The Liar Next Door: An absolutely unputdownable domestic thriller Read online

  It’s disappointing to learn he may be involved with Saylor beyond being neighbors. So many secrets in this little neighborhood of ours.

  So many lies.

  Fifty-Three

  Celeste

  I’m glad Frankie agreed to help me with the baby shower for Saylor because I’m not a great planner. I have grand ideas—like creating signature non-alcoholic cocktails, a onesie decorating station, and a diaper cake—but when it comes to the execution, I’m hopeless. I’ve always been like this. I wanted to be an actuary; I ended up being an accountant. I wanted to live an exciting life in Atlantic City; I ended up here. I wanted four kids with a loving husband in a big house in Connecticut with room for the kids to ride bikes and play baseball in the backyard; I’m a single mom in a brownstone with barely any furniture.

  I shouldn’t have built fanciful scenarios in my head. When they didn’t come to fruition, it added to the noxiousness of my relationship with Roland. Our breakup wasn’t pretty and I had to escape. But on occasions, usually in the dead of night when I’m lying on my side, curled in a fetal position, and rehashing all the ways I could’ve done things differently, I wish I could call him. Rant at him for how badly he hurt me. Rage because his inexcusable behavior has resulted in Vi losing her father. But I can’t. I won’t.

  I’m sitting on Frankie’s comfy couch with my laptop, a spreadsheet open. They comfort me, the order of listing everything in those small rectangles, and I’m making a list of party supplies while the girls are engrossed in a new jigsaw at my feet. Frankie’s working at the kitchen table, doing some final editing on a video she shot earlier. It’s time sensitive so she needs to get it done, then she’ll join me in here and we’ll do some planning together.

  I want to get as much of this done as possible so we can present it to Saylor as a fait accompli, because I know she’ll refuse if we give her a choice. That day in the park when she’d been discussing Ruston she’d seemed defeated, like she can’t take much more, and I want this to be a nice surprise, with her not having to do a thing.

  I type “paper plates, plastic cups, napkins, cutlery” into the boxes, when I become aware of the girls’ conversation.

  “Will you be my sister?” Vi asks Luna and I swear my heart stops. My poor girl yearns for a sibling the same way I yearn to give her one.

  “Won’t that be weird?” Luna’s face scrunches up. “Because our moms and dads are different, how can we be sisters?”

  I watch Vi ponder this for a moment before tapping Luna on the nose, like she’s a fairy godmother granting a wish. “Well, you don’t have a sister and I don’t either, but I really want one, so why can’t we pretend?”

  “I guess we can do that.” Luna hands her a puzzle piece. “I sometimes wish my mom would have a baby, then I wouldn’t be alone.”

  I realize I’m leaning forward, hanging on Vi’s response. “I want my mom to have a baby too. But my dad isn’t here and she says she’ll think about it.”

  Vi glances up and I quickly drop my gaze to the computer screen on my lap so she can’t tell I’m eavesdropping.

  “But I think she’s lying.”

  My heart sinks and I wish I could go to my daughter and comfort her.

  “I don’t think she wants another baby. If she did she wouldn’t have left my dad.”

  Luna tilts her nose in the air. “Don’t be silly. Haven’t you heard all the fairy tales? They’ll get back together and live happily ever after and you’ll get your baby sister then.”

  My chest aches with suppressed emotions, with the simplicity of children solving the problems of the world, with me wishing it were that easy.

  “Yeah, but that might take forever, so in the meantime, you be my sister, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Vi holds up her pinkie finger and Luna intertwines hers with it, and I know these two will be friends forever.

  Fifty-Four

  Saylor

  I’m dealing with a nasty case of heartburn after scoffing one too many leftover fajitas for lunch when there’s a knock at the door. My heart leaps but when I peer through the curtains it’s Frankie, not Ruston.

  I’m not in the mood to socialize with anyone at the moment but she knows I’m home. We waved to each other about half an hour ago as I returned from a walk and she was putting out the trash. Left with no option, I open the door and paste a welcoming smile on my face.

  “Hi, Frankie. How are you?”

  “Great. You?”

  I pat my growing belly, which has popped more in the last week. “Still incubating.”

  When I make no move to open the door further, she asks, “Can I come in for a moment? There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

  I’d rather slam the door in her face but I say, “Sure,” and open the door wider. She enters and when we go into the living room she stands there, uncomfortable, glancing around, and I realize the last time she was here was the night of the dinner party when she got drunk and flirted with Ruston.

  It had been a game to him. I know because he’s done it in the past to make me jealous. But the way she reacted I’m embarrassed for her.

  When she doesn’t seem to be forthcoming, I ask, “What can I do for you?”

  She blinks, as if refocusing. “Celeste and I want to throw you a baby shower.”

  I want to say hell no. I don’t have the backbone to fake it much longer. With every passing day I don’t get the money to pay off the blackmailer I’m increasingly panicked. He gave me a month and it’s like I hear a giant ticking clock every second of the day, reminding me how seriously I’ve messed up and how much worse this will get if I don’t pay up.

  “That’s nice, but I’m pretty tired these days—”

  “You won’t have to lift a finger. We’ll take care of everything. All I need from you is a guest list.”

  These women are so nice. Frankie welcomed me into the neighborhood and Celeste listened to me moan after Ruston threatened to turn my world upside down. While I organized that share-a-plate supper at the park and the dinner party here, I feel like I haven’t made much of an effort to get to know them, considering how consumed I am by my problems. They’re offering to do something incredibly generous and maybe I should take advantage before my life is upended.

  Tears sting my eyes and I try to blink them away, but not before a few trickle down my cheeks and I swipe them away.

  “Oh, honey, come sit down.” She guides me to the sofa like a mother hen marshaling a chick. “Can I get you anything?”

  “A redo of my life,” I say before I can censor the words, and she pats my back.

  “We all make mistakes.”

  “Yeah? What have you done lately that’s so bad?” I ask, irritated by her condescension.

  Rather than laugh it off, she pales and glances away for a second. “Like I said, nobody’s perfect and if you want to talk, I’m here.”

  I wish I could. I wish I had somebody to unburden my secrets to, someone who won’t judge me. The sad thing is, I do—Lloyd—but I can’t confide in him about any of this. Not yet.

  “I’m assuming Celeste told you what we discussed in the park. Is that what this shower is about?”

  Sheepish, she nods. “She’s worried about you and feels you deserve something special to cheer you up.”

  The only thing that will cheer me up is the money I’m expecting so I can put this all behind me.

  “When did you have in mind?”

  “Maybe two weeks from today? That gives us time to invite people.”

  I want to refuse. I can’t summon the energy for this or anything else these days. Lloyd has noticed and he’s worried. He’s been especially attentive, cooking dinners, doing the washing, buying my favorite choc-chip ice cream. He even sits beside me on the sofa and listens to soulful eighties ballads when I know he hates them. He’s an amazing husband and every day I’m living a lie with him, my guilt increases exponentially.

  Perhaps this shower will be a welcome distracti
on. And a way to get the money I’m owed sooner rather than later…

  “Sounds good,” I say, rising to my feet in a blatant hint I want her to leave. Because the longer she stays, so sweet and solicitous, the more likely I am to blab my secrets for the simple fact I’m desperate for somebody to talk to.

  Thankfully, she does the same. “So you’ll text me a guest list?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll get onto it now.” I walk her to the door, eager to get rid of her as the burn of tears prickle my eyes. “Thanks, Frankie. And thank Celeste for me too.”

  “Our pleasure,” she says, but she’s studying me like she knows I’m on the brink.

  As I battle tears I close the door quickly. I don’t deserve her understanding or sympathy. If things don’t go to plan and the truth comes out, everyone will hate me.

  Fifty-Five

  Frankie

  THEN

  A week after Walter’s unexpected call, he’s still on my mind. I’m busy during the day, taking Luna on a surprise trip to Manhattan, planning my content for the next month, and spending as much time with my daughter as I can because I know these early years will fly all too fast. It’s at night when I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling because it always takes me at least an hour to fall asleep, I think back to Walter’s call and how out of character it was. How worried he was about Julia.

  I love Andre but Walter is the most capable man I know. He’s unflappable, the type of man you can depend on in a crisis. So for him to sound that rattled… I’m worried.

  I didn’t like how he has concerns about Julia’s mental health. For staid, dependable Walter, the zombies of the apocalypse would have to invade earth for him to remotely be concerned about a girlfriend behaving erratically. Even when I’d told him about my parents and their lifestyle, he’d merely quirked an eyebrow though I know it had shocked him because we’d discussed it later. When a gas bottle for our barbecue had exploded in the garden shed and set the whole thing alight, he’d calmly called the fire department while trying to battle the fire with an extinguisher. When I’d freaked out after practically slicing my palm in half while chopping peppers one night making dinner, he’d reacted quickly, wrapping my hand in a dishcloth and driving fast, yet safely, to the ER department.

  So that phone call and his uncharacteristic panic is bugging me. A lot.

  With sleep elusive, I slip out of bed. I have to pass Luna’s bedroom on the way to the stairs and I pause, peeking through the gap. She’s barely moved since I tucked her in two hours ago, lying on her back, her arms spread-eagled on top of the covers, her golden plait at right angles on her pillow. Her night light casts the faintest stars around the room and I lean against the doorjamb for a moment, content in a way I never thought I could be before I had her.

  She’s my world, bringing me a joy I never expected when I got pregnant. Luna is unpredictable and spontaneous at times, cloyingly affectionate at others, and I love every adorable inch of her. Not that we’re perfect all the time. She’s not so pleasant to be around when her demands aren’t met and she gets her obstinacy from me, but she’s amazing and I adore her.

  She stirs, mumbling something in her sleep, and I ease away, not wanting to wake her. I tiptoe down the stairs, skipping the third from the bottom because it creaks loud enough to wake me when Andre has to leave for work early sometimes. I pad into the kitchen and fill a glass of water, before sitting at the dining table and flipping open my laptop.

  I’ve never been one to look back on my past so I’ve never searched on social media or elsewhere for my parents or Walter. I prefer living in the present but with Walter’s weird call still making me edgy, it’s time I did a little digging on Julia.

  I’m blessed with a good memory so I remember Walter mentioning her full name to me way back when we started dating. I type Julia Skelke into a search engine and wait as the hits pop onto the screen. However, a B-grade movie producer in Toronto, a teacher in London, a college student in Hamburg and a chef in Sydney don’t fit the bill. I scroll through a few pages, surprised there are no hits on social media either.

  Puzzled by a lack of online presence—almost everyone has some kind of digital footprint these days—I take a different tack and check out if Walter has a social media profile. He does, on one of the more obscure sites, and it looks like he hasn’t updated it in years. On the upside, he hasn’t been clever enough to fully protect his privacy either, so I can look through his photos. There’s none of me and I don’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. There are a few of him at work and at conferences and this is when I finally find what I’m looking for.

  It’s a photo of about twenty bank employees and their significant others, taken about six months before I met Walter, at a banking conference in Chicago. Walter has his arm around a blonde woman who’s identified as Julia Skelke in the fine print under the photo taken from some financial journal, but she’s mostly hidden by some guy with big hair in front of her.

  That pesky third step creaks and I shut my laptop. The last thing I need is Andre asking questions why I’m looking at my ex-husband’s out-of-date social media profile. I sip my water as he enters the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, his hair sticking up at right angles all over his head.

  His eyes are bleary with sleep. “What are you doing down here?”

  “Couldn’t sleep so thought I’d grab a drink, maybe a snack.”

  “Want me to make you cheese on toast?”

  I smile. My husband thinks all the world’s problems can be solved by cheese on toast at any time of day or night. “No, I’m good. I might grab one of those oatmeal cookies I made earlier today.”

  He wrinkles his nose but grabs the cookie jar regardless. “I don’t like those white chia seeds you added to them.”

  “If Luna couldn’t taste them, I doubt you can.”

  He places the cookie jar on the table in front of me and pretends to pout. “I’ll have you know I’m a cookie connoisseur and I can detect the slightest hint of healthy crap you try and hide in otherwise delicious cookies.”

  “Well then, I’m surprised you didn’t figure out I put wheat germ and powdered greens in those cookies you demolished so quickly last week.”

  “What?” He clutches his stomach. “That’s plain unfair.”

  “Hey, I have to get the healthy stuff into you guys somehow.”

  “You need to be punished,” he says, pulling me to my feet and patting my butt.

  I laugh and widen my eyes in false innocence. “Oh really?”

  “Yeah. Upstairs. Now.” He growls a second before he nuzzles my neck and I wrap my arms around him, thankful for this man every day.

  We got through the tough times and despite my insecurities causing a few minor hiccups every now and then, and my general dissatisfaction with my work, we’re doing okay.

  “I love you,” I whisper, pressing my cheek against his chest, comforted by the steady beat of his heart.

  “Right back at you.”

  As we ease apart and he stares into my eyes I realize I need to stop worrying about my ex’s problems and concentrate on my marriage. I have enough going on in my life to fret about anyone else’s.

  But the next evening, Walt calls again. I can’t give him advice about how to handle his deranged girlfriend and I don’t want to lend a sympathetic ear again. I need to nip this in the bud because I can’t have him calling me so often. There’s a vast difference between an annual call for sentimentality and being his go-to person for relationship advice. It’s all kinds of wrong.

  But when I answer and hear a subdued sob, I’m so shocked I don’t say anything.

  “Francesca, love of my life.”

  Hell, he’s drunk. A confirmed teetotaler, life must be really bad for Walter to contemplate taking a sip of alcohol let alone drinking so much he’s slurring his words and saying he loves me.

  “Walt, you have to stop calling me.”

  “Can’t. You’re the only person I can talk to.”

  “That
’s not true. You’ve worked at the bank for years and you have college buddies. You’ve got plenty of friends to talk to.”

  I hear a sniffle. “But you’re the only one who understands me.”

  This isn’t good. After our divorce, Walter never gave any indication he has residual feelings—apart from that one slip-up when I escaped to the beach house after Andre cheated. I’m concerned that the alcohol has loosened his inhibitions and his tongue, and his true feelings, long buried, are emerging.

  If that’s so, I feel sorry for him, as I can never be anything other than a distant friend. I know why I indulge him in our annual chats. Because I still harbor incredible guilt that I turned to him in an hour of need and I used him to get back at Andre, even if my husband doesn’t know it.

  I never should’ve taken advantage of Walter like that. It was wrong on so many levels. At the time, I’d justified it in ridiculous ways: telling myself that Andre slept with someone so this would be payback and we’d be even, I needed to feel attractive rather than spurned, I knew Walter would make me feel good for a short period of time when I really needed the validation. But no matter how much I dressed it up or how many excuses I told myself, I had used him and I hope this isn’t the result.

  “Francesca? You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me wine is so good? I’ve drunk a bottle and I feel so much better. I swear I can hear the waves much clearer through the living room window. I love this beach house. So many memories…”