This Is How I Lied
Page 1
Everyone has a secret they’ll do anything to hide...
Twenty-five years ago, the body of sixteen-year-old Eve Knox was found in the caves near her home in small-town Grotto, Iowa—discovered by her best friend, Maggie, and her sister, Nola. There were a handful of suspects, including her boyfriend, Nick, but without sufficient evidence the case ultimately went cold.
For decades Maggie has been haunted by Eve’s death and that horrible night. Now a detective in Grotto, and seven months pregnant, she is thrust back into the past when a new piece of evidence surfaces and the case is reopened. As Maggie investigates and reexamines the clues, secrets about what really happened begin to emerge. But someone in town knows more than they’re letting on, and they’ll stop at nothing to keep the truth buried deep.
Praise for Heather Gudenkauf
“[A] scintillating psychological thriller.... The stunning plot builds to a chillingly realistic ending. Gudenkauf is at the top of her game.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“Eerily page-turning and wonderfully twisty.”
—Kimberly McCreight, New York Times bestselling author of Reconstructing Amelia and Where They Found Her
“[Not a Sound] kept me reading till the birds started chirping—think Mary Higgins Clark or Lisa Scottoline.”
—Washington Post
“A truly original, immersive experience.”
—O, The Oprah Magazine
“Heather Gudenkauf is one of my favorite new authors.”
—Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author
“Heather Gudenkauf has written a spell-binding thriller which reminds us just how strong the human spirit can be, and yet how fragile life is.”
—Suspense Magazine
“[Heather Gudenakuf is] rendering some of the most compelling and likable female characters in print today... Recommended for all fans of Jennifer McMahon and Jodi Picoult.”
—Booklist
Also by Heather Gudenkauf
The Weight of Silence
These Things Hidden
One Breath Away
Little Mercies
Missing Pieces
Not a Sound
Before She Was Found
This Is How I Lied
Heather Gudenkauf
For my sisters—Jane Augspurger and Molly Lugar.
Contents
Prologue: Eve Knox
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Nola Knox
The Willow Creek Gazette
Eve Knox
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Eve Knox
Therapy Transcript
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Nola Knox
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
911 Transcript
Eve Knox
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Nola Knox
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Therapy Transcript
Eve Knox
The Willow Creek Gazette
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Nola Knox
Therapy Transcript
Eve Knox
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Nola Knox
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Eve Knox
The Willow Creek Gazette
Nola Knox
Eve Knox
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Therapy Transcript
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Nola Knox
Eve Knox
Nola Knox
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Nola Knox
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Eve Knox
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Therapy Transcript
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Nola Knox
Eve Knox
Nola Knox
Nola Knox
Eve Knox
Nola Knox
Eve Knox
Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Six Months Later: Maggie Kennedy-O’Keefe
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE: EVE KNOX
Friday, December 22, 1995
Eve wasn’t even supposed to be in these caves. They had a dizzying number of stony corridors and with one wrong turn she could become lost. At fifteen she knew these paths better than most people twice her age, and she moved as quickly as she could, being careful not to slip on the icy cave floor. Eve had come here to clear her head, to think about things and now she may never make it out alive.
Fear made Eve’s skin buzz, numbing the pain in her head and her wrist. She considered her options. She could try to talk her way out or she could try to run from the cave and to safety.
She didn’t get a chance to decide. Before she could speak fingers were digging into her arm trying to push her more deeply into the cave. Eve managed to wriggle free but lost her balance and stumbled to the ground. Her fingers swept the floor in search of some kind of weapon and her hand landed on a jagged piece of limestone. She clutched onto the rock and with a cry of frustration she swung her arm hoping to strike but only cut through the damp air. She swung again, this time grazing flesh.
Eve tried to get up but was pulled back to the ground with a teeth-rattling crash. She twisted around to see talon-like fingers clinging to her boot.
“No,” Eve cried, kicking out at her captor. She tore away from the grasp and ran toward the cave’s opening, hopscotching over jagged stone. Almost there, Eve thought as her right foot plunged into a narrow crevice and she tumbled forward.
The sickening snap of her ankle filled her ears and Eve howled in pain. Using her good hand, she tried to push herself up to her knees but her right foot was still snared. Only twenty yards more and she would be free. She gave her leg a desperate yank, the gasping, ragged breath closing in. Her skin tore and her Doc Marten was lost, but the foot came free.
She army-crawled across the rough stone toward the mouth of the cave, the ends of her scarf cascading down her back as she moved. Almost there. Suddenly, the scarf pulled tight at her throat. Eve froze but still the pressure. She scrabbled at the fabric, desperately trying to slide her fingers between the wool and her skin. Her legs felt weak and her lungs screamed for oxygen. Night had fallen and the only light came from the houses far up atop the bluffs, twinkling cold stars. Tiny beacons. Only a little bit farther, Eve thought. I’m so close.
With one frantic effort, she managed to flip onto her back but the scarf didn’t loosen. It cut still deeper into her throat. Her screams became lodged in her chest. Her vision blurred and her arms fell uselessly to her side. Above her, Eve found eyes filled with rage. There was no fear, no regret, no sorrow. No air could pass through to her lungs. The cold crept through her skin, settling deep into Eve’s bones until she became one with the slick limestone.
How did things go so wrong? Eve wondered. Why? Just beyond the cave, night had fully arrived. Snow came down in dizzying swirls. Dark places made it so much easier to be cruel, to exact revenge.
MAGGIE KENNEDY-O’KEEFE
Monday, June 15, 2020
As I slide out of my unmarked police car my swollen belly briefly gets wedged against the steering wheel. Sucking in my gut does little good but I manage to move the seat back and squeeze past the wheel. I swing my legs out the open door and glance furtively around the parking lot behind the Grotto Police Department to see if anyone is watching.
Almost eight month
s pregnant with a girl and not at my most graceful, I’m not crazy about the idea of one of my fellow officers seeing me try to pry myself out of this tin can. The coast appears to be clear so I begin the little ritual of rocking back and forth trying to build up enough momentum to launch myself out of the driver’s seat.
Once upright, I pause to catch my breath. The morning dew is already sending up steam from the weeds growing out of the cracked concrete. Sweating, I slowly make my way to the rear entrance of the Old Gray Lady, the nickname for the building we’re housed in. Built in the early 1900s, the first floor consists of the lobby, the fingerprinting and intake center, a community room, interview rooms and the jail. The second floor, which once held the old jail, is home to the squad room and offices. The dank, dark basement holds a temperamental boiler and the department archives.
The Grotto Police Department has sixteen sworn officers; that includes the chief, two lieutenants, a K-9 patrol officer, nine patrol officers, a school resource officer and two detectives. I’m detective number two.
I grew up in Grotto, a small river town of about ten thousand that sits among a circuitous cave system known as Grotto Caves State Park, the most extensive in Iowa. Besides being a favorite destination spot for families, hikers and spelunkers, Grotto is known for its high number of family-owned farms—a dying breed. My husband, Shaun, and I are part of that breed—we own an apple orchard and tree farm.
“Pretty soon we’re going to have to roll you in,” an irritatingly familiar voice calls out from behind me.
I don’t bother turning around. “Francis, that wasn’t funny the first fifty times you said it and it still isn’t.” I scan my key card to let us in.
Pete Francis, an overconfident rookie officer, grabs the door handle and in a rare show of chivalry opens it so I can step through. “You know I’m just joking,” Francis says, giving me the grin that young ladies in Grotto seem to find irresistible but just gives me another reason to roll my eyes.
“With the wrong person, those kinds of jokes will land you in sensitivity training,” I remind him.
“Yeah, but you’re not the wrong person, right?” he says seriously. “You’re cool?”
I wave to Peg behind the reception desk and stop at the elevator and punch the number two. The police department may only have two levels but I’m in no mood to climb even one flight of stairs today. “Do I look like I’m okay with it?” I ask him.
Francis scans me up and down. He takes in my brown hair pulled back in a low bun, wayward curls springing out from all directions, my eyes red from lack of sleep, my untucked shirt, the fabric stretched tight against my round stomach, my sturdy shoes that I think are tied, but I can’t know for sure because I can’t see over my boulder-sized belly.
“Sorry,” he says, appropriately contrite, and wisely decides to take the stairs rather than ride the elevator with me.
“You’re forgiven,” I call after him. As I step on the elevator to head up to my desk, I check my watch. My appointment with the chief is at eight and though he didn’t tell me what the exact reason is for this meeting I think I can make a pretty good guess.
Protocol can’t dictate when I have to go on light duty, but seven months into my pregnancy, it’s probably time. I’m guessing that Chief Digby wants to talk with me about when I want to begin desk duty or take my maternity leave. I get it.
It’s time I start to take it easy. I’ve either been the daughter of a cop or a cop my entire life but I’m more than ready to set it aside for a while and give my attention, twenty-four/seven, to the little being inhabiting my uterus.
Shaun and I have been trying for a baby for a long, long time. Thousands of dollars and dozens of procedures later, when we finally found out we were pregnant, Shaun started calling her Peanut because the only thing I could eat for the first nine weeks without throwing up was peanut butter sandwiches. The name stuck.
This baby is what we want more than anything in the world but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m a little bit scared. I’m used to toting around a sidearm, not an infant.
The elevator door opens to a dark-paneled hallway lined with ten-by-sixteen framed photos of all the men who served as police chief of Grotto over the years. I pass by eleven photos before I reach the portrait of my father. Henry William Kennedy, 1995-2019, the plaque reads.
While the other chiefs stare out from behind the glass with serious expressions, my dad smiles, showing his straight, white teeth. He was so proud when he was named chief of police. We were all proud, except maybe my older brother, Colin. God knows what Colin thought of it. As a teenager he was pretty self-absorbed, but I guess I was too, especially after my best friend died. I went off the rails for a while but here I am now: Grotto PD detective, following in my dad’s footsteps. I think he’s proud of me too. At least when he remembers.
Last time I brought my dad back here to visit, we walked down this long corridor and paused at his photo. For a minute I thought he might make a joke, say something like, Hey, who’s that good-looking guy? But he didn’t say anything. Finding the right words is hard for him now. Occasionally, his frustration bubbles over and he yells and sometimes even throws things, which is hard to watch. My father has always been a very gentle man.
The next portrait in line is our current police chief, Les Digby. No smile on his tough-guy mug. He was hired a month ago, taking over for Dexter Stroope who acted as the interim chief after my dad retired. Les is about ten years older than I am, recently widowed with two teenage sons. He previously worked for the Ransom Sheriff’s Office and I’m trying to decide if I like him. Jury’s still out.
I use my key card to gain access to a small vestibule lined with shoebox-sized lockers and then push through a door that leads to a large room with exposed brick walls inset with a row of six-foot-tall windows. In one corner of the room is the chief’s office and on the opposite side are two old jail cells with the swinging iron bar doors removed and converted into office space. I call the jail cell on the left home.
Francis and two other patrol officers are getting ready to head out for the day and pause to tell me good-morning. Francis avoids making eye contact with me. Good. He knows he already overstepped a line with me this morning and will stay out of my way the rest of the day. I cross the worn industrial gray carpeting, past the coffee machine which beckons me. I’d kill for a cup of coffee but the caffeine isn’t good for the baby. I drop my purse atop my old metal desk and grab a legal pad and pen.
The door to Chief Digby’s office is slightly ajar. I take a deep breath. I probably should have had this conversation with the chief much earlier, but the thought of sitting behind a desk for eight hours a day makes me want to scream. Besides, I’ve been doing just fine; it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that my stomach began to inflate at an alarming rate and started slowing me down.
My husband, after watching me struggle to fasten my gun belt to my waist, finally spoke up. Maggie, he asked, are you really comfortable having a gun so close to the baby?
I was. But I saw Shaun’s point. I kept telling him that I’d talk to the chief but hadn’t. This morning, I got the text from Digby telling me he wanted to see me in his office first thing. I guess this is as good a time as any to have the conversation.
I tap lightly on the door and I hear muffled voices coming from inside.
“Good morning, Maggie,” Chief Digby says as he opens the door. Digby is built like an NFL linebacker and his large frame blocks my view of the interior of his office so I can’t see who else is in the room. “How are you doing?” he asks, trying not to stare at my stomach.
“Just fine, Chief. What’s up?” I ask. Digby steps aside and sitting in a chair next to the chief’s desk is my fellow detective, Dexter Stroope.
“Take a seat,” he says gravely, closing the door behind us. I lower myself into the remaining empty chair and look to Dex. He shrugs. He doesn’t know why
we were summoned either.
“I’ll get right to it,” the chief says. “A piece of new evidence in the Eve Knox case may have just been discovered.” His words are a punch to my gut. I haven’t heard my best friend’s name said out loud in a long time. I try to keep my face neutral and wait for Digby to continue.
“A woman brought her teenage son into the station late last night,” he says. “The kid and his friend were screwing around in Ransom Caves the other day and found this.” He pulls a large plastic evidence bag from a cardboard box. Inside is a boot. Filthy and caked with dry mud, but still I recognize it immediately. Maroon and covered with graffiti-style flowers, the leather Doc Martens were among Eve’s prized possessions.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
“Yeah, Jesus,” Chief Digby says. “Kid dropped his cell phone between some rocks and came out with this. Matches the one in the crime scene photos.” Digby holds out a photograph and I recoil as I see a close-up of my best friend’s feet, one bloodied and shoeless and the other clad in a Doc Marten that matches the one in the evidence bag. I feel the banana muffin I had for breakfast roil up in my stomach but force it back.
“Why’d the kid bring an old shoe home?” Dex asks. I can’t tear my eyes away from the picture.
“The mom went to school with Eve Knox, told her son horror stories about the caves trying to keep him from messing around in there. That obviously didn’t work. He brought the boot home and was showing it off to some friends and the mom overheard. When she found out where it came from, she marched the kid right over here and wasn’t going to leave until she talked to me.”
“It’s Eve’s boot,” I say numbly, remembering the day she bought them while we were on a shopping trip to Des Moines. It was the only thing Eve ever paid full price for. She loved those boots. “I’m positive. She wore those things all the time. Who was the woman who brought them in?”
The chief looks down at his notes. “A Karen Specht and that’s what she said too.” He gently places the boot back into the cardboard box.