Page 9 of Tell Me Your Lies

“Yeah, well, we were only separated by a curtain.” She gave me a long look. “Mia hardly cried, but her baby came into the world angry. The girl refused to hold it and the nurse placed it in a crib beside her.” She shook her head. “I went to speak to her to stop her crying and tried to help her but then she told me her baby’s father raped and tried to murder her. She’d been in a coma for months. The poor girl. I looked at the baby and she was so pretty. I picked her up and she stopped crying and sucked on her fingers.”

Hardly able to speak, I lean forward in my chair. “What happened to the baby?”

“The girl told me the baby would be taken away for adoption the moment the hurricane went through but she didn’t want to touch her, so I told the nurse I would feed her because the poor woman was run off her feet.” Isabelle smiles and tosses her head. “You see, I do have a heart.”

Heart pounding, I clear my throat. “How long were you stranded?”

“Three days.” Isabelle sighs. “Someone came to take the girl away and later that day, the children’s services took the baby. I often wondered what became of her.”

I nod, wanting to be out of the room. “Was this in Florida?”

“Yes. A little place called Lights Medical Center.” She sighs. “Is that enough for one day?”

Dizzy with excitement, I stand. That’s the same place where I could have been born. I just need to look up Mia’s birthdate. If it’s close to mine, it’s possible the girl in the next bed to Isabelle was my mother. I fight to control my hands shaking as I collect my things. “Yes, thanks. I’ll be doing research for a time. We’ll talk again soon.” I hurry out the door and practically run to my bedroom.

I check Mia’s birthdate and it’s the same as mine. Isabelle said Mia was born before the poor girl delivered in the next bed. It fits my story. Suddenly I know what I need to do; I need to find my mother. But how can I find her if her name is sealed? There’s only one person who would know her name—my real father.

I call Sam. “Years have passed since you told me you adopted me.”

“Where is this leading, Alani?” Sam sounds irritated.

I smile. “It’s time you told me the name of my father. I could research him. It wouldn’t be too difficult to find a child rapist who put a girl in a coma, but much easier if you told me. I need to know to protect myself. I believe Isabelle was there at the clinic when I was born.”

“Isabelle?” He snorts. “Has she been making up stories again?”

I chew on my bottom lip. “Everything she says fits. She met my birth mom, and the only person who knows her name is my crazy father. I want his name.”

“No, Alani.” Sam blows out a long sigh. “It’s not in your best interest. Let it go before it destroys you. This is becoming an unhealthy obsession.”

I need this information and shake my head as if he’s in the room. “No, it’s not unhealthy to want to know where I came from. I’m not giving up. I’ll search the newspapers until I find his name but I stupidly believed you’d tell me. Don’t worry. I won’t bother you again.”

“Okay, okay.” Sam waits for a long beat. “Clifton Barnes, he’s doing time at the state pen. He’s a psychopath—you can’t believe anything he says.”

I nod and write down the name but it’s already seared in my brain. “Thanks.”

I search the web for details of Clifton Barnes. I’m horrified at the stories about him in the press. The man makes my skin crawl and worse, my research on psychopaths tells me they’re not all killers but it can be hereditary. The good news is I haven’t killed anyone—yet—but it also means I can become a danger. The idea concerns me, but knowing is a good deterrent to stop becoming angry with anyone. I do a search for the prison details and discover they have non-contact visits in two days. I send an email asking to visit on the pretext of writing a story about serial killers. I give them my credentials and wait. Now I understand why my mother gave me away and it makes me more determined to find her. She needs to know I’m not like him—maybe I’m more like her? Although, I doubt she’d like to see me roll up on her doorstep. I can imagine the meeting. “Hi Mom—it’s me. The kid you gave away.”

I press send on the request to visit Clifton Barnes. I’m scrolling through social media later that day when the email chimes. I hesitate to open the official email from the prison. A wave of excitement—or is it fear?—cramps my belly. Clifton Barnes has agreed to meet me. Finally, I’m going to meet my dad. My heart pounds. Is this going to open doors for me or have I just made the biggest mistake of my life?

FOURTEEN

The four-hour drive to the state prison gives me time to reflect on many things. I downloaded a few true crime podcasts about my dad’s killing spree. I often listen to podcasts when I’m researching a client’s life as someone has already completed most of the work and usually, they’re speaking with the celebrity. When I’m listening, I make a list of questions to ask to expand what I’ve heard in the podcasts. I want to know all the nitty gritty and background to the stories because there’s always more the clients can tell. The true crime podcasts horrify me as they are often victim impact statements. The broadcaster goes through the records of the case and then speaks to the relatives of the dead, which I find very disturbing. The last one I’d copied to my phone was by an FBI behavioral analyst. It is an actual interview with Barnes. The interview must have been recorded not long after his trial for the attempted murder of my mother. My mom’s brave testimony sealed his fate. Hearing his voice makes me sick to my stomach.

“Mr. Barnes, thank you for speaking with me today.” The FBI agent’s voice is confident and professional. “I’ve read your case files and I’m interested to know the reason why you were accused of raping and murdering twelve women and convicted of raping another and leaving her for dead.”

“They tried to prove that in court but I was pronounced not guilty.” Barnes pauses for a beat. “The thing is, everything they said is true, but I can’t be charged again now, can I? That last one was a mistake. Unlucky thirteen, huh? Look where it got me.” Barnes chuckles. “Have you noticed how many women paint themselves and dress in tight clothes exposing their cleavage and long legs?” His conversational tone is deep and charming. He doesn’t sound like I expected. “Every one of them is advertising for a man. Am I right or am I right?”

“I can’t comment on that but why would that make you want to murder them?” The FBI agent’s calm voice comes through the speakers as if they’re both sitting in the vehicle with me. “I’d like to understand what makes you different from other men.”

“I’m no different. Every man has the same urges when he sees a woman dressed that way. They advertise and we respond. It’s what men do.”

I pause the playback to get my breath. My heart is pounding so hard. I search in the distance for a gas station or roadhouse. I need to take a break. There’s nothing for a few miles so I push away my fears and try hard to be objective as if I’m doing research. I press play and I’m back in the room with them. The interviewer hasn’t missed a beat. She isn’t afraid of him and I figure she should be.

“If every man murdered a woman he found attractive we’d all be dead.” She clears her throat and there’s a rustling as if she’s crossing her legs. “Is there a reason why you need to kill them?”

“They advertise, give you the come-on and when you respond they say no and push you away. I don’t like being pushed away.”

“Does this make you angry and lash out?” The FBI agent keeps her voice even and calm.