. “That’s the reporter in me—I’m sorry. Look, leave it with me. I have a ton of contacts and I’ll see if I can get info on Barnes’ son. Then we can take it from there.” He lowers his voice. “I’m glad you reached out, Alani. You can trust me. I have your back.”

Relief floods over me, at last someone on my side. “Thanks.” I hold the phone in my hand, staring at it for some time after he disconnects.

I open my laptop and research psychopathic killers again. I need to know more about what makes them tick. I dig deep, reading as much information as possible. They have no empathy; it’s impossible to reason with them if they’re trying to murder you. They don’t need a reason to kill but usually blame the victim or sometimes they’re just living out a fantasy. I try to apply this information to the death of my mother and Susan. It’s possible my brother is killing for Barnes. I believe Barnes had my mom murdered for testifying against him. Maybe Rachel was afraid after she testified against Barnes and she told Susan a secret? What if Barnes’ son was with him when he raped her? Susceptible minds can be twisted seeing something like that and Barnes is so evil anything is possible.

My mind is shifting in all directions as I read on. Psychopaths can manipulate people; maybe that’s what he’s doing with his son? I try and relate these characteristics with my own. I get angry and I hate my parents for deceiving me and at the time I wanted to kill them but I didn’t—did I? Another thing, psychopaths don’t always become killers. It takes a trigger to make them kill—if they have a tendency to kill. If my brother was a party to Barnes’ killing spree as a child maybe that triggered him?

I try and pull my thoughts together. How would my brother know Rachel was in that motel that night? If my mom was a sex worker, maybe he’d been stalking her for a time and then hired her. That would be a way of getting her alone. My thoughts shift again. Maybe it wasn’t him at all and he just alluded to the murder to frighten me. There’s a piece missing from the puzzle—who else could possibly know what happened the night Rachel gave birth to me? The hospital nurses, the doctor—if there was a doctor; it was a small clinic run by a very small staff and still is today.

I stare at my open book of notes on Isabelle’s memoirs. My familiar handwriting spills across the pages and I swallow hard, wondering how far Isabelle’s involvement goes in Rachel’s murder. She is a narcissist and only cares about herself and her image. If Rachel discovered something that would ruin Isabelle’s career but kept quiet until she fell on hard times and then tried to blackmail her, would Isabelle have her murdered? So many questions. How did she know about my Aunt Susan? A cold chill runs down my spine. I stare at my bedroom door and recall the shadow in the hallway—Linc.

TWENTY-NINE

I decide to miss breakfast with the Boswells and arrive at their home around ten. My contract with Isabelle offers me time to research and of course, write, so I’m not stuck in a nine-to-five situation. I was expecting some blowback from my sudden exit and night out of the Boswell prison but no one says a word. Allison tells me my next session with Isabelle is arranged for ten-thirty. After dropping my things in the bedroom, I make my way to her room and knock on the door. As I open the door, my attention drifts over Isabelle draped over the pink silk chaise lounge. Her costume today is from a movie where she starred as a fan dancer. She turns her heavily made-up face toward me. The false eyelashes are so heavy it’s making it difficult for her to open her eyes. The blush on her cheeks and bright red lips reminds me of a clown, which I find quite unsettling as I’m terrified of clowns and right now, I’m not too sure about her either. I didn’t fail to notice how she flew into a rage without provocation the last time we spoke. I could be right about her or completely wrong. My only consolation is that the house is busy today. Linc’s entourage are all around the piano listening to his latest batch of songs, and the haunting sound of Lucas’ guitar crawls up the staircase toward me.

I smile as I walk toward her and hand her the first few chapters of the memoir. I worked late into the night, to give her something to read today. Mainly because I didn’t want to explain where I’d been the day before. “I have a few chapters for you to peruse and before we continue, I really need to know some more information.”

“What type of information?” Isabelle places the manuscript on the coffee table and peers at me from beneath drooping lids.

I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. “I believe the story about you giving birth in the middle of a hurricane is gold. Readers will love to know what happened and how brave you were to get through it all, with the minimum of help.” I lift my gaze to her. “I’m assuming there wouldn’t have been many staff at the small clinic where you had Mia. I can imagine the wind howling around the building and the rain smashing into the roof. It must have been a terrifying experience for you. It would gain sympathy from the readers and make great copy for advertising.”

Watching Isabelle’s expressions as she decides what to tell me amuses me. I can see her inner turmoil. Will she tell me the truth or another string of lies?

“I believed I had about three weeks to go before Mia was due and took the chopper to Georgia to visit Linc during his tour.” Isabelle pouts her red lips as if considering what to say next. “I needed to see him, and he was heading for LA the following morning. He wanted to be there for the birth and was pleased to see me. We had dinner together before the concert and then he put me back on the chopper to send me home. We’d only gotten as far as Jacksonville, when the hurricane became dangerous. The pilot was trying to make it inland to the Tallahassee airport but put the chopper down somewhere else. I have no idea. The pains had started and the pilot pushed me into a cab and told the driver to take me to the nearest medical facility.” She blows out a long breath and her fingers tap nervously on the arm of the chair. “I had no idea where I was and I didn’t have my husband or my obstetrician. It was the middle of the night in some out of the way place, with only one nurse.” She stands abruptly and goes to a small bar in the corner of her room, pours herself a drink and tosses it back. “With a hurricane threatening to rip off the roof.” She pours another drink and says nothing.

I stare at her. Reliving the experience is disturbing her. I’m not sure if I should remain silent or try and prompt her to continue. I clear my throat. “That must have been terrifying.”

“The birth took longer than it was meant to, and by the time I’d eventually pushed Mia out, her head was misshapen and her eyes were swollen. I worried she might be brain damaged.” She waves a hand nonchalantly. “Obviously she wasn’t. It was just me overreacting as usual.” She stares into space, her eyes unfocused. “The worst thing I remember about that night is the young girl screaming. All the time she just kept saying, ‘get it out of me’ over and over again. When it arrived, the nurse pushed it through the curtain into my section telling me to watch it for a time as the girl was upset and might harm her baby.”

I lean forward, checking my recording device is working. “That seems very strange. Did she tell you why?”

“No but the girl did. I felt sorry for her because she couldn’t stop crying. I figured if I went and sat with her for a time, she’d stop crying and I could get some sleep.” Isabelle drops back into her chair and stares at the ceiling. “Her name was Rachel and she told me she’d been raped. It was fresh in her mind because she’d been in a coma for eight months.” She sighs. “The nurse was so busy. Injured people were showing up at the door to the clinic. Some of the time, I ended up feeding both babies because Rachel refused to do anything. She wouldn’t so much as look at her baby. When the hurricane died down and the phones were back working, the nurse contacted the girl’s parents who informed her that plans had already been made for the baby to be adopted. The new parents and a social worker would arrive at the hospital to collect the baby as soon as the roads were clear.”

Not sure if she’s telling me the truth, I frown. “The nurse told you this private information?”

“No, I overheard her talking to Rachel. There was only a curtain between us, you understand? Her leaving and the new parents coming for the baby happened after I left. I never met them or her parents. She told me they’d just left her there and never went to visit her—like getting raped was her fault.” Isabelle rubs her arms as if cold but the house is kept at a constant temperature. “It was a sweet little baby.” She looks at me. “I always hoped it had a good life—it wasn’t its fault, was it?” Her eyes drift over me and I can tell she’s been speaking to Linc. “I hope it was adopted by nice people—I’m calling the poor thing ‘it’ because I didn’t know the sex at the time.” She points at me as if accusing me of murder. “Oh Lord. Now I know why you’re fixated on that one night. It all fits into place now. Linc told me, a relative of yours was the woman stabbed in the ‘Black Valentine’ murder.” She shakes her head slowly. “Is this the reason you accepted my offer to write my memoirs—because you wanted to know about the night Mia was born, so you could find that baby?”

I decide to skirt around the truth. “Not about the book, no, because the information about Rachel didn’t come to light before I signed the contract. This is all very new to me. Yes, I’m looking for that baby and I do want to discover the circumstances of its birth. I’m sure you would too? It might be my only living relative.” I sigh. “Although you must admit what happened—the hurricane and all that, around the time Mia was born—will be a remarkable story for the book but I’d suggest leaving out the girl. The readers don’t need to get wrapped up in conspiracy theories when they discover Rachel Stackhouse is the name of the murdered woman as well.” I push hair from my face, thinking. “We’ll say you were all alone.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Isabelle noticeably relaxes. “So, you didn’t know Rachel was a relative?”

I shake my head, relief flooding over me. I need to sidestep any mention of my mother being Rachel Stackhouse. I want to discover more of Isabelle’s secrets, not give her mine. “No, I discovered my mother’s name by chance. It was following up with a genealogy search when I discovered Rachel was a relative.”

I see the suspicion simmering in her eyes dissipate. The only secret so far has been mine. What was it that Susan wanted to relay to me face to face? Did someone murder her to prevent me from knowing? I look at Isabelle. “I know Rachel went to court to have her rapist jailed.” I make up a lie on the fly to find out what she knows. “I’ve heard rumors that he knew where she was and attempted to break into the clinic the night of the hurricane to finish the job. Did anything happen when you were there? Did she tell you anything else about the man who raped her?”

“No, not a thing.” Isabelle looks away, avoiding my gaze. “There were other people there during the night—I didn’t see them. I guess they were sheltering from the storm and others probably came by with injuries. It was really bad outside. No power and the clinic had a generator but the phones were out.” Isabelle frowns. “I was a little busy at the time but I could hear voices in the hallway and the poor nurse on duty alone was running all over. I had Mia and then within the hour the girl went into labor.” She drums her fingers on the arm of the chair, her long red nails clicking like castanets. “It gives me goosebumps thinking that a monster could have been close by. But I didn’t see him. I wouldn’t waste time on researching it, you have enough to do.”

I nod. “Okay, so I go with the hurricane story and leave out Rachel?”

“Yeah, that works for me.” Isabelle meets my gaze. “Nothing unusual happened, Alani. Maybe you should forget about rumors and concentrate on the truth.”

I look at her satisfied expression. She’s hiding something, I just know it. I gather my things and stand. “Oh, that’s exactly what I want to do. I’ll get back to work. I’ll schedule another session with Allison.”