All the Secrets (All the Lies Book 2)

by Charlotte Byrd

  The person who gave me Liam's home address went by the name of Matt Lipinski. I found him in a fan forum dedicated to popular fantasy writers.

  In one of the sub threads, the discussion focused on D. B. Carter. When I asked if anyone knew of his real identity, Matt wrote me back. However, when I tried to find out who Matt was, nothing came up.

  Liam insisted that he has no idea who he is and I believe him, but that doesn't change the fact that the whole reason that we are together is because of Matt, and I wonder how it is that he knew where Liam lived when that information was practically top secret.

  I’ve looked this up before, but I decide to be more methodical about it now. I do a quick Google search about how to find out someone's identity on a forum and unfortunately the results are not particularly helpful.

  Most of the sites discuss exactly how difficult it is to find out who did the posting because they are probably using a fake name.

  I don't know that much about computers so I decide to rely on something that is my strength instead. In other words, instead of trying to figure out how to do a background check on someone I don't really know exists, I instead post again to the forum and ask for help in reaching Matt.

  A few minutes later, someone replies, but the messages aren’t particularly helpful.

  I do a quick search on Facebook but find that there are actually over two-hundred hits to that name and I don't even know if it's real.

  Eventually, I go back to that email from Corrin who attached the contact info for the private investigator.

  I stare at his name: Harvey Durand.

  His contact info comes with a website which is pretty basic and direct. There's some info about his experience, like he's an ex-police officer, along with a few references.

  Of course, his experience is rather vague and doesn't list any actual clients with whom he has worked. This is not a surprise as not that many people would want to share with the whole world that they have used a private investigator in their personal or professional life.

  Feeling stuck and at a loss as to what to do next, I get up to stretch my legs.

  I pace around the living room and then walk all the way to the front door.

  There's a large mirror hanging at the entrance and I look at my reflection, wondering if I should even bother with any of this.

  I'm sure that Liam can give me enough information for a second article.

  Interesting tidbits about his family, about where he came from, about…

  Then something occurs to me.

  He never actually told me anything personal about who he is and where he came from.

  Is that right?

  I search my mind for any details, but nothing comes. The only times we've ever talked about family members is when I complained to him about mine, but what about his?

  What has he actually told me about his life?

  I swallow hard, thinking about what this means. I thought that we were getting closer. I thought that being here actually meant something, but what if he doesn't actually want me to know anything?

  No, no, no. Don't go there, I say to myself. You've only known him for a brief amount of time.

  Clearly, he is someone who enjoys his privacy and despite that, he is giving you a chance.

  You, a reporter, a journalist who showed him that you're not really the most trustworthy person in the world.

  Something catches my eye. There's a console table against the wall behind me. His wallet lies between his keys and his sunglasses.

  I glance at it and fight the temptation to open it.

  What would I even find?

  There's absolutely no reason to break his trust, for what exactly? What could I find in a wallet?

  Then again, he doesn't have to know about this, right?

  “You will,” I say to myself. “You’ll know the truth. You’ll know that you snooped and that you have no right to do that.”

  These thoughts and about a thousand others swirl around my mind until I feel dizzy and sick to my stomach.

  In the end, however, I take a deep breath and glance back to make sure that he’s still working on the porch.

  When I see the back of his head, I grab and open the wallet.

  It has a soft, full leather exterior and feels cool to the touch. It opens flatly and has four compartments on each side for credit cards. I pull them all out and scan the name.

  I don't expect them to have the letters D. B. Carter, but the fact that none of the cards are issued to Liam Parish throws me off.

  All of the cards are issued to the same person, but the name doesn't make any sense.

  No, this must be someone else's wallet or some sort of other mistake. Then I find his driver's license. It's issued by the state of California.

  It's his face, but the name says Peter Mueller Schmidt.

  I stare at the name, memorizing the exact spelling and quickly compare it to the names on the credit cards.

  They are a perfect match.

  I look at the picture on the driver’s license and it’s clearly a picture of Liam.

  How could that be?

  My heart begins to race and then suddenly I remember that I shouldn’t be doing this in the first place. I glance back and see that Liam is not on the porch anymore.

  My hands turn to ice.

  I don't know what to do.

  I take a few deep breaths and try to quickly stuff the credit cards back into the wallet in the order in which I found them with the driver’s license going into the back flap.

  The sliding door opens and Liam walks in.

  I place the wallet back on the console table and take a step away, pretending that I have been looking out the front door this whole time.

  21

  Emma

  When Liam comes into the room, my heart jumps into my throat. I don't know what to do. I take a few deep breaths to try to calm myself down and to think more clearly, but it doesn't work. I feel like I'm starting to have a panic attack.

  I feel all the blood drain away from my face and my skin turns a pale color of greenish blue.

  I see a glimpse of him in the mirror before he rushes over to me and grabs me by my hand.

  “Are you okay?” He tries to hold me up.

  “Yes, I'm fine.” I put one foot steadily in front of the other. “Sometimes, I just get dizzy.”

  That part is true.

  What's not true is that it only tends to happen when I'm under extreme stress.

  I go over to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. I gulp it all down and then finish half of the next one.

  Finally feeling hydrated enough, I look at him. He tilts his head to one side and stares at me with an expression of concern.

  A few moments ago, I would have been able to lose myself in those eyes.

  A few moments ago, I thought that maybe he could be the one.

  Now I realize that the men in my life are nothing but liars.

  I have to protect myself against the barrage of lies that he would surely unload onto me if I were to bring this up.

  No, I'm not going to do that.

  Not yet.

  Besides, it's not just the lies I'm afraid of. There’s something else.

  I'm here alone in his house. I thought that he cared about me, but now… I don't even know who he is or what he's capable of.

  “How are you doing?”

  “I'm good. I don't know what happened. Sometimes I get a little dizzy when I stand up too fast.”

  “You were already standing.” He points out.

  He caught me in a lie, but I can't think of another one to make up for it.

  Instead I let it dangle out there in the wind.

  I ask him about his writing and he starts saying something about it, but my thoughts are elsewhere.

  Wait a second, I say to myself. No, his name can't be Peter Mueller Schmidt. Alex knows who he is and he called him Liam.

  I breathe a small sigh of relief, but more questions pop
up.

  Alex knows Liam from back in the day. He ran into him and that's why he invited him to our engagement party.

  So, it's not like he's a brand-new person who is lying about his identity.

  His name is Liam Parish, right?

  Wrong.

  Another realization and another thought makes my blood turn to ice.

  Alex mentioned that his name was Liam, but he never actually said his last name.

  So, could his last name be Mueller Schmidt?

  What would be the point of all of these lies then?

  “Hey… Anyone there?” Liam asks.

  I snap out of my trance and realize that he has been saying something this whole time.

  “I'm fine,” I say, which is an answer that is neither here nor there.

  “I'm going to be done with my writing for today, but I have some other work to do,” he says after a moment. “Unless you want to do something together.”

  “No, I don't think so,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Okay, then I'm just going to go to my office,” Liam says and walks away.

  I want to reach out to him, I want to run after him, and I want to ask him a million questions, but I don't think that would be smart.

  I have seen enough crime shows to know that you should not confront people who might be lying about their identities head-on.

  Especially if you are alone in their house.

  Especially if you are far away in the desert.

  What are you thinking? I ask myself as I sit down behind my computer at the dining room table and try to calm my nerves by pretending to work.

  Do you really think that he's going to hurt you?

  Is that the person that you just spent all this time with?

  No, he's not capable of that.

  I want to believe this. I want to convince myself of this, but I can't be too sure.

  Despite how much I may like him, I have to do certain things to protect myself.

  I can’t talk to him about it here.

  I don't know if I can talk to him about it at all.

  Just definitely not here.

  Sliding my laptop under my arm, I tiptoe to my bedroom and start to collect my things.

  22

  Liam

  I know that she's curious about what I'm writing, but I can’t have someone looking over my shoulder. When she stops and leaves me alone on the porch, I finished my writing with total dedication.

  I don't even take the five minute breaks in between but just go straight through. The words flow out of me quickly one by one filling in all the gaps that I never even knew my story had.

  Some scenes are like that with the perfect combination of tension and release along with my own concentration and involvement.

  It's hard to explain why some parts of the story flow out of me so much faster and with seemingly so much less effort than others.

  I'm sure that this is a mystery that I will work to untangle the rest of my life.

  A black crow jumps onto the porch a few feet away from me and cocks his head just as I finish the last sentence. I look up at him while speaking to my phone and watch him watching me with great curiosity. I give him a slight nod and watch as he quickly loses interest and flies away.

  Heading back into my office, I walk into the house and seem to startle Emma. She jumps and looks at me in a way that she has never looked at me before.

  Then she starts having a panic attack.

  Her breathing speeds up, but when I try to approach her to calm her down, she just shuts me out.

  “What happened? What's wrong?” I ask her over and over, but she doesn't give me a good answer. She wants to be alone.

  She says that she’s fine and she needs space and I know that I have more work to finish.

  I go to my office and close the door. I have my desk facing the tall window looking out at the horses out back. They have ample shade and water yet they're both playing in the middle of the turnout, playing in the sand.

  I briefly introduced Emma to my animals, but I haven't taken her on a ride yet. She mentioned that she's ridden a horse before a few times but only as part of a group. If I take her riding on my mare, I know that she will fall in love.

  I sent my dictated text to my email and quickly import that work into the document for my latest novel. A few years ago, I had made the decision to not edit a word until the whole story is done.

  Sitting at my wide maple desk, which I had fashioned in the wood shop out back, I go through my emails and then check on my Facebook ads.

  I pre-schedule a few updates to my newsletter list along with about ten social media posts. I never post anything personal in these and focus entirely on my work.

  I also check the messages in my Facebook group and reply to anyone who has written. My group consists of my most dedicated readers and the biggest fans.

  I love interacting with them.

  I'm working on a new series now and I have to design the covers. I started doing this myself when I didn't have any money and now continue because it's just something that I'm used to.

  The first thing that I do is search through Deposit Photos and Shutterstock for images that could possibly work and compile them into a folder.

  This usually takes me a few days as I worry about what I want the feel of the series to be. I will often do this casually while I'm doing other things like watching Netflix or YouTube. Suddenly I'll stumble onto an image that's perfect and that's what I use to develop a theme for the rest of the covers.

  I use Photoshop to manipulate the image and today I play around on testing out different fonts for the title. I make a few mockups, but none of them are that inspiring so I decide to put this work to one side.

  My thoughts drift back to Emma. I want her to be comfortable in my home and I know that there are certain things that I've been keeping from her.

  I don't think I can come out and tell her everything about me. Nevertheless, the more time that passes and the longer that she's here, the more it feels like I'm lying to her by not telling her who I really am.

  I go to the bathroom and splash some water on my face. The marble vanity feels cool to the touch when I lean against it and I look at my reflection in the beveled mirror. If I tell her the truth, then…

  “You can never tell anyone who we really are.” His words reverberate in the back of my head.

  He made me repeat them out loud even after I signed all of the documents.

  “If we do all this and then you just need someone and you tell her who you are, then we will no longer be able to protect you.”

  To tell her the truth would be something that I could never take back. The reality is that I have no idea who she really is.

  No, I didn't do all of this and sacrifice everything that I have sacrificed to just throw it all away. If Emma and I get to know each other more and we get closer, then maybe, I can consider it.

  Right now, the lie will just have to stand.

  I walk out of my office with a heavy burden on my shoulders, but it's a burden that I know that I must continue to carry. I have missed my sister’s wedding and the birth of my nephew.

  If I were to tell Emma the truth now, then all of those years of living this double life would be for nothing.

  “Hey, I was just wondering what you want to have for dinner,” I say, expecting to see her in the living room.

  I look around, but she's nowhere to be found.

  I check the nearby guest bathroom, but the lights are off and the door is open.

  The door to her room is closed and I knock lightly, not wanting to disturb her.

  “I don't know if you heard me, but what do you think you want for dinner?”

  I wait for her to answer, but no one responds. I knock again and again, louder each time.

  “Emma? Are you okay?”

  Again, she doesn't respond. I wonder if she's taking a nap. Not wanting to wake her, I turn the knob very slightly and crack the door.

  That
's when I realize.

  She's gone.

  I look around the room and it looks undisturbed. I know that she had unpacked her suitcase because I saw it laying by the dresser. I also saw some of her toiletries in the bathroom.

  Now, none of her stuff is here. I call her name even though I know it's too late.

  I rush out to the driveway and see that her car is gone.

  What happened? Where the hell did she go?

  I look for my phone, but it’s not on me.

  I run back inside and feverishly search for it, finally remembering that I had left it in the office next to my laptop.

  I call her, but it goes straight to voice mail. She's not answering my calls. What the hell is going on? What happened?

  What happened? Where are you? Why did you leave? I text her.

  They also go unanswered.

  I pace around the living room trying to figure out what could've happened.

  Did I do something wrong?

  Did this have anything to do with how oddly she was behaving when I came back in from writing?

  I go to the foyer and look at myself in the mirror, standing in the exact spot where she was.

  What happened here? Did she get a call from one of her parents? Are they hurt?

  I shake my head. If something would have happened to them, then she probably would've told me about it.

  She wouldn’t have just left.

  No, this is something else. This is something to do with… Me.

  I turn slowly on my heel until my eyes graze the console table with my wallet and sunglasses.

  That's the usual spot where I place them, but usually they're not so perfectly arranged. I come in and toss them there but now the wallet is completely perpendicular to the sunglasses.

  Did she look in there? My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach.

  “No, that can't be it,” I say, shaking my head.

  If she found that out, then she would've confronted me about it, right? She wouldn’t have just left.

  I grab my wallet and open it flat in my palm. That's when I see it.

  My driver’s license, which is usually buried under a few credit cards, is sticking slightly out of the pouch.