The Liar Next Door: An absolutely unputdownable domestic thriller Page 17

  I bark out a laugh. “Saylor, you came up to me. I’m just lending you a friendly ear if you want to offload.” I hold up my hands like I have nothing to hide. “No judgment here at all.”

  She grimaces. “I know. Sorry, I’m just feeling like I’m sinking, a mix of hormones and bad judgment. I’ll be fine.”

  She stands and I do too, offering one last word of advice. “It gets easier, you know.”

  “What does?”

  “Watching someone you care about not returning your affection.”

  The color in her cheeks deepens and I wonder if I’m right, that her baby’s paternity is in question, that Ruston is the father of her child and she’s desperate to make sure her husband doesn’t find out.

  “Thanks, Celeste.” She touches my hand then she’s gone, heading toward her house with stronger strides than before.

  I hope I helped. But I know problems like that aren’t easily dealt with.

  Forty-Seven

  Saylor

  Everything is unraveling.

  I almost blurted the truth to Celeste in the park, an indication of just how rattled I am. Nothing is going right, I don’t have the money yet, and with every passing day I feel like I’m drowning in deceit.

  I barely make it inside when my cell rings and as soon as I see an unknown number on the screen my hands start to shake.

  He said he wouldn’t call yet. That he’d give me some time to gather the funds.

  I could ignore it but he’ll keep calling and I’d rather speak to him now, with Lloyd not at home.

  I answer on the third ring, knowing he won’t like being kept waiting.

  I hear the crackle of static before he asks, “What took you so long?”

  My bladder convulses at the sound of that electrically distorted tone I sometimes hear in my nightmares. I wish I knew who was doing this. I’ve listened for clues, hoping for a phrase or word to jog my memory, but nothing. Heck, I don’t even know if it’s a man, the voice is so heavily disguised.

  “I was vomiting. Food poisoning.” The lie slides glibly from my lips like so many others before. I want him to feel sympathy for me. He won’t.

  “Do you have my money yet?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Not hard enough. Maybe I should pay you a visit? Introduce myself to that dopey husband of yours? Tell him how it really is? Then make a call to your parents’ church? I’m sure their loyal followers would be very interested to hear about their fallen angel.”

  Nausea washes over me and it has nothing to do with an unexpected bout of second trimester morning sickness. This idiot can tear my parents’ world apart if I let him.

  “I told you this is going to take time. That kind of money can’t materialize out of thin air.”

  “How much have you got?”

  I can’t tell him zero, that I’m counting on my blackmail scheme to pay him off. So I conjure another lie. “Five grand.”

  “So why is it in your bank account and not mine?”

  “Because I can’t make a withdrawal of that amount without Lloyd asking questions. Don’t worry, I’m good for the fifty grand.” I hope he can’t hear the terror in my voice.

  “You have another month and then I’m done. Got it?”

  Four measly weeks? I’m pressuring as much as I can but it still doesn’t feel like I’m any closer to the money.

  “I need more time—”

  “A month and that’s final.”

  He hangs up, leaving me staring at my cell, my stomach still churning with dread.

  There’s another way out of this. Tell the truth.

  And ruin my family in the process.

  But I can’t do it. They’re innocent in all this. I’m the one who made a mistake. I’m the one who needs to fix it.

  I’ve contemplated going to the police and after this latest phone call I’m tempted. But a police investigation won’t make what I’ve done go away, it will bring it to light and my folks will get humiliated in the process and lose everything they’ve worked so hard for. No matter how discreet the police are, stuff like this has a way of making it to the press.

  I am so screwed.

  Forty-Eight

  Frankie

  THEN

  Ever since the disaster on my eighteenth birthday, I’ve never been one for celebrating dates. Though considering I met Walter, my way out of Gledhill, on the same night I guess it hadn’t been all bad.

  He’s been on my mind today. It’s our anniversary and as I stare at a sleeping Luna, her eyelashes fanning shadows across her baby-soft cheeks, her lips pursed like a rosebud, I’m filled with gratitude. Andre is away for work and I’ve been reminiscing, thinking about the past, mulling over what I’ve been through to get to this point: a happy mother and wife who counts her blessings every day.

  On impulse, I pick up my cell and call Walter. Predictably, he answers on the fourth ring as always, or like he’s been expecting my call.

  “Francesca. How are you?”

  “Good. You?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  Patient Walter never whines about anything. He’s content, making the most of every day, and bears no grudges despite how I once tipped his world upside down. He sounds genuinely happy to hear from me. We make it a point never to ask about each other’s spouses. I never ask about Julia—who he reunited with not long after our divorce—and he never questions me about Andre. It’s better this way. We were always honest with each other and feigning interest in each other’s partners isn’t our way.

  I’m unsure whether to tell him about Luna or not. He’s not a fool and once he learns of her age, he’ll put two and two together. Not that it matters. Andre is her father and Walter will never have any involvement in her life.

  “Something’s wrong,” he says, a statement not a question, and I smile at how well this man knows me.

  “Not really, but I do have some news. Wonderful news, in fact.” I take a deep breath and blow it out. “I have a daughter. Luna.”

  “Congratulations, Francesca, that’s wonderful.” He sounds genuinely happy and I lower my guard, when he asks, “How old is she?”

  I’m tempted to lie for a moment but what would be the point? I’ve got nothing to hide.

  “Two months.”

  I almost hear the wheels turning in his mind as he does the math. But he won’t ask me. Walter is an upstanding man, a throwback to days when men were honorable and did everything they could to protect their women.

  “She’s the spitting image of Andre,” I add, to fill the growing silence between us. “I love her to bits. She’s my world.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  We lapse into silence again and I regret calling him, when he says, “I’m setting up a trust fund for her.”

  My blood chills. I don’t want his money. How on earth will I explain it to Andre?

  “Your husband doesn’t need to know. It will be an account at my bank, held in trust until she’s eighteen.”

  “Walt, you don’t have to do this. She’s not—”

  “I don’t care if she’s mine or not. She’s yours and that’s enough for me. I care about you, Francesca. I know I was never enough for you but we did our best to make it work. I will always love you and keep the promise I made on our wedding day to protect you.”

  Tears clog my throat and I swallow. Only Walter could say something so heartfelt and genuine and mean it, making me feel warm and fuzzy after all this time.

  “You’re a sweet guy and always have been.”

  “I try.”

  He’s back to his bashful best and I smile, pushing the cell against my ear. I’m not in love with Walter and haven’t been for a long time, but he comforts me in a way Andre never can. Andre is vibrant and spontaneous and I love him for it, but there’s a reason I was drawn to Walter in the first place and that dependability is a quality that hasn’t waned over the years.

  “Francesca?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s m
ake this an annual thing. You calling me on our anniversary.”

  “You really are a sentimental fool,” I say as if brushing off the idea, but I’m smiling and I like the thought of us doing a brief catch-up once a year.

  “I am but I think you already knew that.” The warmth in his voice makes my smile widen.

  “Okay. Then I guess I’ll speak to you in a year?”

  “You will.” He pauses, and I think he’s about to put down the phone, before he adds, “But if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hang up, knowing I won’t do that. I’m okay with a once a year call for old times’ sake but I have no intention of turning to him for anything ever again.

  Look what happened the last time I did that.

  Forty-Nine

  Frankie

  NOW

  I love this time of evening, around nine, when Luna has been asleep for an hour, Andre is usually gaming or scanning the latest gadget releases online upstairs and I’m in the living room with a glass of wine surrounded by packages.

  I may be tiring of having to come up with fresh content for my lifestyle vlog but receiving freebies will never lose its appeal. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, a chilled Riesling on the coffee table in front of me, with a stack of unopened packages on my right. I have a system where I open them individually, record the date, item and sender in a journal so I know who to promote.

  I always feel like a kid at Christmas as I tear the tape off the first parcel and discover a stunning silk scarf inside from a local designer. It’s handmade, in a vibrant emerald with slashes of turquoise through it. I drape it around my neck, savoring the luxurious feel of it sliding against my skin.

  The next package isn’t as exciting, hand-poured soy candles from a newly opened home wares shop in Manhattan. But as I raise them to my nose one at a time and inhale, I’m transported to an imaginary island by the lemongrass and coconut, frangipani and vanilla. These will definitely get a workout the next time I feel like escaping; which is pretty much all the time at the moment.

  The simmering dissatisfaction Celeste picked up on last week hasn’t diminished. If anything, with every passing day I envisage doing something different with my life. Shutting down my vlog so I don’t have to be so perfect every time I step in front of the camera. Taking on a new challenge.

  The only problem is, I have no idea what that is. I’ve spent my entire life living up to other people’s expectations. First my parents, being the model daughter, then Walter, being the doting wife, and now Andre and Luna, the perfect wife and mother. It’s not like I resent them; far from it. But I want more and damn if I know what that is.

  I’ve ripped open my third package when Andre comes downstairs. “Did you check the mail today?”

  I gesture at the packages and he rolls his eyes. “I meant the mailbox?”

  “No. I was too fixated on this pile outside the front door I forgot. Are you expecting something?”

  “A new catalogue from that design place near our old apartment.”

  “You do know you can subscribe to catalogues online, right?”

  “Smart ass. I like the feel of paper in my hands sometimes, the same way you like buying exorbitant numbers of paperbacks rather than e-books.”

  “Touché.” I smile and wave him away. “Go. You’re interrupting my fun.”

  “Any good stuff today, other than that swank scarf around your neck?”

  “Some nice candles.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “Maybe you can bring those into the bedroom later?”

  “They have to be new when I light them live online, not used.”

  “Too bad.” He blows me a kiss. “Back in a sec.”

  He lets himself out the front door and I become engrossed in opening the next few packages: a label maker for the pantry, a set of newfangled fruit peelers, a halter top and sequined skirt, sun visors in various colors and a beautiful journal. As I flip the pretty pages, I realize Andre hasn’t returned. I’ve lost track of time but he’s been outside for at least fifteen minutes while I’ve been opening and recording the freebies.

  I pick up my wine glass and move to the window looking out on the street. He’s standing at the bottom of our steps, with his arms around a woman.

  It’s Celeste.

  I stiffen and take a healthy slug of wine. It burns my throat as I watch them. Her cheek is resting against his chest, her arms around his waist, too tight. His cheek is resting on the top of her head and he looks way too comfortable, like he’s done this before.

  I try not to jump to conclusions because Celeste and I have grown closer and I don’t want to ruin our friendship by reading too much into what could simply be a comforting hug. But there’s nothing in Andre’s hand so he didn’t go outside to check the mailbox.

  Had he gone outside to talk to her?

  Violette skips down the steps next door and she joins them, and I’m relieved when Andre releases Celeste as they lean down to talk to Violette. Celeste takes hold of her hand and Andre ruffles her hair, and in that moment they look more like a family than we do.

  I gulp the rest of my wine, draining the glass. It does little to ease my rising suspicion.

  I know Andre’s infidelity six years ago plays into my inherent insecurities. But I need to tread carefully. I don’t want to cause a rift between us over something that probably has a simple explanation.

  I want to look away, to dismiss this as meaningless, but I can’t.

  I’m transfixed.

  Then Celeste glances up and spots me. For a second I think I glimpse triumph on her face before she waves, beckoning me to join them.

  Celeste and I are friends now. I have got to get over this. But as I slip out of the front door, I can’t help wondering: what did I just see?

  Fifty

  Celeste

  I rarely show weakness. It’s not my style. As a single mom, I have to be strong, and I want to be a good role model for my daughter. So when Vi had a temper tantrum a few minutes ago because she misses her father and blames me, it wasn’t her yelling or sobs that affected me as much as her labeling me a bad mom. That hurt, because moving here has been about protecting her and I want for her to believe in me so badly, but the longer she glared at me with tears streaming down her cheeks, the more I felt the pressure building in my chest and I knew I had to get out of the house.

  I’d barely closed the door and walked down the steps before the tears I’d been holding back started flowing, and to my embarrassment Andre saw me fall apart. His hug had come out of left field and I would’ve normally resisted, but he caught me at a rare vulnerable moment and I welcomed his comfort.

  Vi must’ve been watching from the window because she came bounding outside, contrite and sweet, and I almost started bawling again. Until I saw Frankie watching us and realized she may misconstrue this.

  She does, because I see her tight expression as she descends the steps toward us. I tell Vi to head inside and am relieved she does, because I don’t want my daughter privy to this conversation, especially if Frankie’s determined to think the worst of me again. She looks like she caught us naked and going at it in the park.

  “Did the catalogue arrive?” She stares pointedly at Andre’s empty hands and he stuffs them into his pockets.

  “No, unfortunately.” He sounds like a chastised little boy and I’m struck by an inane urge to laugh. “I’ll see you inside.”

  He can’t get away fast enough and I call out, “Thanks, Andre.”

  “No worries.”

  But as he closes the front door to his place there’s a giant worry and she’s glaring straight at me.

  “Everything okay?”

  I nod and glance over my shoulder to make sure Vi can’t hear me. “Yeah, it is now. I’m ashamed to say I lost my cool with Vi earlier and came out here to get away from her for a few minutes so I could calm down, and Andre saw me.” I point to my cheeks. “I was crying and I ha
ve to say, you have a keeper there, because most guys would run a million miles in the opposite direction at the sight of tears but he gave me a hug.”

  “I’m glad he could help,” she says, not sounding glad at all. “Anything I can do?”

  “Not unless you can miraculously produce a sibling for Vi, no.”

  Her eyebrows rise and I shrug. “She was bugging me about not having a dad anymore, how it’s my fault we left, how she doesn’t have a brother or sister, a general blame game that makes me a bad mother apparently.”

  “You’re not a bad mom.” She sighs and my honesty has gone some way to defusing her tension. “She’s young and believe me, I know they can say the most outrageous things at this age.”

  Her understanding means a lot, especially when she appeared ready to throttle me when she barged out here. “She doesn’t understand I moved here to protect her. I get that she misses Roland but it’s for our safety…”

  Frankie’s eyes widen. “Was it that bad?”

  I’m glad she’s sympathetic, though I’m not willing to confirm or deny her suspicions of abuse. “I made the right choice and Vi will come to realize that in time.”

  She nods, her gaze sympathetic. “We all do what we have to do to protect our kids. It’s instinctual.”

  “Yeah, though I can’t do much to placate her when it’s true, I have robbed her of her father.” It breaks my heart, because I’d like nothing better than for us to be a family, but courtesy of Roland, I had no option but to flee in the end. “I blame TV. She’s obsessed with some pony show that features a family of six and she’s started bugging me about her dad and siblings ever since. Does Luna ask you about it?”

  She barks out a laugh. “Rarely. She’s too used to being the center of attention.”

  “What about Andre?”

  I know I’ve asked the wrong thing the moment the question leaves my mouth. Her expression blanks and she stares at some point over my right shoulder. “No. We talked about more kids years ago but neither of us want to disrupt the lives we’ve got.”