All the Pretty Lies

by Marin Montgomery

  I shake my head vigorously. Of course I don’t want to know.

  “Did you count?” Morse slams his fist down.

  “Looks like sexual trauma. Or maybe it was consensual. Semen in her that was recent. We’ll need samples. Hair, sperm, blood.”

  “Why her?” Walsh is curious. “Youth? Beauty?”

  “I have an open marriage.” I don’t know why I say it, but I do.

  “Is that your alibi?” Morse says. “Why did you fly out that night?”

  “I had to get back,” I say lamely.

  Walsh adds, “We’re going to need a statement. A timeline from when you flew in to when you left.”

  “I’m a suspect, aren’t I?” I cover my mouth with my hand, unmoving.

  “Everyone is a suspect until they’re not.” Walsh is firm. “Friends. Anyone we think that might’ve harmed her. That includes you.” He gives me a searching look.

  I can only nod.

  “Why don’t you walk us through the chain of events.” Walsh stands to hand me a tissue. “And you can come back and sit at the table if it’s more comfortable.”

  Resting my hand on the wall next to me, I use it as a support system to stand. I’m in a trance, the blood rushing to my head.

  A constant pounding as I imagine Tally, her frozen eyes, the stab wounds…

  I don’t recognize her.

  That’s what scares me the most - that someone could mangle her body like that. There’s no word in the dictionary that can accurately describe what I’ve just seen.

  Heartless isn’t even descriptive enough.

  Wiping my mouth, a sense of hate overcomes me. I ball my hands into fists as I settle back into the cramped metal chair.

  Morse is no-nonsense. “Let’s start at the beginning, when you first met Ms. Forrester. You said a Starbucks. What transpired from there?”

  I take a deep breath. The story of us. Our conversation after we sat down to have our coffee.

  “You’re married.” She’s matter-of-fact.

  “Yes.” I shrug. “I am.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Why talk to me?” She crosses her arms over her chest.

  “I feel drawn to you.” I run my hands over my cup, imagining how they would feel over her body. “I can’t not at least let you know I’m interested.”

  She tilts her head. “But then what?”

  “Why does there have to be a ‘then what?’”

  “Because there’s always an ending. You can’t have a beginning without an end.”

  “I’m not leaving,” I say.

  “I’m not sleeping with you.” Her face is taut.

  But we do. We make out in the car, her small hands running over my shoulders, my striped tie. My hands feeling her lithe body, the eyes that penetrated every fiber of my being.

  Sporadic texts turned into calls.

  We started out sharing our day-to-days. Funny stories that happen. Memes. GIFS. Snapchat.

  Then we delved deeper.

  Into our pasts. Why she dated who she did.

  My marriage.

  Morse is asking a question. I snap back to reality.

  “Did you argue?”

  I pause, considering the question. If I admit we did, then what?

  “That night, you mean?”

  “If you argued throughout the course of your relationship, what was it you argued about?” Walsh explains.

  I look at the scratched surface of the table. I flash back to our first fight, about two months after we started talking. It wasn’t about my travel or my wife. It was about money. I was in her kitchen, looking in her drawer for a mallet or something to pound the meat down with. We were cooking Chicken Piccata, and I needed to flatten the breasts.

  My mouth gapes. The top drawer, a typical junk drawer, is filled with unopened bills. I try not to jump to conclusions. Maybe everything is on auto-pay.

  “Tally, can you come here a second?” I yell.

  No response.

  She might be in her bedroom, probably journaling in her yellow-flowered notebook or if she’s in her walk-in, I doubt she can hear me. I grab a fistful of envelopes and head back to the master. She’s lying in bed, listening to music, her hands flying across the keypad on her MacBook.

  The grin she gives me makes me want to reconsider, but I don’t.

  ‘What’s up, babe?” She looks at me. Her grin fades into a straight line as I say, “We need to talk.” She’s leaning against her wrought iron headboard, a pillow propped up behind her.

  “Uh-oh, ‘we need to talk’ is serious.” She turns the volume down. “Are you breaking up with me?” She’s joking.

  I’m not.

  “What’re these?” I hold up the bills as her face falls.

  She attempts a joke. “I don’t know, Trebek, I’m guessing bills for $500.”

  “Scoot over.” I motion towards the bed. She moves towards the right, opening up a spot for me to sit on the bed beside her.

  “I think,” I say carefully, “that these are unpaid bills piling up.”

  “And?” She shrugs, her face focused on her computer screen. “So what?”

  I give her a dirty look, reaching out my hand to close the lid of her laptop. “I think we need to discuss why you aren’t paying your bills.”

  She shoots me a look, like I’m the one asking dumb questions, and continues sarcastically, “Well, Reed, because I don’t have the money.”

  “Don’t use that tone on me,” I chide.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want to have a convo with you about this right now.”

  “Why are you going through my drawers?” She’s defensive, a scowl on her face.

  “I was looking for utensils.” I pull the laptop off her lap and set it down on the side table. “That’s not the point of this discussion.”

  “And it led you to my junk drawer?” She bites her lip.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you find any coupons?” She’s trying to steer the topic away from the matter at hand. I shake my head. “Never mind that. Why didn’t you talk to me if you needed money?”

  “And say what?” She mimics. “Reed, can you ask your wife if I can have some money that could go to her Prada shoe fund?”

  “Stop.” I grab her foot and yank on it lightly. “That’s not fair.”

  “I just got in over my head.”

  “With what?” I ask. “Is the mortgage too much?” She’s lived in this house for less than a year. It’s her first house, and I know that adulting was sometimes too much for her.

  She sighs, her green eyes firing on all cylinders. “I just…I guess I had unexpected bills come up.”

  “Like what? “I prod.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Do you need help?” I elbow her in the ribs.

  “Maybe.”

  “You have to be able to talk to me about this kind of stuff.”

  ‘And say what?” Her eyes narrow. “You aren’t here very much, you have no idea what goes on when you’re not around.”

  “But I’d like to,” I interrupt.

  “Why does it matter to you?”

  “Because I care about you, Tally.” I try and pull her into the crook of my arm. She fights me, her eyes struggling to contain her tears.

  “You care and then you’ll leave.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s inevitable.”

  “I love you.” I don’t know why I choose that moment to tell her that. It had been on the tip of my tongue for a couple weeks. She tries to pull back, but I keep my eyes focused on hers. “I love you.”

  “What?” She whispers.

  I repeat myself, enunciating every word. “I…love…you.”

  Tears stream down her face. “Don’t say that because you feel sorry for me.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for you at all. I’m pissed as hell you’re letting bills lapse.” I kiss her hair, running my fingers through
it, whispering. “We’re going to get you set up on a budget. And I’m going to get you a credit card that you can use.”

  She snuggles into my arms, her hands wrapping around my neck. “I love you too,” she whispers in my ear.

  Walsh pulls me out of my reverie. “Did you argue that night, Mr. Bishop?”

  “No,” I lie. “We didn’t.”

  “But you did…” Morse frowns. “You left a nasty voicemail and texts.”

  I sigh, shrugging my shoulders as if to say, “so what?”

  “There’s no advantage to lying.” Morse gives me a stern glance. “You can’t hide the facts, Mr. Bishop.”

  “Since you fought, what was it about?” Walsh takes a sip of his water.

  “We had a dumb argument once about undercooked chicken.” I keep my tone neutral. “We also had a couple of tiffs about time. Logistics.”

  Walsh narrows his eyes. “Logistics on when you see each other?”

  “Specifically that night, what did you argue about?” Morse asks.

  “Just our time together.” I pause. “And the direction our relationship was headed.”

  “Tell us about your open relationship,” Morse interjects. “What is the dynamic of that?”

  “Uh...”I pause. “My wife and I have an agreement that we can see other people. As long as we are honest with each other about our marriage and that we aren’t leaving for someone else,” I add.

  “And the other people are aware of these facts? Do you and your wife swap partners?” Morse asks.

  “No.”

  “So the people you see know about your arrangement?”

  I nod in agreement. Morse opens his mouth to remind me to verbally answer. “Yes.”

  “Then that explains why your wife also has a boyfriend.” He ruminates.

  Now it’s my turn to be surprised.

  Chapter Seven

  Reed

  I bite down on my lip hard, tasting blood.

  “Yes, that’s why she has a boyfriend,” I repeat. I can barely spit the words out. Meghan with a boyfriend. Downgrading to some hick bar owner. I assume that’s who he means.

  Walsh watches me with curiosity, his eyes trained on my every movement, the body language I project.

  “Am I free to go?” I ask. I’m exhausted, the questions rapid fire, the sight of Tally making me queasy all over again.

  “One more question,” Morse pipes in.

  “Do you know of any enemies who might have wanted to harm Tally? Ex-boyfriends? Co-workers? Friends?”

  I think about the question. She had a couple of girlfriends, but she kept to herself besides Martha. Self-preservation, I guess.

  “No,” I respond.

  “What about your wife?” Walsh asks. “Did she have any reason to be upset about it?”

  “No.” I hurry to remark. “She’d never hurt anyone. She’s the kind of person who wants to adopt every stray cat and hates killing bugs.”

  I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

  “Okay.” Walsh stands up. “You are free to go…for now. We will have more questions.”

  “I know.” I say. “You have my cell.”

  “What can you tell us about Tally’s parents?”

  “They’re gone. Died in a car accident when she was a teen.”

  “Family?”

  “Only child.” I practically leap out of my chair, wanting nothing more than to leave the sallow walls and the medicinal quality of the room.

  Morse is still sitting in his conference room back in Portland.

  “I’ll walk you out.” Walsh turns to the screen. “Be right back, Morse.” He pulls open the handle of the door and motions for me to step ahead of him. He walks in sync with me, matching me step for step as we walk down the hallway.

  “What happened to her?” I ask suddenly. The question catches him off guard.

  He eyes me warily. “Multiple stab wounds.”

  “Is that what…” I choke. “Is that what ended her?”

  “No. Internal injuries. Carotid artery was pierced.” Walsh looks me square in the eye. “A nine-inch serrated knife was used in the attack. It hit the artery and she bled out.”

  I close my eyes for a second, picturing her. Trying to fend off an intruder.

  “Was it a robbery?”

  “No.” Walsh looks me dead on, his voice serious. “She knew her killer, Mr. Bishop. She knew him real well. A crime of passion. Intense passion by the number of lesions.” He reaches down to shake my hand as I turn to leave. He holds onto my grip, firmly clasping my hand in his. “We will catch the killer, Mr. Bishop. I hope to hell it’s not you. If it is, you better be prepared because I want nothing more than to take this asshole down.”

  I head out of the station, head down, one step at a time. My back is covered in sweat, my white t-shirt soaked underneath my polo.

  Leaning back in the black leather seat, I close my eyes, wetness sliding down my cheeks. I lay my head on the steering wheel, gripping the plastic for dear life as I unleash frantic tears and guttural sounds I didn’t know I was capable of.

  Tally.

  Sliding my phone out of my pocket, my finger clicks on the folder that houses my secret app. It’s my dummy Portland number and my text exchanges with Tally. I have a folder of pictures of her and of us. I’m tempted to delete them, finger hovering over the garbage icon, but I can’t.

  It’s all I have left of her.

  The heaviness hits me, and I feel a squeezing in my chest. I’ll never hear her voice again. The thought of that, the permanency, is gut-wrenching.

  Our goodbye was strained.

  I silently whisper, “I love you, Tally.”

  When I press my eyes shut, I see her face, anguished, her limbs tormented until she took her last breath.

  Searching on Google, I find the local news in Portland.

  Immediately, a list of articles pop up. The Oregon Daily Adventurer has the top search result. I click on it.

  Horrified, I read through the breaking news article.

  Local Woman Found Murdered in Her Bungalow

  Police say a twenty-seven-year-old woman was killed in her home in the late hours of Friday evening or early Saturday morning in the Pillar neighborhood on Mountain Aire Drive.

  The woman was stabbed to death multiple times. Her name has not been released pending next of kin notification. She was found in the bedroom of her house.

  No one is in custody, and no suspects have been named.

  If you have any information, please contact the Portland Police Department.

  I look at a couple more articles - they’re all vague, and none have released her name yet.

  My body shudders.

  The bedroom? Our sanctuary?

  I lean back and think about leaving her, the tremor in her voice, the annoyance in mine. This is how we left it.

  How I left it.

  I’m ashamed, wiping a tear as I recall that night. She went to the bathroom to escape me.

  The man. A man was walking when I left. He looked harmless, I assumed he was a neighbor.

  Was he the killer? He was walking towards me when I left. Should I say something to the cops?

  You’re the main suspect, I remind myself.

  She was scared though, acting skittish for a couple of weeks.

  True, she lived her life outside of mine. Our paths intersected at times but remained parallel.

  Buckling my seat belt, I ponder the conversations we’d had. I had thought she was looking for attention, being dramatic.

  What if Meghan suspected an affair? Would she have intervened?

  My heart sinks.

  I can’t imagine my wife involved, but she said she had a surprise, a permanent one.

  The last place I want to go is home.

  I drive around the block a couple times, noticing a commotion near our house.

  A news van.

  Followed by another one.

  Backing up, I drive down a side street and pull over.

/>   I don’t remember the drive back from the police station. My mind’s a fog, a chunk of time dissipated from memory. My recollection of driving is nil.

  Did my wife kill my mistress?

  Part II

  Meghan

  Chapter Eight

  Meghan

  My husband’s hiding something.

  He’s quick to slam his phone down or keep it at a distance, his eyes darting, making sure it’s always in his line of sight. Or worse yet, he’ll put it away, not bothering to pull it out of his pocket. I can hear it vibrate, but he silences it.

  Worse yet, he ignores me. And the kids.

  It got more noticeable about five months ago. His attention span went from half-hearted partner to an almost stranger.

  We’re roommates that sleep in the same bed but have no intimacy. He hardly touches me. I’ve had to initiate sex the few times we’ve had it, and his excuses remind me of a woman’s. Headache, too tired, have to get up early.

  I finally started coming to bed later and later. The rejection stung to the point that I’d rather immerse myself in mindless television and reality shows. Hearing no was too much for my fragile psyche.

  To occupy my time, besides helping at my father’s oil company as an administrative assistant, I started doing yoga. It clears my mind, my pores sweat out most of the bad feelings I have. Except about my husband and me. It gives me the energy to focus on something else other than what or who he’s doing.

  My mind wanders back to my first week at yoga.

  I attempt a warrior stance and lose my balance in the hot, crowded room. The class is full, my body dripping with sweat, and my foot catches in the damp towel over my mat.

  “And breathe…” the instructor commands.

  I crash, a loud thud as I miss my mat entirely and hit the hardwood floor, landing on my butt. I hear a rip as the thin fabric of my old gym shorts rips, exposing more than I’d care to in a room full of strangers.

  I’m in the first row. My face burns as I lower my eyes, ignoring the stares in the mirror. A man in the row behind me tries to catch my eye in the glass and gives me a small smile. I divert my gaze to the other side of the room, where a woman pretends to be staring at a point over my shoulder.