Page 37 of Tell Me Your Lies

Isabelle

The following morning, I glance around the table at breakfast. Most times my family are either chatting or staring at their phones; today everyone is staring at their plates as if trying to avoid making eye contact. I clear my throat. “I know a member of our household has died but we can’t go on being morbid for the rest of our lives. Alani, you need to continue with the book. I believe what’s happened over the last few days is an integral part of my story and maybe you should write a few chapters about it and put them to one side until you reach that point.”

“Yes, that could be the sensationalism that we need to sell the book.” Alani looks at me with interest. “I’ll write a chapter today and print it up for you so you can read it. You do know that you have absolute control over what goes into your memoirs? I would never even think of sending a copy to anyone without your prior knowledge and agreement.”

I can see a touch of annoyance in her expression. Something has got under her skin but Alani is a very secretive person. I have a very good instinct when it comes to knowing if a person is hiding something and she certainly has something to hide. I feel there is something going on between her and Lucas. It’s as if he needs to protect her for some reason although he’s not acting like she’s his lover—in fact I believe it’s the complete opposite. She left the house last night and I don’t know where she went but when she returned, she spent a couple of hours in Lucas’ room. Are they conspiring against me and if so, why?

I raise both my eyebrows to convey my surprise at her statement. “I do believe I had that written into the contract.” I turn my attention to Linc, who is listening intently to our conversation. “Isn’t that right, Linc?”

“Yeah, it is but you know darn well that Alani wouldn’t release any of the manuscript without your consent.” He drums his fingers on the table and stares at her. “Her reputation precedes her and since I’ve got to know her, I would trust her with my bankroll.”

“Then you’d be a fool.” Mia looks up from her phone. “The only person you should trust with your bankroll is you, Dad.” She wiggles her eyebrows at him. “Don’t trust me with it—Or maybe you should. I’d have the best ten years of my life spending it around the world.”

“I’ll have earned it all back by then.” Linc smiles at her. “But I’ll keep that in mind.”

“First, I can speak for myself and I’m not being arrogant but I do have a reputation for being scrupulously honest.” Alani nods at Linc. “As to your bankroll, I’m told I’m very good at investments, so I’d probably triple your money in ten years.”

The hammering on the front door prevents any further conversation. I stare into the hallway with my cup of coffee paused midway to my lips as one of our staff comes to the dining room door followed by the two detectives and four uniformed police officers. Beside me Linc gets to his feet, annoyance plastered across his expression. I rest a hand on his arm. “They’re only doing their job.”

“Mr. Boswell, we would like you to accompany us to the station for questioning.” The male detective turns to Alani. “Alani Fairchild, you too. You are both suspects for the murder of Allison Dane. You have the right to remain silent⁠—”

“Murder?” Linc gapes at the detective in horror. “No way.” He turns to Lucas. “Call the lawyer—now.” He swings his head back to the detective. “We’ll come quietly.” He shakes his head. “Alani, say nothing. David will represent you.”

My stomach tumbles into freefall as I watch the police taking my husband away. I want to run after him but my feet are stuck to the floor in shock. Across the table, Lucas is explaining everything to David Brunel. As a cop literally drags Alani from the room, she turns a very pale face to me.

“Call Sam. Tell him what’s happening.”

I nod but have no intention of helping her.

FORTY-EIGHT

Alani

Heart threatening to burst out of my chest, I follow Linc to the patrol cars. Lights flashing, the cruisers sit at the front of the house and in full view of the paparazzi and fans crowding the gate. The female detective has one hand tight around my arm and urges me to one of the cars. A light coating of dandruff covers the shoulders of her dark shirt. She smells like cheap perfume, splashed on to cover the underlying stink of sweat. The self-satisfied expression on her face makes me want to spew.

“As we’re not under arrest, I want to travel with Alani.” Linc plants his feet and stares at the detective. “You have our cooperation. Look at her, she’s terrified. We won’t talk or discuss anything. You have my word.”

“Okay but one word and I’ll pull over and she goes in the other cruiser. Got it?” The detective moves his gaze to me.

I nod frantically. “I understand completely.” I follow Linc inside and the doors lock automatically behind me.

I’m terribly afraid as the smell of alcoholic vomit surrounds me. Beside me Linc smiles as if trying to project calm but his knee is bouncing. The radio crackles with unrelated calls: a traffic stop, a mugging and a hit and run. As we drive toward the gate the noise gets louder. The paparazzi swarm around the vehicles, and the hee-haw of the sirens blasting to clear them deafens me. Fans scream Linc’s name, cameras flash and faces press against the windows.

“Linc, did you kill her?” comes from a man holding a microphone. “Who’s the girl?”

As we move away to drive slowly through the crowd, paparazzi run alongside the cruiser. A news helicopter with a search beam flies overhead. TV cameras resting on men’s shoulders push toward us trying to get a story. Everyone is staring at me as if they’re trying to read my guilt. Linc’s arm suddenly comes around my shoulder pulling me against him, protecting me from the reporters. I’m shaking so hard my teeth chatter. Once away from the crowd the police vehicles speed away but the bobbing lights behind us tell me that the paparazzi are on our heels. There is no respite from their hunger for a story.

The media are everywhere as we arrive. It’s as if they were told beforehand that we were coming. TV vans litter the street. I keep my head down, trying to avoid eye contact with the lenses the press points at our faces. Beside me Linc sits bolt upright and stares straight ahead but every so often I feel a tremor rumble through him. The moment we stop a cop grabs me and rushes me out of the vehicle and through the doors of the police station. I blink into the harsh overhead lighting. It’s cold inside and has a sharp lemony smell. There are people everywhere but we keep on walking. I look at the female detective escorting me as we move by uniformed officers sitting at desks. Some focus on paperwork and others lean back in their chairs watching me. “Where are you taking me?”

“To an interview room and don’t expect Linc Boswell to be in there with you.” Her mouth turns into a snarl. “We have our own special set of questions for him.”

I stagger as she shoves me into a small cold windowless room. In the center a metal table is bolted to the floor with two chairs, one either side. Everything is cold and frightening. I rub my arms, too afraid to move. My mind is in turmoil and I can’t think straight. What will happen to me? Will I go to prison for a murder I can’t remember committing? On one wall is a mirror and I stare at my pale complexion and the dark circles under my eyes—I don’t look like me. I’ve watched TV cop shows and know about two-way mirrors, and wonder who is on the other side observing me—can they recognize a killer when they see one? The door closes behind me with a click that sounds too loud and suddenly I’m alone. I’m frozen with fear and just move my head to look around. High on one wall in the corner is a camera with a flashing red recording light. What do they expect me to do? What would a guilty person do? The cops have all types of body language experts to determine if I meet the profile of a killer.

I stare at the door for a long time and then pull out one of the chairs and sit down resting my head in my hands. This is called “sweating the suspect” and I’m so tired, all I want to do is sleep. It’s so quiet in here—almost peaceful. I can hear the AC vent rattling, and above the fluorescent light flickers just enough to be annoying, so I close my eyes. I sit for what seems like forever before two different detectives come into the room. They both look at me as if trying to decipher what kind of person I am. One is young, maybe in his thirties. He has the tired look of someone who has been up for many hours and dark stubble covers his chin. He rolls up his sleeves and takes a seat in front of me. I can smell his cologne; he wears enough to bathe in. I rub the end of my nose as a sneeze threatens. The other detective, an older man, leans against the wall and stares at me from under thick black eyebrows. Each time he moves, the fluorescent light above reflects on the gold badge at his waist and sends shards of light across the plain wall. I lift my head and wait for them to speak.

“I’m Detective Watkins. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the murder of Allison Dane. You worked with her at the Boswells’, didn’t you? What was your role at the home?”

I stare at him. Linc’s insistence I say nothing slides into my muddled brain. “I’ve been advised to remain silent, as is my right. I will speak to you when my attorney is present.”