It Began With a Lie: A gripping psychological thriller (Secrets of Redemption Book 1)

by Michele PW (Pariza Wacek)

  But, mostly, I was swept up in the romance and giddiness of it all. A hot, sexy, successful man wanted me. He had fallen in love with me. He had pursued me.

  I finally understood the “making my head spin” and “sweeping me off my feet” sayings. I felt like I was dancing on air. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I must be the luckiest girl alive.

  Fast forward to not even a year later. In a house alone … my husband absent.

  No wonder I was spending the afternoon cleaning. I felt like a complete and utter failure.

  Chapter 18

  As promised, Chrissy did cook dinner—chicken parmigiana with homemade marinara sauce, gluten-free pasta and garlic bread, and a salad.

  “Smells wonderful,” I said, as I poured myself a glass of wine. And it did. But despite my afternoon cleaning and only eating half my salad for lunch, I wasn’t all that hungry. I was preoccupied. How could I convince her to move out of her room, without telling her the truth? And, if she did, what if she wanted my old room? Did that mean I had to move into my aunt’s bedroom? I still hadn’t even opened the door. Argh. I could feel the knots growing in my stomach. I nibbled on the garlic bread, hoping it would settle the queasiness.

  “You should try the chicken,” she said pointedly, taking a bite herself. “It’s really good.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I said. I sipped my wine and ate some of the spaghetti with marinara sauce. “The sauce is wonderful.”

  “The chicken is better,” she insisted.

  I obediently cut a small piece and ate it. “You’re right, it is good.”

  She looked appeased. I drank more wine.

  “Chrissy,” I began hesitantly. “What do you think about switching to a different bedroom?”

  She looked at me suspiciously. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Well, I was thinking that room may be a better office for your dad,” I said, surprised when it popped out of my mouth. I hadn’t been thinking that at all, but now that I had voiced it, it really did sound like a pretty good idea.

  She speared more chicken. “Where would I go?”

  I broke off a piece of garlic bread and started crumbling it in my fingers. “Well, there’s that room right next to yours …”

  She eyed me suspiciously. “The room that’s already set up as an office? Why doesn’t Dad just set up his office there?”

  The Magic Room? It was difficult to imagine Stefan setting up his briefs and files and holding legal conference calls in the same room Aunt Charlie cast her “magic spells.” I could hardly say any of that to Chrissy though, and she did have a point about how the room was already set up. “Well … I thought if his office was at the end of the hallway, he would be less likely to be disturbed.”

  “But my room is bigger. I don’t want a smaller room.”

  “It’s not that much smaller.”

  “Smaller enough.”

  “I think they’re probably closer to the same size than you think. Your room is a corner room, so it’s shaped differently. It just looks bigger.”

  Chrissy coughed. “That’s BS.”

  I swallowed. This was not going well. “What if you moved into my old room?”

  She made a face. “Same problem. Your old room is smaller than mine, too. And where would you sleep?”

  I played with my spaghetti. “Well, in the master bedroom.”

  She stared at me. “You haven’t even opened the door to the master bedroom.”

  “Yeah, well, clearly I need to.”

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I don’t understand. Why are you bringing this up now?”

  Her question took me by surprise. “Ah …well …”

  She interrupted me. “What happened today?”

  Her tone sounded almost accusatory, like she knew I had seen my friends and Stefan wouldn’t like it. Guilt rose up inside of me and I quickly looked away, not wanting her to see it on my face. But, almost immediately, I wanted to shake myself. What the hell was wrong with me? Chrissy is my stepdaughter. Stefan is my husband. Neither were my keeper. If I wanted to see my friends, I could go see my friends. I didn’t need anyone’s permission, for heaven’s sake. I was an adult.

  “Nothing happened,” I said. “Your father needs an office and I need to figure out the best room to put him.”

  She threw her hands up in the hair, dropping her fork so it landed on her plate with a clatter. “I don’t believe this. Why don’t you want me in my room?”

  This was really not going well, but at least we were back on the room change and not on my earlier whereabouts. “I didn’t say I didn’t want you in your room …”

  “Yes, you did. This is bull. I like my room. I don’t want to move. Dad can set up his office in the room that already IS an actual office.”

  “But, I don’t know if that room is good for you.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. I so wanted to crawl across the table and pluck them right out of the air—out of existence.

  However, they stopped her tantrum. She looked at me, lowering her hands. Some of her long black hair had escaped the ponytail, and she blew the strands from her face. “What are you talking about, ‘not good for me’?”

  I took a deep breath. “You’re sleepwalking,” I answered cautiously, watching her closely to make sure I didn’t set her off again. “As you pointed out, you didn’t do that in New York, but here, you are. And I’m wondering if it might have something to do with the room.”

  “The room?” she burst out. “Are you serious? Maybe it’s the house! Maybe we shouldn’t have ever left New York.”

  I could feel my temper starting to rise, and I fought to keep in under control. “Look, I agree with you. I didn’t want to leave New York either …”

  “It’s all your fault,” she spat. “You’re the one with the crazy aunt. Do you know what they called her? A witch. And they say this house is haunted. If your aunt never left you this house, we’d still be in New York.”

  “It’s not my fault we had to move. Your dad’s practice …”

  She leapt to her feet, knocking the chair onto the floor. “Oh, spare me. This house was an out. If you didn’t have it, he would have figured out a way for us to stay in New York. This is all your fault.” Her eyes glistened as she held back tears, and she ran out of the room. I heard her footsteps all the way up the stairs, and a few seconds later, the slamming of her door.

  “That went well,” I said out loud to myself. I sighed and rubbed my face. Apparently, Chrissy wasn’t going anywhere.

  I surveyed the food on the kitchen table and sighed again. I picked up my wine, drained it, and got up to pour another glass. I forced myself to finish what I could from my plate, which was mainly the salad and garlic bread. Something didn’t taste right in the chicken and pasta, so after a few bites, I threw most of what was left away. I packed up the leftovers and put them in the refrigerator.

  I took another sip of wine as I studied the kitchen. It was truly a disaster. It appeared Chrissy had used every pot in the house. I could feel the beginnings of a headache start to crawl up the back of my head and into my temple.

  Well, she did make dinner, so I guess it was only fair for me to do the cleanup. I took a last sip of wine before rolling up my sleeves and diving in. I didn’t bother turning on the light, choosing instead to let the rays from the setting sun illuminate the kitchen.

  “You didn’t eat your chicken.”

  Startled, I dropped the pot I was scrubbing back into the soapy water with a plop. “My God, Chrissy, you about gave me a heart attack,” I said, turning to face her.

  She was standing at the door of the kitchen, wearing her red and blue sleep outfit, her long black hair pulled back in a loose, messy braid. It had stopped raining at some point, and twilight shone through the window. I had been so lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t realize
d how dark it had gotten. Chrissy looked pale, almost ethereal, in the delicate grey light … like a lost soul from one of those teenage vampire books. But there was a childlike quality about her too, a vulnerable, bewildered innocence that made my heart break, although I couldn’t explain why.

  “You didn’t eat your chicken,” she said again, her voice somehow both plaintive and accusatory.

  I picked up the pot and resumed scrubbing. “I actually did eat more. It was delicious. Leftovers are in the fridge, including what you didn’t finish. I labeled it.”

  She took a step closer. “No, you didn’t. You’re lying.”

  I paused to drink my wine. “I’m not lying.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  I put my wine down, harder than I intended, and it made a clinking sound. “What, were you watching me? How do you know what I did after you left? And why are you making such a big deal about this? I told you it was delicious.”

  “I know,” she said, sounding almost hysterical. “I made you chicken parmigiana and you didn’t eat it. Why? Didn’t you like it? Was it not up to your standards?”

  I dropped the pot back into the water and turned to face her. “Chrissy, what on earth is wrong with you? There was nothing wrong with what you made. Thank you— I really appreciated you cooking tonight. After you got so angry about switching rooms, I lost my appetite, so I ate what I could. That’s all. I’m sure I’ll have leftovers tomorrow.”

  She stood there for a moment, stiffly, then, her face seemed to collapse in on itself. Her mouth worked for a minute, but nothing came out.

  Was she having a stroke? What was going on with her? I ran toward her. “Chrissy, are you okay? Here, sit down. Let me get you some water.”

  “No … I … no, I’m fine,” she said, backing away from me, her eyes glistening in the faint grey light. “Look, I’m … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I guess I …. Dad told me to be nice to you, and I was trying to be nice and make you dinner, and I worked hard on it, and it all got ruined.”

  She seemed to be on the verge of tears—the lost, abandoned ten-year-old was back, and again I found myself wondering what could have been, if her mother hadn’t been such a selfish, self-centered bitch, or if her father …

  I squelched the thought before I could finish it. Stefan did the best he could. He had to work to support them, after all, so there was only so much he could do. He couldn’t be both a father and a mother.

  I took a step closer to her, but she quickly darted out of the kitchen, like a frightened rabbit. I heard her scurry up the stairs and back into her bedroom, but this time, the door closed with a gentle click.

  Teenagers. I sighed and went back to my dishes. Even the ones who had a decent childhood regularly lost their minds at that age. How could I expect anything more from Chrissy? Especially in this situation—uprooted from all her friends and everything familiar, and stuck in a new town, without her father, and with a clearly incompetent stepmother. I felt terribly helpless, and wished I could do something more for her— that she would let me help her more. I wondered if I would have a better idea of what to do if I had had children of my own.

  I finished the dishes and went outside to sit on the porch. The air was cool and fresh after the rain. I gently rocked in the porch swing, watching the pine trees sway as I listened to the birds’ chatter. A couple of rabbits hopped along the edge of the yard … oh man, they were probably eating the garden. I really needed to get back there. In the shadow of the trees, I saw what looked like a black cat watching me, tail twitching. Didn’t Aunt Charlie have a black cat? Somewhere in the corners of my memory, I recalled Aunt Charlie laughingly calling it her “familiar.” What was its name? I couldn’t remember now.

  Of course, I knew it wasn’t the same cat. It couldn’t be. That was fifteen years ago.

  The cat’s tail twitched, eyes watching me. It made me feel strangely comforted. Like I really wasn’t alone.

  I didn’t stay out long. I didn’t want to let my thoughts wander too much. So much had happened over the past couple of days—actually, so much had happened since we had arrived. Had it only been a week? Man, it felt like a month. Or a year. I was already feeling like a completely different person.

  I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

  I took a few more sips of wine, relaxing in the peace, when I suddenly realized I had lost track of my phone. I made my way back inside to find it. I needed a refill anyway.

  I dug my phone out of my purse and saw that Stefan called but hadn’t left a message. He had, however, texted. I read it and immediately felt cold all over.

  Hi babe. Sorry I missed you. Wanted to hear your voice. Hope you’re being a good girl.

  Chapter 19

  Sipping my coffee the next morning, I kept seeing that text from Stefan in my head.

  Hope you’re being a good girl.

  Stefan had never used that language with me before. Why was he doing it now?

  Was it a warning? Did he know I had seen my friends yesterday despite his objections?

  But, how could he?

  Unless Chrissy said something to him.

  But, she didn’t know either. Unless she was following me around and spying on me.

  Could I BE any more paranoid? I had to pull it together. This was getting ridiculous. Stefan was probably just trying to be funny, and it didn’t come across well on text.

  It’s not like he was trying to control me. He wasn’t like that.

  I finished my coffee and went to pour myself another cup, making a brief stop to check my phone again. Last night, after I had calmed myself down, I had responded with Of course. Miss you too.

  He hadn’t responded since.

  What I needed to do was something physical, I thought, as I filled up my mug. Get out of my head and focus on doing something productive. Like clean up The Magic Room and see if it would work as an office for Stefan.

  Yes, that was it. The perfect focus for today.

  But there was something I needed to do before I ended up knee-deep in paper, herbs, and dust. I opened a can of tuna, slipped on some flip-flops, and headed outside.

  The air smelled fresh and clean after yesterday’s rain. Water dripped from tree branches and the top of the roof. I sloshed through the tall wet grass (a reminder that I probably needed to mow the lawn as well), searching for any signs of the little black cat.

  I checked the side of the house under the pines, which is where I had first seen it, but there was nothing there. I headed behind the house, trying to avoid staring at the overgrown, tangled garden. Hey, at least things were growing back there, I reasoned with myself.

  I saw no signs of the cat. Had I imagined it? I went to the back stoop to leave the tuna just in case, when I saw it—a sunken hole in the garden.

  It looked like a footprint, pointing toward the house, like someone was creeping into the backyard to peer into the downstairs window, and his foot slipped in the mud. I looked closer; were those streaks of mud in the grass next to the footprint where someone had tried to clean the mud off his shoe?

  I stared at the dark, muddy gash, feeling the cold prickles of fear dance up my spine, listening to the dripping of water break the silence, along with a couple distant chirps from a sparrow.

  Had someone been wandering around the house?

  Could it have been Chrissy? Why would she be out back though? Could she have been sleepwalking again? Although the print didn’t look like Chrissy’s, to me. Then again, how could I know? I considered bringing out one of her shoes to compare, but the footprint wasn’t all that clear or defined. Was it possible it wasn’t even a footprint? That I was blowing everything out of proportion?

  I looked around at the clouds hanging low and grey in the distance, brewing another storm, and at the trees that surrounded the house. The full weight of how isolated and alone we were hung as h
eavily on me as the angry-looking clouds.

  It’s probably nothing, I told myself. It may not even be a footprint. Maybe it’s from an animal. Or something else. And even it if was a footprint, it could easily be one of Chrissy’s friends, as she screwed around outside. Or even from Chrissy herself.

  I left the tuna can on the stoop and headed back into the house, the quiet of the morning feeling ominous as it pressed against me.

  Once inside, I took a few moments to pause and cup my suddenly-cold hands around my mug, warming them. Still cradling my cup, I took it to the window and stood there, drinking my coffee, looking at the corner of the garden where I had seen the footprint. If it had been a human, that person would have had a clear line of sight into the kitchen window.

  I thought about how I had stood alone in the kitchen the night before, washing dishes, totally oblivious to the fact that there might have been someone outside watching me.

  I shuddered. Okay. Imagining scenarios wasn’t helpful. What would be helpful would be cleaning out The Magic Room. I had things to do. Enough of the maybe/maybe not footprint debate I was having with myself. It was surely nothing.

  But … there were people in Redemption who wanted me gone …

  I was being silly. I wasn’t in a Lifetime movie, for goodness sake. Things like that didn’t happen in real life. I picked up my coffee and left the kitchen.

  The first thing I did in The Magic Room was pry open the window, letting in the clean, fresh air. Next, I got a bucket of water, a sponge, and a towel. While the entire house had been dusty, the Magic Room was the worst yet. I wondered when Aunt Charlie had last opened the door.

  Files and notes were everywhere, along with dried flowers and herbs, and an ancient-looking Apple computer that (miracle of miracles!) still worked. Some of the stacks teetered precariously, making me wonder if maybe some magic spell actually kept them from falling.

  I picked up a wet rag, intending on digging in, but instead found myself staring at the desk. I could see Aunt Charlie sitting behind it, sun-streaked brownish-blonde messy curls shoved behind her ears, a smudge of dirt on her cheek as she rummaged through the piles. “Where’s Maggie’s file? I just had it in front of me.” How was she able to keep the details of her clients straight, being as unorganized as she was?