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

  As I do my make-up in the mirror, I hate how tired I look. I didn’t sleep well after confronting Andre last night and the dark shadows under my eyes prove it. While I’d tossed and turned he’d snored softly beside me, oblivious to my turmoil. He played the wounded husband well, like he couldn’t fathom me doubting him. But I can’t help but remember he played that role once before, that even after his confession he couldn’t figure why I couldn’t trust him.

  I squeeze a dot of primer onto my fingertip and use it to smooth away the frown line between my brows, a line that’s becoming increasingly prominent the more I obsess about things I shouldn’t. With a final slick of a nude gloss with peach undertones over my lips, I’m ready. The outfit I’ve chosen today is a simple white long-sleeved cotton top with cutesy pineapples all over it to go along with my food theme.

  I try to mix up my content: food, fashion, decorating, skincare, whatever I feel like. It seems to work better than the set days I started with, like Food on Friday and Skincare Saturday. At the beginning I was lucky to make it online once a week but as my hits and my followers grew, I upped my game. Today, I’m guaranteed to have over a million views at least and so many comments I can’t respond to them all. Andre says I should hire someone to help me, but I’m a control freak and like reading through all the comments, even if it is becoming onerous.

  Luna is great with my live streams. She knows not to interrupt, probably because she gets more screen time to play games than I’d usually allow. I peek into her room, my heart swelling with love as I hear her giggle at her favorite show.

  “Honey, I’ll be online for about half an hour, then you can help me prepare dinner, okay?”

  “Sure, Mom,” she says, without looking up from the screen.

  Like most parents, I’m anti-screens, but I’m honest enough to admit they’re a godsend at times.

  I have everything set up in the kitchen. It’s a perfect space for filming, with a massive island bench covered in a white marble top, and five trendy chrome lights resembling peppershakers hanging over it from above. Behind me is a row of white cabinets over an induction stovetop, with subtle hints of lighter wood throughout. It’s modern, bright and airy, and many have commented on the decor. It’s professional yet homey and I love this kitchen as much as the rest of the house.

  What I’m about to do—fake it in front of a camera—pays for this house. Growing up, I always dreamed of living in a brownstone one day. I’m lucky, because this is no ordinary brownstone. Converted about a year before we bought it, the street level is a giant rumpus room that we admittedly rarely use, the first story is our lounge, dining room and kitchen, while the upper story has a generous master bedroom, along with Luna’s room and a spare. Andre and I don’t mention the spare room. I’m terrified he’ll want another child; he’s probably scared of my answer.

  In all honesty, I don’t know if I want another child. Luna is enough for me. And if my fanciful imagination over the last twenty-four hours is any indication, maybe a part of me doesn’t want another child because I still don’t fully trust my husband. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forget what he did.

  He’s made the occasional flyaway comment about using the room as a nursery, but I don’t respond or make light of it, and I assume he’s got the message. I half expected him to bring it up again yesterday after the gender reveal party—would’ve been the perfect opening—but he hadn’t and I’d been relieved.

  I check the bench top to make sure my ingredients are lined up. I’ve got flour, sugar, grated carrot, zucchini, beaten eggs and butter arranged in white bowls, with spoonfuls of cinnamon and nutmeg on a white saucer. After switching my ring light on, I take a deep breath and blow it out.

  I’m prepared for this charade I perpetuate, that I have the perfect life, if only for thirty minutes.

  When in reality I’m doing my best day-to-day, trying to gloss over the cracks.

  Eighteen

  Celeste

  It doesn’t surprise me when Frankie and Luna follow Andre into my house. She texted me earlier saying Andre would be over after dinner around seven to help move my furniture, and though she didn’t mention she’d be coming too I’d expected it.

  I sensed an undercurrent when I’d asked for Andre’s help in the park earlier today… like she’s okay being my friend but doesn’t trust me completely.

  It saddens me, because I admired her for opening up to me, for sharing how she’s feeling about her job, about her imperfections. It had been a real bonding moment, until Saylor had interrupted. Not that she’d been unwelcome, but it’s Frankie I have more in common with, and with our daughters’ friendship fast developing I envisage us spending more time together.

  “Where do you want me?” Andre asks, pointing upstairs. “Frankie mentioned something about moving a trunk in your bedroom?”

  I see Frankie stiffen at his flyaway question, which could be interpreted as flirtatious if I was prone to that kind of thing. I’m not. I have no interest in her husband. He’s not my type and even if he was, I meant what I said to her earlier today. I don’t betray my friends. And I want us to be friends, more than anything.

  “Yeah, it’s upstairs, second door on the right,” I say, because no way in hell I’m following him up there after Frankie’s odd behavior in the park when I asked for his help.

  Andre’s halfway up the staircase before he notices I’m not following. “Uh, do you want to show me where you want it moved to?”

  “Sure,” I say, turning to Frankie, determined to include her. “Do you mind coming up too so I can ask your advice about an outfit I want to wear to an interview?”

  It’s BS but I know I’ve done the right thing when I see relief flicker in her eyes. She is angsty about her husband helping me and I have no idea why. We barely spoke at the party in the park.

  “Okay,” Frankie says, and I wait until she follows Andre before moving behind her up the stairs.

  When we enter the bedroom Andre is eyeing the trunk with a raised eyebrow. “Uh, how strong do you think I am?”

  Frankie says, “Don’t be a wuss.”

  I laugh and point to the walk-in closet. “I want it in there, out of the way, so I can put my desk near the window and work in natural light. I hate staring at a computer screen all day.”

  “Makes sense,” he says, bending his legs and giving the trunk a tentative push, surprise lighting his features when it moves.

  “Easy for you to push. Me, not so much,” I say, feeling like I have to justify inviting him over to help when I see Frankie’s eyebrows quirk in surprise.

  “Where’s this outfit?” she asks, an overt challenge to my earlier excuse, and I really want to tell her not to worry about me, but it’s awkward with Andre around. I enter the closet and grab the first suit I see. It’s my favorite, a deep plum slim-leg pants and matching jacket combo that I wear with an ivory silk blouse.

  I barely glance at Andre pushing the trunk into the farthest corner of the closet and try not to flinch as our shoulders brush. I quickly leave the closet, brandishing the suit. If Frankie’s eyebrows rose a few moments ago, they hit the stratosphere as she looks at the suit.

  “That’s beautiful. The perfect interview suit.”

  I pretend to dither, holding it up to the light. “You think? I’ve worn it a few times and while I liked it initially I’m not sure it gives off the right vibe. This new client I’m trying to woo will give me enough work to last a year so I really want to dress to impress.”

  “Well, if you’re trying to give off a professional, stylish, confident woman vibe, I’d stick with it.” She gives a self-deprecating chuckle. “Then again, what do I know? My uniform of choice is whatever freebie has landed on my doorstep the week before.”

  “You always look amazing.”

  She zeroes in on my slip-up, looking confused, and I inwardly curse. “You watch my show? Because when we met you didn’t know who I was?”

  “I mean since I’ve met you,” I say, cov
ering quickly and hoping she believes me. “But I will definitely watch your show now I know I’m living next door to someone famous.”

  “About that, please don’t post where I live anywhere online. Social media is great for business but I’m very protective of my privacy, especially with Luna.”

  “Of course. I can empathize about needing to ensure complete privacy.” All she has to deal with is the potential overzealous fan or odd stalker, whereas I need to hide my whereabouts at all costs.

  She hesitates, as if she wants to ask more, but before she can Andre barges out of the closet, announcing, “All done. Anything else you need a hand with, Celeste?”

  I shake my head. “No, thanks, all good. I appreciate you moving that for me.”

  “Any time.”

  I see Frankie’s frown as she glares at her husband and I stifle a sigh. There’s no way I’ll be asking for his help even if the roof caves in and I need to fix it myself.

  “See you at home, sweetheart.” As if sensing Frankie’s disapproval of our relationship—even though it’s nonexistent—he kisses her on the lips before clomping down the stairs.

  “Roland used to be like that, sounding like stampeding elephants…” I have no idea why I let that slip, but her frown disappears.

  “Is he the reason you need to maintain privacy?”

  I nod and bite down on my bottom lip to stop from blurting too much.

  Her eyes glimmer with understanding and, thankfully, she doesn’t probe. “We’ve got each other’s backs, right?”

  “Absolutely,” I say and mime zipping my lips. “You can trust me.”

  Nineteen

  Saylor

  Lloyd is in Manhattan, having drinks with some fellow youth workers from various churches tonight, and I’m back to my favorite pastime, spying on Ruston across the park. He must be in the kitchen or somewhere because the front room is in darkness. Before I let the curtain slip back into place, I see Frankie, Andre and Luna on Celeste’s doorstep. I experience a moment of jealousy. I’m new too. Why didn’t Celeste invite me over for their meet-the-neighbors session?

  Then again, I’ll never be part of their friendship. I’m not a mother yet and moms tend to stick together. I felt it this afternoon in the park, like I was on the outer no matter how hard I try to fit in. I hated that feeling growing up and it’s no different now. Back then, I didn’t buy into my parents’ fervent beliefs and they never fully understood me. When I preferred meeting friends at the skate park on a Sunday after service rather than having morning tea with the holier-than-thou kids of their friends, they’d disapprove. When I shortened my school uniform to mid-thigh like the other girls in school, they frowned. When I fell in love with Ruston and would’ve followed him anywhere, they made sure they found the perfect candidate to help me settle down.

  The funny thing is, I’d liked Lloyd instantly. I’d been determined to dislike him, because he’d been my parents’ choice. But he’d been so funny and warm and charming I couldn’t help but fall for him. It helped that Ruston had broken my heart for the umpteenth time just before I met Lloyd and it had seemed like the perfect time to move on.

  So why the hell does Ruston have to turn up here now when my life is already in disarray, even if nobody knows it? Has he done this on purpose? Then again, why would he seek me out considering how things ended between us?

  Whatever his rationale, I can’t allow him to distract me from my goal. To get my life back on track, I need to become a part of this community. I need to be trusted and that means I need to befriend Frankie and Celeste. There’s one sure-fire way to ingratiate myself with these women. I already know Frankie’s a lifestyle vlogger. I’ve watched her show religiously over the last few months. But it’s Celeste I’m more interested in. Of the two, she’s the one I can’t get a read on and I like to be prepared.

  I sit on the sofa, rest my laptop on a cushion and type CELESTE REAGAN into the search engine. A host of hits pop up, referring to some politician in England, a small-time television producer in Australia and an indie author, but nothing on my neighbor. I click on the “images” icon and scan the photos but don’t see her. So I open several social media sites, one by one, and search them all.

  Nada.

  It’s like Celeste is the invisible woman. She doesn’t exist.

  It’s strange, because most women in their thirties have some kind of online presence, if only to snoop on their exes or check out what their old classmates are up to. Of course, there could be any number of reasons why she’s offline—a cyberbullying incident when she was younger, an obsession with privacy, an introvert who doesn’t care what the rest of the world is sharing online—but the most obvious reason is she’s hiding from an ex. Turning up here with only a carload of possessions supports that theory. Then again, maybe I’m being overly suspicious because I’ve had to cover my tracks well out of necessity.

  I type FRANKIE FORBES into the search engine and there are countless hits, pages and pages of them. Not surprising, considering her online fame. ANDRE FORBES elicits fewer hits. His graphic design website showcasing his work, several mentions in newspapers, nothing out of the ordinary.

  I’m so tempted to type RUSTON REYNOLDS into the search engine but I don’t. It’s not conducive to relegating him to the past, no matter how shocked I am he’s barged into my present.

  Besides, why do I care what he’s been up to since we broke up for the final time? I know too much about him already: the scattering of tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose, the small scar from a skateboarding accident at the base of his right collarbone, the intensity of his gaze that made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.

  I close the laptop and squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could block out my memories, despising myself for wasting time thinking about him at all.

  I have a baby to focus on and a plan to execute.

  Twenty

  Frankie

  THEN

  True to his word, Walter comes back a week later.

  He’s broken up with his girlfriend and doesn’t seem all that cut up about it. I ask if she’s okay because I feel bad for ruining some other woman’s relationship and he reassures me they’d been headed for a split anyway. She’d become too clingy, too possessive, but he won’t say more than that. He’s too nice a guy to bad-mouth anyone and he looks plain uncomfortable when I try to probe for more info on his ex, so I drop it.

  Besides, I can’t believe this is happening. Walter came back for me, to explore the spark I’d hoped wasn’t one-sided. Heady stuff for a girl who may have just fallen in love for the first time.

  “What do you want from me, Francesca?”

  We’re sitting by the pool again, side by side at the shallow end, our legs dangling in. His are pale like mine, but he has big feet that seem at odds with his average height. I wonder if it’s true what I read in a book once, that big feet equate with a big… uh, appendage. Considering I’m a virgin, I’m not sure whether to be scared or thrilled. That’s the thing about having parents who are open about sex, and have been since I hit puberty; it makes me want to cherish it, to make my first time special, and not treat it like a party trick to be shared freely among friends.

  “I want you.” It’s the boldest thing I’ve ever said and my heart pounds so hard I can hear an echo of the beat in my ears. “From the moment we met I felt a connection and I want to explore that.”

  I don’t tell him the whole truth; that while I like him, the reason I’m also drawn to him is because he’s the opposite of my parents and he’ll take me far away from this place.

  If he’s taken aback by my brazen declaration of wanting him, he doesn’t show it. I like that about him, the calmness he exudes, like he’s unshockable. “I’d like to get to know you too, but I can’t stay in town for long. I have to get back to work.”

  “Then take me with you,” I blurt, impulsive and rash and totally out of character for me. But I don’t want him to leave so soon before I have a chance to know hi
m, not when leaving with him will accomplish my goal to escape my parents and Gledhill too.

  “Francesca, look at me.”

  I do and his brown eyes are wide with wonder, like he can’t believe I’d leave my home to be with him.

  “You’ve just turned eighteen. You haven’t been to college. Why on earth would you want to give up your home to be with me when we hardly know each other?”

  Doubts replace amazement as his steady gaze clouds over and I know I have to give the performance of my life in order to convince him.

  “Haven’t you ever done something so spontaneous, so wild, it makes your head spin?” I fling my arm wide to encompass the garden. “That makes you want to run around and do a happy dance for the hell of it?”

  “No. I’m not that kind of guy.”

  “Do you want to be?”

  His brow creases in confusion as if he can’t fathom the question.

  “I’ve done the right thing my entire life. Been the good student, the good daughter, always toeing the line. But I want more out of life and I don’t want to spend the next twelve months of my gap year stuck here figuring out what I want, when the moment I laid eyes on you I knew.”

  I reach out and snag his hand. “I’ve never been in love and I certainly don’t believe in love at first sight, but the way we connected in the garden the night of my party… I can’t put it into words. I wish I could. Because I really want to make you understand how much I’m drawn to you and how it feels right, in here.”