The Liar Next Door: An absolutely unputdownable domestic thriller Page 21

  “This is crazy. It’s a four-hour round trip.” He glowers at me for a moment, before enveloping me in his arms and squeezing tight. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I promise,” I murmur, against his chest.

  I know I’m probably on a fool’s errand but I need to do this.

  As for my ulterior motive—finding my letter—Walter isn’t the kind of guy to leave something like that lying around. He’s too orderly for that, but I can’t take the risk. The police will search the beach house at some stage and I want to make a preemptive strike, because if they find that letter and its contents, my interrogation will be lengthy and Andre will learn the truth the hard way.

  I will tell him, all of it, but I need to get ahead of this.

  I need to leave ASAP.

  * * *

  I choose a playlist from the 2000s for my drive to New Haven but I barely hear a word of the lyrics filtering through my car. Despite my bravado in front of Andre, I’m unsure what I’ll find when I get to the cottage. What if my outlandish supposition is right and Walter has done something silly to harm himself? No way do I want to walk in on that.

  Turns out, I needn’t have lied to Andre about the police wanting to interview me. Betty at the bank must’ve given them my information because they call about half an hour after I leave Hambridge Heights and want to talk to me. They’ve thoroughly searched Walter’s home in Hartford and are moving onto the cottage, so I say I’ll meet them there early evening. Which means it’s imperative I get there before them, regardless of what I may find.

  Ninety minutes later I park under a makeshift carport on the left of the cottage. Memories swamp me: Walter bringing me here for the first time and carrying me over the threshold, barbecuing steaks on a small grill out the back, long walks on the beach when we didn’t have to talk because we were so comfortable together.

  I blink back tears as I get out of the car and inhale, allowing the familiar briny tang to comfort me. There has to be a logical explanation for this. I hate to contemplate anything else.

  I’m counting on Walter’s predictability as I lift the third conch from the left in a bed of shells near the front door. I turn it over and press the spring-loaded flap. It reveals a key. Not that I need it. I still have mine from years ago but I want to make sure it’s there because I know the police will ask how I got in and I don’t want to raise any suspicion about why I’m still holding onto mine.

  If I can find that letter, they’ll never know about the paternity test and what happened between us. But if they do… I’ll become further embroiled in this when it’s the last thing I want.

  I’d wondered if he ever told Julia about what happened. Highly doubtful, considering he’d already dumped her once to marry me, and if those accidents before we got hitched had been linked to her… no, he wouldn’t have revealed he’d cheated on her again because they’d been in a relationship at the time.

  So many mistakes in the past… I shake my head as I jiggle the key in the lock, lifting the handle as I turn, knowing its intricacies. It finally gives and the door swings open. I’m holding my breath as I step inside, forcing myself to move forward.

  I sneeze and relief filters through me as I acknowledge there’s no horrid smell that could indicate the worst possible outcome I’d been envisaging. I move through the living room, casting an eye around, but everything seems in order. The remote controls are lined up on the coffee table, the cushions perfectly plumped and in place. I enter the kitchen and head to the fridge. If Walter has been here, it will be well stocked. It always was. But apart from several jars containing pickles, pesto and olives, and a few bottles of sparkling water, it’s empty, which means he hasn’t been here for a while.

  It doesn’t make sense. When I called the bank initially after he hadn’t returned my calls, I’d been told he was on vacation. And Walter is such a creature of habit he never vacations anywhere but here. He’d told me many times why spend money to fly to some resort destination when we have our own better beach here. And when he’d drunk-dialed me, he’d mentioned being here.

  Increasingly worried that he may be genuinely missing, I head for the main bedroom. The moment I open the door, memories assail me of the last time I was here, the two of us entwined on the bed, knowing it was wrong but filled with rage against my cheating husband and desperate to lose myself for a few hours in the comforting arms of my ex.

  I blink rapidly to erase those traitorous memories as I move toward the closet. Walter didn’t have a safe at the cottage, but he’d made a special hiding place for any valuables whenever we came here. Mostly the jewelry he’d given me. I open the doors and squat down, feeling for the panel he’d cut out of the wood. I rely on muscle memory, my fingers finding the groove quickly and the tiny knob at the top. I pull on it and the panel falls to the floor.

  Holding my breath, I feel around the tiny space, encountering nothing but the crackle of paper. I exhale in relief when I bring out the envelope and see my handwriting.

  I’d been right. If Walter had hidden this away, he hasn’t told Julia or anyone about it.

  I carefully replace the panel, wriggle backwards and stand, before closing the closet doors. I fold the letter and slide it into the back pocket of my jeans. At least now I can answer the police questions without having the complication of Luna’s paternity dragged into it and muddying everything.

  It’ll be easier if I wait in the car for their arrival so I head toward the front door. To do so, I pass the spare room. The door is open and I’m about to walk past the room when something on the bed snags my attention. A stuffed pony.

  Maybe Julia likes stuffed animals but it’s not displayed proudly against a pillow, it’s thrown haphazardly at the foot of the bed, like a child in a hurry would do. Curious, I enter the room. I’m not sure where to look first. At the pile of neatly folded laundry on a chair, girl’s dresses and tops and socks, or the children’s books on a shelf. At the board games for children under eight or the solar system night light exactly like Luna’s.

  Confusion makes my head ache. Not once during our conversations over the years has Walter mentioned Julia having a child. Then again, he never discussed anything to do with Julia until recently and I’d never asked. I’d been glad he’d found happiness with her again after our divorce. It alleviated some of my guilt at ending our marriage because he’d never been enough for me.

  But surely this child warranted a mention? Something in passing? Especially when he knew I had Luna. What possible motivation could he have for keeping her hidden?

  Perhaps Julia’s daughter isn’t his but considering the size of the clothes and the age range of those books and games, the girl would have to be between four and six, so he’d been back with Julia then.

  Yet another mystery for the police to solve. On impulse, I pop into the room Walter had laughingly labeled his den. Considering how tiny it is, the space is barely bigger than a mudroom and I assumed that’s what it had been built for, to take off sandy shoes and clothes after returning from the beach and before entering the house. But being the manager at the bank meant Walter had to work at times, even when we were relaxing down here, so he’d set up the world’s smallest office; a chair tucked into the existing bench, where he’d place his laptop or documents. It had a penholder filled with black, blue and red pens, and a plastic holdall with a stapler, scissors, glue stick, stuff he never used because he did most of his work online.

  There’s a photo frame near the penholder, a white plastic frame embedded with seashells, like it had been bought from a local souvenir shop. I might get to see the reclusive Julia at last.

  But as I move closer and pick up the frame, I realize two things at once.

  It’s not a woman in the frame, it’s a child.

  The child is Violette.

  Fifty-Nine

  Celeste

  I’m making Vi one of her favorite dinners, tomato soup and toast, when there’s a knock at the door.

  “The soup�
��s nearly ready, sweetie, so hang tight, okay?”

  Vi rolls her eyes and I get a glimpse of what she’ll be like as a teen. “I’m right here, Mom.” She waves the electronic tablet at me. “I’m hungry but I want to finish watching this.”

  “Cheeky.” I tug on her ponytail and she swats me away, already engrossed in the princess show again.

  I wipe my hands on a dishcloth as the knock sounds again. I’m not expecting anyone but with a little luck it’ll be Frankie wanting to arrange a play date with the girls so we can finalize the baby shower details.

  I open the door, surprised to find Andre and Luna on the other side.

  “Hey, you two.”

  “Can Violette play, Celeste?” Luna brandishes a backpack that’s bulging. “I’ve brought loads of stuff because Daddy says I won’t get bored that way.”

  I’m at a loss with what this means and Andre shrugs, sheepish. “I hate to do this to you, but could you watch Luna for a few hours? I’ve been called in to work on an urgent job and I can’t take her with me.”

  “Sure, no problem.” I smile down at Luna, who’s craning her neck to look past me, already searching for her bestie. “Violette’s about to have dinner. Have you eaten?”

  Luna claps her hands before pressing them together in a pleading gesture. “No, and I’m starving.”

  I laugh and point at the kitchen. “Why don’t you go join her while I chat with your dad for a minute?”

  “Yay! Thanks, Celeste.”

  She runs past me, her backpack banging my leg but she doesn’t break stride. I love how close the girls are. It’s exactly what I’d wanted when we first moved next door.

  “I don’t expect you to feed her,” Andre says. “I’ve packed fruit and crackers and juice in her backpack.”

  “It’s no problem at all. I always make extra so I don’t have to cook every day.”

  “Great. Thanks for this.” He flashes me a grateful smile. “I’m not sure what time I’ll be back but it shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.”

  “Take your time. The girls love playing together and it keeps Vi out of my hair for a while.”

  “I’m not sure when Frankie will be home but I doubt it’ll be before me. But I’ll let her know Luna’s here just in case.”

  “Is she having some much needed mom time?”

  “I wish.” He grimaces. “Apparently her ex-husband is missing and the police want to interview her at a beach house they had in New Haven.”

  I hear what he says but I can’t compute as there’s a faint buzzing in my ears, like a million bees have been let loose.

  Frankie can’t be at the cottage.

  Because she might figure out the truth and it’s too soon.

  “Celeste? You okay?”

  “Yeah, just hungry, got a little woozy for a second.” I pat my stomach that’s churning so badly I fear I may vomit. “I get low blood sugar sometimes.”

  “I better let you eat then. Thanks again. My number’s on my business card tucked it into the front pocket of Luna’s backpack so if you need me for anything, just call, okay?”

  I manage to nod and smile, while clamping down on the scream building inside me. It clamors to get out, deafening and unrelenting if I let it.

  As he heads down the front steps, I close the door and take the stairs two at a time.

  There’s no time to lose.

  I need to pack.

  The girls and I have to leave. Now.

  Sixty

  Saylor

  I’m at my usual spot at the front window, spying on Ruston and the rest of my neighbors, stressing over my money turning up, when I see Celeste. She’s stuffing overnight bags into the trunk of her SUV and glancing over her shoulder repeatedly, like she’s being followed.

  Her behavior is odd and when I see her run up her front steps and return holding Violette and Luna’s hands in each of hers, it’s even odder.

  Where could she be taking the girls at six thirty? They should be eating dinner or winding down before bedtime. Then again, I know nothing about kids or their evening routines.

  But why the bags?

  I’m relieved the girls don’t look particularly upset, though Luna keeps glancing at her house with a puzzled frown. When they get to the car, Celeste releases their hands. Vi climbs in the back seat but Luna balks. She tugs at Celeste’s sleeve and points to her house. Celeste appears panicked for a moment and almost bundles Luna into the car.

  That’s when I make a move. I open the front door and call out to her. Either Celeste doesn’t hear me or she chooses to ignore me because she slides into the driver’s seat, guns the engine and tears up the street with a squeal of tires.

  Unease ripples down my spine and I give a little shake. Something about what I saw jars and I should tell Frankie what I’ve seen. But I saw her leave earlier with a suitcase, and Andre only dropped off Luna at Celeste’s not that long ago, so he’s probably the logical person to call.

  He doesn’t pick up and I’m not surprised. He ignores most of my calls these days. When the dial tone stops and diverts to voicemail, I leave a message.

  “Hey, Andre, it’s me. I thought you should know I just saw Celeste tear out of here like a madwoman, and she had Luna with her. I’m assuming she’s minding her while you and Frankie are out, but there was something off about her. And she had bags in the trunk. Anyway, call me.”

  I barely hang up when my cell rings and it’s him.

  “Hey, did you get my message—”

  “Quit bugging me,” he yells so loud I have to move the phone away from my ear. “Stop calling me. Stop leaving me messages. Just stop.”

  I can’t. I won’t. Not until he pays me the money, but that’s not why I’m calling this time. “Listen, I—”

  “I don’t have to listen to anything you say, Saylor. I’m done. I’ve had a gutful. Why can’t you leave me the hell alone?”

  I hate that he’s jumped to conclusions and won’t give me a chance to explain, and I’m tempted to hang up on him. Then again, I have been hassling him. Trying to get him alone when we socialize. Calling incessantly. Making demands. But he insists on ignoring me, and it won’t end well.

  “Before you yell at me some more, I’m calling about Luna.”

  “What about her?” His tone instantly shifts to one of concern and I like that he’s a good dad.

  “I’m assuming you and Frankie are out and Celeste’s minding her?”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “It could be nothing, but I saw her bundle the girls into the car a few minutes ago and drive off like she had demons on her tail.”

  “Maybe she had an errand to run,” he says, sounding uncertain.

  “She had overnight bags in the trunk.”

  “What the…” He swears. “I’ll reach out to Celeste. You didn’t call Frankie, did you?”

  “I said I wouldn’t, and I haven’t. Yet,” I add, as a threat I’ve held over him since I first moved in next door to this infuriating man who turned my world upside down. Between him and Ruston, little wonder I’m a mess.

  “Thanks for the heads up on Luna. As for your petty attempt at blackmail, save it. I’m done playing games. I’m telling Frankie the truth.”

  Before I can say anything else he hangs up. He’s lying. He won’t tell Frankie a goddamn thing. He’s gutless. He would’ve already revealed everything to her when I first moved in if that was the case. He’s bluffing and I don’t appreciate it, but I’m glad I called. From his reaction, he knows nothing about Celeste taking his daughter on an overnight jaunt. In which case, he has every right to be worried.

  Celeste has been nothing but nice to me and while she’s reserved, I respect her. She’s good with her daughter and has been pleasant to Lloyd and me. For all I know, Frankie called her and asked her to bring the girls to her, but I doubt it. Andre wouldn’t have sounded so panicked.

  Whatever happens, I’ve done the right thing for once.

  Sixty-One

  Frankie
>
  Reeling, I pick up the photo and study it. I’m sure it’s Violette when she was younger. Maybe as a toddler of about two. And there’s a woman in the background that vaguely resembles Celeste. Different hair color and style, with bangs that cover half her face, but I think it’s her.

  It doesn’t make sense.

  Is Celeste Walter’s Julia? And is Violette Walter’s child?

  My mind is spinning out of control with too many outlandish scenarios, so I call Andre. It goes to voicemail so I leave a brief message asking him to call me ASAP. Not that he’ll be able to shine any light on what I’ve found here but I want to let him know I arrived safely and as soon as I’m done with the police I’ll be on my way home.

  I replace the photo and go back into the spare room. The closet has a few jackets on hangers, with some jeans and sweaters. Winter clothes for the beach, which means Celeste and Violette are regular visitors here in all seasons.

  None of this makes sense. From what Celeste has told me, it sounds like she fled a toxic relationship and is hiding out in Hambridge Heights. She had to leave her ex to protect herself and her daughter. And there’s no way in hell Walter can be that ex. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.

  As for Violette’s father being lousy as Celeste implied on many occasions, that’s not Walt either. He wanted kids more than anything. Heck, that was a catalyst for our marriage ending, so if Violette was his daughter he’d dote on her. Besides, why would Julia change her name to Celeste and turn up as my neighbor? What game is she playing?

  I feel like I’m missing something, like trying to figure out one of Luna’s puzzles and discovering a piece has vanished.

  That’s when I remember Walter’s call.

  If Julia and Celeste are the same person, my husband and daughter are next door to a madwoman right now.