All the Pretty Lies

by Marin Montgomery

  That I’ve been found out.

  When I walk outside, I glance around to make sure Meghan and the kids didn’t follow. I don’t want to call the officer back right away, but I also don’t want to draw more suspicion by being unreceptive.

  I think of my wife.

  What if they called the house first and left a message?

  I’ve got to get home. I need to do damage control in case they’ve already left messages on our answering machine.

  If something happened in Portland and you’re involved, she’s going to find out anyway, I remind myself.

  A blinking light flashes a message on our house phone. It’s almost identical to the other message from Officer Morse. Deleting it, I make sure there are no other messages from the police station.

  I head into my office, leaving the door open so I know when the family arrives. I don’t want Meghan sneaking up on me.

  I try and memorize the number to the Portland PD but I keep tripping up, interchanging numbers in my head.

  Get it together, I chastise myself.

  Sinking into my worn leather office chair, I dial the number from my landline.

  “Morse.” A deep voice chirps.

  “Hi Officer Morse, this is Reed Bishop.”

  There’s a lull.

  “I had a message from this number to call.”

  “Are you in Portland? Can you come down to the station?”

  “I’m not. I’m in Houston.”

  “Your number is Oregon though?”

  “No…I mean, I live in Houston, but one of my numbers is Portland.”

  Another pause.

  “Officer, what’s this regarding?” I tap a pen against my desk.

  “When was the last time you were in Portland?”

  “I flew back home on a red-eye Friday night.”

  “What’s your relationship to Talin Mercedes Forrester?”

  “Excuse me?” The pen I’m holding in my hand snaps in half.

  He sighs. “How do you know the victim?”

  Chapter Six

  Reed

  I drop the phone, and it clatters against the cherry wood of my desk. I hear Morse say, “Mr. Bishop, are you there?”

  I pick it back up, carefully, my voice barely audible. “What did you say?”

  “The victim, how did you know her?”

  “What victim?” I feel like we are playing a game of round robin, going in circles.

  “I’m asking the questions, Mr. Bishop. I’m going to need to take your statement. It appears you were the last person to see Talin Forrester alive.”

  I swallow, the air abandoning my lungs.

  “Alive? What do you mean ‘alive’?”

  “She was found dead.” His voice is lackadaisical. We could’ve been talking about a baseball game or the weather.

  “Since when?”

  “Since she was found this morning.”

  “Do I need an attorney?”

  “Do you think you do?”

  “Officer, I was in Portland, but I left.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m in Houston now.”

  “I know.”

  “What can I do from here?”

  “You can start by telling me your relationship to Talin Forrester.”

  Meghan walks in at that exact moment, two screaming boys on either side, dark sunglasses covering her face.

  Abruptly, I set the phone down to stand up and slam the door in her face, twisting the lock for added privacy.

  Putting the phone back to my ear, I moan. “What happened to Tally?”

  “I need you to head to the Houston PD. Detective Greg Walsh is expecting you.”

  “When?”

  “Immediately. We will be interviewing you with him via video conferencing.”

  “Should I bring a lawyer, Officer?”

  “It is my duty to inform you that you have the right to retain counsel without delay. You can call any lawyer you wish.” With that, I hear a dial tone as he hangs up.

  The doorknob turns in protest. Meghan pounds on the door. “What’s going on, Reed?”

  I put my head on the desk, pounding it with my fists.

  “Reed, talk to me,” she begs.

  When I sit upright, a wave of nausea overcomes me. I hold onto the edge of the desk as I stand. Unlocking the door, I swing it open. She’s poised, ready to knock again.

  “Meghan, I have to go down to the station. There was a hit and run in Dallas, and they need my help.”

  “A hit and run?” Her eyes widen. “You never mentioned that.”

  “Yes, it happened when I was at a stoplight. This man was hit on a bicycle. It was dark, late at night, but they want to take my statement. I wasn’t paying attention, but I need to at least provide some details.”

  “Where’re you going for that?” She’s shocked. “They won’t do it over the phone?”

  “No.” I grab my cell and shove it in my pocket. “Did you find a sitter?”

  She’s floored. “What’s this about?”

  “We need to talk.” I touch her cheek. She pulls away.

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “No. Of course not.” I give her a disapproving stare.

  She nods, disbelieving me. If I were in her shoes, I’d feel the same.

  Walking to the garage, I consider calling Tally’s best friend, Martha. She’s her closest confidant, her oldest pal. She doesn’t live in Portland, but close by - about a half hour away. We’ve gone and visited her before. She’s single and artsy, the kind of girl who’s naturally beautiful but doesn’t realize it.

  I dial her number. She’s under Martha, Real Estate Agent in my phone.

  “Martha?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Reed.” There’s a pause. “Reed Bishop.”

  “Oh, hi, Reed, what’s going on?”

  “Have you heard from Tally?”

  “No, but she had a business trip today.”

  A hand smacks my forehead. That’s right. Her and her boss were headed out of state.

  “You talk to her today?” I hold my breath, hoping she’s talked to her, that she’s on a plane, that I have nothing to worry about.

  “No, I spoke to her a few days ago, before you got into town.”

  I almost slam my head against the steering wheel. “Oh, okay.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “No, no it’s not.” I sigh. “Everything’s not okay, Martha.”

  A man’s voice echoes behind her. “I’ll call you later.” I disconnect, my heartbeat increasing with each passing mile as I drive around the police station four times before pulling in.

  I know once I walk into that station, I doubt I’ll walk out a free man.

  My secret life will be on display for everyone - my wife, my children, my family, my employer. Which is none other than my father-in-law.

  What I thought I could hide in the dark bedroom will now surface in the light.

  “I’m here for Greg,” I say to the woman holding court over a scratched metal desk in the foyer.

  “Greg?” She’s brisk. “Which one?”

  “No idea.” I forgot his last name. “Think it starts with a W. Wilson, maybe?”

  “Walsh.” She raises a brow at me. “Homicide detective?”

  I nod as she whistles in my direction. “Hope it’s not you, honey. You’re entirely too good-looking.”

  I give her a tight smile.

  She picks up a phone and dials an extension. “Walsh, got a man here to see you.” She looks at me, her eyes inquisitive. “What’s your name?”

  “Reed Bishop.”

  “Reed Bishop’s here to see you.” She listens as he says something, slamming the phone down a minute later. “He’ll be out in just a minute.” I turn to find a place to sit but stop when her voice resonates. “There’s no need to sit. He’ll be right out.”

  She’s right, he appears about twenty seconds later. Disheveled, his long-sleeve shirt wrinkled a
nd stained, coffee-colored marks trailing a zig-zag pattern down the front. His eyes are tired, and purple shadows look to be a permanent fixture on his wrinkled face. He reminds me of a Shar-Pei, the lines forming from one end of his forehead to the other. His hair is at least still thick for his age - I guess fifties but in reality, he’s probably mid-forties. I assume detectives age faster than the rest of us.

  Occupational hazard, probably.

  He reaches out a hand. “Reed Bishop?”

  I connect and shake, our grips both firm and unrelenting.

  “Detective Walsh. Officer Morse from Portland said you’d be joining us. He’s expecting your arrival.”

  “I just spoke with him. Came as quick as I could.” I follow his lead down a tiled hallway to a small room, where a water cooler, metal folding table, and two chairs are situated in front of a large television monitor.

  “We’re just going to video conference with Morse in here.” He glances around the room. “Have a seat. You want water? Coffee?”

  “Coffee is great.” I want to wring my hands but don’t want to look nervous.

  “Let me grab that. Have a seat.” He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. I’ve seen enough episodes of Forensic Files to know this is a ploy. They’re secretly recording me, decoding my every move, hoping I break down in the room and confess to some act of violence.

  Tally.

  A lump forms in my throat.

  I sink into the uncomfortable metal folding chair.

  Walsh comes back with a Styrofoam cup and two bottles of water. “Thought we could both use one. The water in here’s for shit.” He motions to the offending water cooler, taking a seat in the chair across from me.

  “I’m going to get Morse on the line.” Dialing in numbers, he messes with the monitor at the same time he’s presumably dialing Morse. His face flashes on the screen. His physique looks young, but his blond hair edged with gray signals his age. They chit-chat a minute, making small-talk about the weather and their respective departments. I wait impatiently, wanting to get out of here, this dank room with the dim lighting and the oppressive heat that causes me to sweat bullets.

  Walsh turns to me and introduces us.

  Morse grimaces when he looks at me.

  “Let’s begin,” Walsh says. “Morse, I’ll let you start. First of all, this is the nineteenth of May, two-thousand and eighteen. One oh seven P.M. I’ve got Officer Peter Morse from the Portland Police Department on video along with Reed Evan Bishop. This is the first interview pertaining to the murder of Talin Mercedes Forrester.”

  Murder.

  A drop of sweat makes its way down my back, a slow trajectory as it sinks into the waistband of my Calvin Klein boxers.

  The word makes me heave. Murder.

  Walsh looks at me, startled, as I choke on the sip of coffee I’ve just pressed to my lips.

  “Do you wish to have an attorney present?” Walsh asks.

  “Not at this time.” My voice sounds hollow, faraway, like someone else is talking for me.

  Morse begins, his hands poised on a notepad in front of him. “Reed, do you know why you are here?”

  “You just mentioned Tally is hurt.”

  “Is ‘Tally’ the name you use to refer to Talin Forrester?”

  I nod.

  “Can you please verbally respond?” Walsh interjects.

  “Yes, I uh, that’s the name Talin goes by, Tally.”

  “What is your relationship with Ms. Forrester?”

  I take a deep breath, knowing this will signal the beginning of the end of my life as I know it. Selfishly I want to lie, but I know in this day and age, nothing is private. They will pull records and see the text messages, the calls, the letters. “I’m an acquaintance of Tally’s. I admire her very much.”

  “What kind of relationship?”

  I take another long pause. “Friends.”

  “Just friends?”

  “No.” I almost crack my Styrofoam cup in hand, the pressure of my palms on either side threatening to spill the lukewarm contents on my lap.

  “Look, Reed, this is a murder investigation. We will uncover whatever it is you think you’re hiding. Furthermore, we’ll assume it’s an admission of guilt. You might as well be honest from the get-go.”

  Walsh chimes in. “We can only help you if we know what’s going on. If something got out of control…we can try and help now. But not later. We need your honesty now.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand. Nothing happened.”

  Morse pushes forward. “Was your relationship with Talin sexual?”

  I look at the table, the scratches. Someone scribbled their name in bed. Brian. Was Brian accused of murder? Where is he now?

  Glancing back up between the screen and Morse and the opposite chair and Walsh, I nod. “Yes, we had a sexual relationship.”

  “Did you choke Talin the last night you saw her?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did you strangle her?”

  I’m horrified.

  “We have a dead girl on our hands. Everything is applicable,” Morse spits out.

  “How old are you?” Walsh asks.

  “Forty-two.”

  “And Talin is?”

  I want to scream, ‘You know how old she is, you want to point out the obvious. That I’m a lot older than her.’

  Like that’s a motive.

  “Twenty-seven.” I’m calm, my eyes never leaving the screen.

  “Where did you meet?”

  “Starbucks. 75th Avenue one in Portland. Six months ago.” I know they’re going to ask all these questions.

  “Are you married?”

  I’m impressed. They already did their research on me.

  Then I notice where Walsh is looking - my ring finger, the silver band a telltale sign.

  “I am.” I set my coffee cup down, my hands trembling too much to hold it steady. “I have two kids, twin six-year-old boys.”

  “You just flew back from Portland, is that correct?”

  “I did. I took the red-eye. American. Technically got in Saturday morning.”

  “We will confirm that of course.”

  “So why’d you kill Talin?” Walsh doesn’t bat an eye. “Because she threatened to tell your wife you were having an affair?”

  My mouth gapes.

  Tally had threatened to tell my wife about the affair.

  Multiple times.

  She also promised to ruin my life if I didn’t leave Meghan.

  Tally’s ploy was cunning - she messaged Meghan on social media sites, forcing me to block her from my wife’s Facebook and Instagram pages. If Meghan happened to look at her blocked list, which I doubt she would, I’d made it seem like a fluke. I’d purposely blocked random people from all over that had no connections to each other or her.

  I deactivated my pages just in case Tally decided to attack me over social media by posting a snide comment on a picture of my family or the type of husband I was.

  Her frustration was warranted. But I never thought she’d really try and ruin my home life. It was a cat and mouse game, and she’d see what she could get away with. She got upset, frustrated, heated. Hated that we couldn’t be together when we wanted, that I lived in Houston and she lived in Portland.

  I tell the cops this.

  My thoughts drift to Tally. I want to ask what happened.

  Does that make me seem more or less guilty?

  If I don’t ask, they’ll assume I know because I did it. If I don’t, they’ll perceive me as uncaring, a cold-blooded killer.

  Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

  “What happened?” I manage to whisper. My overtly confident voice is now reduced to a prepubescent adolescent boy.

  “She was murdered.”

  I bite my lip. “Can I ask how?”

  “Don’t you know?” Morse berates me. “You tell us, why the overkill? Definitely a crime of passion.”

  Gulping, I rub a hand over my face. “I d
on’t have anything to tell you.”

  “Why did you keep texting her after she was already dead?”

  “She wasn’t answering me.”

  “Because you wanted it to look like you weren’t responsible.” Walsh acts like I hadn’t even spoken.

  “Gentlemen, I’m happy to provide whatever statement you need. I didn’t harm Tally.” I can’t force myself to say words like ‘kill’ or ‘murder.’ I’m in a state of shock, my mind imagining her fighting for her life, terrified.

  Morse holds a picture up to the screen. The first one is an indistinguishable pic of a face covered by a towel I recognize, one I’d used in the past after a shower.

  “The killer clearly knew his victim, covering up her face as a sign of guilt.” He smirks. “I’m assuming this was hard on you and as a sign of remorse, you couldn’t bother to stare into her lifeless eyes.”

  I’m speechless, my mouth gaping at him in horror.

  Morse flips to another picture.

  The second photograph doesn’t resonate with me at first. I don’t recognize her…until I see those eyes, aquamarine jewels in the center of her face, the luster gone, unseeing.

  What do you see, Tally? I silently beg.

  She’s a corpse, decimated, slashed in every direction, as if she was the mannequin used for a horror movie but didn’t know it ahead of time.

  A dizzy spell hits me.

  Frantically, I look around, bile choking me as it rises to the surface. A garbage can leans against the wall. Stumbling to the plastic, I spew the burnt coffee into the container, my hands wrapped tight around the edges as I sink to my knees.

  “What the fuck is that?” I spew, panting, my eyes trained downward to the liquid I’ve ejected from my body.

  “What does it look like?” Morse barks.

  Walsh is more sympathetic. Or at least his voice is. “It’s Talin.”

  “Wh…what happened to her?” I put a hand over my mouth, dry heaving. “She didn’t look like that when I left.”

  “What did she look like?” Morse says pointedly.

  “I…I love her.” I can’t bear to use past tense. “I never would have laid a finger on her.”

  “She had marks all over. Bruises. In addition to the stab wounds.” Morse ticks off on his fingers. “You wanna know how many times she was stabbed?”