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

by Michele PW (Pariza Wacek)

  I wanted to throttle her. “Okay. If you don’t think it’s a big deal, let’s call your father and tell him what happened. Together.” I picked up my phone.

  Her head shot up. “God, Rebecca, you can be such a bitch.” She stood up so fast the chair toppled over. “You make such a big deal out of everything. So, what, I had a little too much to drink. So, what? So, what?” Her voice got louder and louder until she was practically shrieking at me as she ran out of the kitchen.

  I thought about going after her, but then decided to give her a chance to calm down, and myself a chance to text Stefan.

  We need to talk about Chrissy.

  While I waited for an answer, I refilled my coffee. Maybe I ought to call him. Did I really want to text him this?

  My phone beeped. Stefan had responded.

  Is she okay?

  Yes, she’s fine, I texted back. Hungover, but fine.

  Can it wait? I’m in the middle of something urgent.

  I drummed my fingers. Could it wait? In theory, it probably could. For the moment anyway, she was fine. Safe. No legal trouble or health issues.

  But, something didn’t feel right. Chrissy was his daughter. Why wouldn’t he want to talk about this now?

  And, it was Sunday. What could possibly be so urgent? It wouldn’t have anything to do with Sabrina …

  “Rebecca?” a tentative voice came from behind me. Startled, I jumped, dropping my phone with a clatter, before turning around, a part of me glad for the interruption. Stefan was in New York to work, not see Sabrina. A very chastened looking Chrissy stood in the kitchen doorway.

  I pressed my hand against my heart, forcing my breaths to slow down. “Chrissy, you scared me.”

  “Sorry,” she said, if anything looking even more unhappy.

  I took another deep breath and forced a smile to my lips. “It’s okay. Not a big deal. What is it?”

  She bit her lip and looked away. “I’m sorry.”

  I bent over to scoop up my phone and put it on the table. “Are you ready to tell me what happened?”

  She slowly came forward and slid into a chair. “I … I don’t really know what happened. Everyone else was drinking beer, so I had one, too. I don’t know how it got so out of control.”

  “Was this your first time drinking? Or did you drink back in New York, too?”

  She swallowed and looked away. “I just wanted them to like me,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Everything is so strange here. I miss my friends. I miss New York.”

  I sighed. “I miss it, too.” But as soon as I said it, I wondered ... did I really? Back in New York, things certainly seemed simpler, but was I actually any happier? “I know things have been rough for you, but this is just temporary. We’ll be back in New York in no time.” I forced the cheery note in my tone.

  “I know,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done it. And I promise I won’t do it again. I … know you need to tell Dad. But I learned my lesson. I won’t do it again.”

  “He has to know, Chrissy. I can’t keep this from him.”

  She rubbed an imaginary spot on the table. “I know.”

  I studied her. Things hadn’t been easy for Chrissy since her mother waltzed out the door a few years ago. So, it certainly made sense, her acting out, and drinking too much. And it did seem like she had learned her lesson. Besides, I reasoned with myself, it’s not like I wasn’t doing the same thing at her age.

  But … something about her explanation and apology didn’t feel right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it just seemed … disingenuous.

  “Do you want more tea?” I finally asked.

  She nodded, looking relieved. I got up to make more, telling myself my intuition about something being off was probably nothing. I hadn’t been feeling good all week, so maybe I was just sensing things that weren’t there. Chrissy made a mistake, which is easy enough to do at sixteen, and even easier to do when you’ve had an unhappy few years. Plus, she’d always made it clear she didn’t like me, so of course any apology would sound “off,” to me.

  I snuck a look at her as I measured tea into the pot. She was staring at her phone, her hair completely obscuring her face, but even without seeing her expression, it was clear to me what she was feeling. In fact, her whole being seemed to vibrate with the energy of one single emotion …

  She was angry.

  Chapter 22

  The house was dark and still. Shadows stretched across the hallway, huge, dark, and twisted, seeming to suck the last bit of light into their depths.

  Actually, everything looked distorted and crooked, like something out of a funhouse mirror.

  This had to be a dream, I thought, which meant I was definitely staying out of the kitchen. I had no desire to see Aunt Charlie, or drink any of her tea.

  Voices rose up from the stairs, sounding argumentative. Could Chrissy be down there? Who could she be arguing with?

  And, did I really want to go down to find out?

  Despite my misgivings, I found myself floating down the stairs. From the corner of my eye, I saw something flutter—a woman wearing an old-fashioned maid uniform dusted a lamp, her movements short and spasmodic. Her brown hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and topped with a little maid cap. She was pretty, in a wispy, waif-like way, but her face was pale, and she had black circles under her eyes. I could hear her muttering to herself.

  “Where is it? Where did it go? I must find it. Where is it?”

  I felt something stir inside me, watching her eyes scurry around the room, searching for whatever she was muttering about.

  So familiar—what was it reminding me of?

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  She whirled around, her dark eyes wide and startled. “What are you doing here?” she hissed. “You can’t be here.”

  “What are you talking about? This is my house.”

  She shook her head frantically, as she waved the duster at me. There was something strangely familiar about her, but I couldn’t quite place that, either. “No, no, no. This is all wrong. All wrong. It can’t happen again. It just can’t.”

  I took a step closer. “What’s all wrong? What can’t happen again? I don’t understand.”

  Her eyes were jerking and skittering around the room, like she was trying to look everywhere at once. “You have no idea what you’ve done. You must go. You’re in danger here.”

  Danger. The word seemed to echo throughout the house as the cold tentacles of fear delicately stroked my spine. “Why am I in danger? In danger from what?”

  Her eyes continued to dart madly around. “Don’t you get it?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What you’ve awoken, by coming here? Now that it’s awake, there’s no putting it back!”

  I was about to ask her what, exactly, was awake, when I suddenly realized I did recognize her. “Wait. Nellie??”

  She gasped, both hands going to her mouth as she dropped her duster. “Oh no. You mustn’t … “

  “Nellie,” another voice called out from another room. Nellie looked so frightened, I thought she might faint. “Oh, where is that child? Nellie?”

  Nellie backed against the wall, her eyes round and desperate. She stared at me, pleading with me, to do what, I had no idea, but before I could figure it out, a woman walked into the room.

  She was tall and regal, dressed in a high-buttoned, old-fashioned dress, her hair swept into a complicated up ‘do. “There you are, Nellie. Why didn’t you answer me? Did you find my locket?”

  Nellie shook her head. “No … no ma’am,” she stammered.

  “It should be in my jewelry box. Where did it go? Careless girl, did you lose it?” She started to advance toward Nellie, threateningly, making Nellie cower even more.

  “No … no ma’am. I’m looking. I’ll find it!” Nellie gasped.

  “You bet
ter,” the woman hissed. “Or I’ll dock your pay.”

  Nellie let out a frightened sort of squeak, and I found myself stepping forward. The woman’s head snapped around, and she looked at me.

  “You again,” she said, her lip curling under. “You came back.”

  I found myself shrinking under that hot gaze. “You’re Martha,” I said.

  “Did you lose your wits, girl? Of course I’m Martha. Who else would I be?”

  I licked my suddenly-dry lips. “I … I just …”

  She looked disdainfully at me. “Why I ever tried to help you, I have no idea. You’re not much better than this idiot girl.” She tilted her head toward Nellie. “I don’t suppose you know where my locket is?”

  I shook my head, starting to back up, icy fear sinking into the pit of my stomach.

  She took a step toward me, her eyes glittering. “You wouldn’t be lying to me now, would you?” She purred, her mouth twisting. “You didn’t steal it, like you did my house, did you? That locket is powerful—more powerful than the likes of you would know what to do with.”

  I took another step back, as fear crawled into my gut. Martha advanced, her form stretching and distorting, resembling that painting, “The Scream.” She opened her mouth, and began to shriek—”Where is it? Where is my locket? What did you do with it?”

  I woke with a gasp, darting straight up in bed, my breathing harsh and loud in my ears. I could still taste the fear in my throat, as I struggled to get it under control.

  And I thought the Aunt Charlie dreams were bad.

  No question, as creepy as they were, I definitely preferred them to the Mad Martha/Nellie show.

  Slowly, I calmed down. The sheets were twisted around me, sticky with sweat. I unwound myself and got out of bed. I wanted to go down to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea, but the thought of running into Mad Martha and Nellie in the living room, or Aunt Charlie in the kitchen, kept me upstairs.

  Instead, I went to the bathroom to splash some cool water on my face and fill my water glass. Not as satisfying as a cup of tea, but I could at least avoid running into any unwelcome visitors.

  As I headed back to my room, I found myself hesitating in the hallway. The house was silent. Chrissy’s door was closed. Everything seemed quiet and peaceful.

  So, why did I have an absolutely nagging feeling to check on Chrissy?

  She’s fine, I told myself. She’s asleep, like you should be.

  But, still. Every other time I had been awakened by a nightmare, Chrissy had been up, and sleepwalking. Why would this time be any different?

  Of course, those other times, I had been dreaming about Aunt Charlie. I had also heard Chrissy up and walking around, whereas right then, the house was as silent as a tomb.

  Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check in on her. Unless, of course, I woke her. For all I knew, that might start a screaming fit, even in the middle of the night. Her moods were completely impossible to predict, and I really preferred not to deal with a temper tantrum in the wake of the Nellie/Mad Martha dream.

  I shook my head and walked toward my room. I’m being silly, I told myself. She’s sleeping.

  Shutting the door firmly behind me, I returned to bed. I was determined to get some more sleep.

  I lay there for a while, watching the shadows from the trees play on the walls, and each time I’d drift off, I’d jerk awake with every creak and groan of the house, sure it was Mad Martha coming to ask me where her locket was, or Aunt Charlie holding a tea cup out to me. I was about to give up hope, when I finally drifted off into an uneasy slumber, haunted by confusing dreams of being chased by faceless shadows.

  I awoke to a room bathed in yellow sunlight. Despite the dreams, I had slept longer than I had anticipated.

  Not feeling entirely refreshed, I hauled myself out of bed. In the light of day, surrounded by the comforting warm sun, my fears from the night before seemed silly. Laughable even.

  I went downstairs to make some coffee. Chrissy’s door was still closed, which wasn’t all that surprising, as she typically slept the morning away.

  Coffee first, then breakfast. It was later than my usual wake up time, and I expected Chrissy to join me shortly.

  The house was quiet, other than the ticking of the grandfather clock. I sat at the table, bathed in the warm sun, with my coffee and oatmeal. Maybe it was a good day to tackle the garden. Maybe I could also look for that cat, too. Something had been eating the tuna I was putting out. Of course, not just cats ate tuna. For all I knew, I could be feeding a raccoon, or even a skunk.

  The minutes ticked by. I finished my breakfast and drank half the pot of coffee. No Chrissy.

  The uneasiness I had felt the night before came creeping back. Maybe I should have checked on her after all. Surely, she was just still sleeping.

  What else could it be?

  Unless something WAS wrong, a little voice said. Maybe she had been sleepwalking and fell and hit her head, or maybe she cut herself and was lying up there on her bedroom floor bleeding …

  I got up abruptly and headed upstairs. I kept telling myself I was being silly, but I knew I would feel much better once I saw her safe and sound in bed—even if she threw a fit for bothering her.

  Her door was still shut. I gently knocked.

  Silence.

  I knocked again, louder, and called her name.

  Still nothing.

  The uneasiness inside me had morphed into a silent scream, and suddenly, I couldn’t get the door open fast enough. I shoved it as hard as I could, banging it against the wall behind it as it swung open.

  The room was empty.

  I rushed in, still calling her name. Her bed was made—it didn’t even look like she had slept in it. I turned around to check her closet, when I saw the words on the mirror. My knees buckled, and I would have fallen if I hadn’t grabbed the back of the chair.

  It’s coming. Beware.

  Chapter 23

  I closed my eyes. My sixteen-year-old self collided with my thirty-one-year-old self. Dizziness swamped over me. I could almost smell the incense and burnt candles.

  When I opened my eyes, the words were gone. All that was there was my own wild reflection.

  Becca, get ahold of yourself, I told myself sternly. You’ll be no help to Chrissy otherwise.

  Just because the last time I saw a message like that, a different sixteen-year-old I knew disappeared, didn’t mean it would happen again.

  I took several slow, deep breaths while quickly scanning her room. Nothing appeared to be missing. I checked her closet. It all looked normal. Her suitcase was still there, shoved in the back corner

  Okay, so at least on the surface, it didn’t appear like she had run away, which of course, was a good thing.

  Unless something else had happened to her.

  It’s coming. Beware.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Chances were high she had just snuck out of the house to go see her friends. Maybe she didn’t even mean to sneak. Maybe she had every intention of telling me, but she didn’t see me around, so she left a note.

  A note. That reminded me to find my phone, to see if she had texted me. Or, heaven forbid, left a voicemail (as if she would ever be caught dead leaving a voicemail).

  When could she have left? I racked my brain, trying to remember what time she had gone to bed. I knew it had been pretty early—shortly after dinner. She had still been recovering from her hangover. Maybe eight? Maybe a bit later? I honestly couldn’t remember—I hadn’t been paying attention. Stefan had texted me earlier to ask if the talk I wanted to have with him could wait until he arrived later that week, and I found myself feeling simultaneously overwhelmed (the house was nowhere near ready for him to see) and puzzled.

  Was this normal behavior for a parent?

  Granted, I was pretty new to the whole parenting business,
but I was having trouble imaging myself having the same reaction if the roles were reversed.

  On the other hand, maybe I should give Stefan a break. I knew how stressed he was with the law firm. Maybe he figured if there was something really wrong with Chrissy, I would insist we talk.

  Still … I couldn’t help wondering if part of the reason why I was having so many issues with Chrissy was due to her father sometimes acting like he didn’t care about her.

  This isn’t helping you find Chrissy.

  Fair enough, I thought. What I needed to do was find my phone, to see if Chrissy had left me a message.

  I went back downstairs and found it in the living room. No message from Chrissy. I tried calling, but it went to voicemail, so I texted her. “Where are you?”

  There was no immediate response. I went into the kitchen and poured myself more coffee. If I didn’t hear back from her, what should I do? Call the cops? The hospital? All of the above?

  Should I even bother letting Stefan know?

  I was debating calling and texting again when she texted me. “I’m fine. I’ll be home soon.”

  I stared at the phone. That was her answer?

  I texted her back. “No, that’s not good enough. Where are you? I want you home NOW.”

  No response.

  I restrained the urge to throw my phone across the room and went upstairs to get dressed instead. I’d had enough. I was going to go look for her. And I was going to drag her back home when I finally found her.

  I pulled on jean shorts and a yellow tank top, and ran a comb through my hair before securing it with a ponytail. I went to get my phone, keys, and purse, and found two of the three.

  My keys were missing. Again. For the second time in a week.

  What was going on with me? Along with finding the ibuprofen in the pantry, I had found the cream standing on the plates (luckily it hadn’t been there long enough to spoil) and a wet washcloth stuffed in the medicine cabinet.

  Was my recent forgetfulness related to my other memory issues from fifteen years ago?

  I really didn’t have time to figure it out right then; I needed to locate my keys and track down Chrissy. Luckily, they were pretty easy to find, sitting on the washing machine. The last time I lost them, I found them in the freezer. I snatched them up and headed out.