All the Pretty Lies

by Marin Montgomery

  Walsh must’ve been waiting for me, as he appears out of my peripheral vision the second I enter the dreary station.

  “Mrs. Bishop?” He swoops in, a bottle of water in hand.

  I nod my head, affirming his question.

  “Thanks for coming in on such short notice.” I don’t add that it wasn’t a suggestion, it was a request.

  “Follow me please.”

  He takes me into what must be his office. A small window with bars is his only contact with the outside world. His desk is piled high, manuals, magazines, books, and paperwork cluttering every inch of space. His computer is ancient, one that I thought would be extinct by now. The keyboard isn’t visible underneath his stacks of papers.

  “Please have a seat.” He motions to a chair covered in more manila folders, their contents haphazardly shoved in them. Grabbing the pile, he makes room for me to sit.

  He has to shove his way behind his own desk. I wait patiently as he gets situated, staring at him as he toys with a ballpoint pen.

  “Why am I here?” I cut to the chase.

  “Straightforward. I can appreciate that.” He scrutinizes me. “An accident happened.”

  I cringe at the word. “Out of town? Dallas?”

  “No. Portland.”

  “Car accident?”

  “No.”

  “Someone I know?”

  “Doubtful, but according to your husband, you know of her.”

  I’m exasperated. “What is this about?”

  Walsh studies me for a minute. “How would you say your marriage is?”

  I blink rapidly a couple times. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you separated?”

  “No… and I don’t understand your line of questioning.” I lean forward, hands on my knees.

  “Let me back up.” He thumps the pen on the desk.

  “Please do.” I can feel myself getting riled up.

  “Your husband, Reed Bishop, he’s got a huge problem right now.”

  “He hit a person?” I’m confused.

  “He more than beat the shit out of them.” I grimace at his response. He continues. “We’re talking multiple stab wounds. Did you know Talin Forrester or of her?”

  I stare at him blankly. “No. Should I?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Is this the hit and run? Is that the girl who was killed?”

  “Mrs. Bishop, this hit and run you keep alluding to. There’s no hit and run. There’s a murder. A cold-blooded, senseless murder. Your husband was our one and only suspect.”

  He gives me a cold, hard stare. “Except now, Mrs. Bishop. You’re our other prime one.”

  Chapter Ten

  Meghan

  Sitting back, I feel a knife to my heart. A quick stabbing pain, it starts repeating as it beats louder and cuts deeper.

  “What’re you talking about, Detective…”

  “Walsh. Detective Walsh.” He looks at me, his eyes unwavering from my face. “Was your husband out of town?”

  “Yes.” I tug at the hem of my flowered blouse.

  “When did he leave, and when did he get back?” He runs a hand through his hair, graying at the temples. “And where were you?”

  “He left on Tuesday, came back technically Saturday morning. It was early.” My tone’s acidic. “We have two small children. I’m their mother and primary caregiver. I didn’t leave town, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m happy to have others confirm this.”

  “Does he usually travel for that stretch of time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did he go this time?”

  “Dallas.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Detective Walsh, you’re trying to hone in on something. I don’t know what you’re alluding to. If you could be direct, I’d appreciate it. I’m playing catch up. Please help me understand what it is you’re aiming to get at.” I stare coldly at him.

  Now it’s his turn to lean back. He considers me. His eyes look me up and down, not in a leering way, in a considerate manner, as if he’s trying to decide what he can and should say.

  “Your husband wasn’t in Dallas.”

  “He wasn’t?” I twist the wedding band. It’s suffocating on my finger.

  “No, he was in Portland.” He assumes I’ll argue, so he’s already building his case. “We have the plane tickets, confirmation he was on board from the Portland to Houston airports, and receipts from the respective airports.”

  I nod. “Okay,” I say slowly. “And how does this involve a murder?”

  “Are you in an open relationship with your husband?” This is a trap. I can tell by the way he focuses on my face, my breathing, my hands planted firmly on my knees.

  “Yes.” I lie. I don’t know why I fib about being in a committed marriage. It just feels like this is part of a bigger series of deceit.

  “And the name Talin Forrester hasn’t come up?”

  “No, but we don’t share information.” Is this how open marriages work? You avoid intimate details, different sex the only outcome?

  “So the name means nothing?” he asks again.

  “No, Detective Walsh, it doesn’t.”

  “She was murdered. Brutally.” He licks his lips. “In her twenties. One of the worst crime scenes they’ve seen in Portland according to Peter Morse, the officer in charge of apprehending the killer or killers.”

  “And how does this involve Reed?” I’m stupefied.

  He’s a cheater, yes. Killer, no.

  “He was the last known person to see the victim alive.” Walsh leans forward, his hands steepled on his desk. “Reed was with the victim from Tuesday until he left to go to the airport, and we suspect it was after murdering Talin.”

  “But why?” My mind’s spinning in different directions, contemplating the bombshell he’s just dropped on me.

  “She wanted him to leave you.” Walsh shrugs. “Begged him to divorce you and be with her. When he wouldn’t, she tried to end it. And no one leaves a Bishop,” he says haughtily.

  My eyes narrow. Reed’s not technically a Bishop. He took my last name, an anomaly from tradition.

  “Are you seeing anyone with this dynamic you have?”

  “I’m not in an open relationship.” I blurt out. “Reed might be, but I’m not.” He’s silently judging me, I can tell from the stare on his face.

  “What have you been doing the last couple of days? Is there a routine I can confirm?”

  “I need an alibi?” I’m incredulous.

  “No, it’s more a formality.”

  “Besides shuttling my children around?” I chew on my lip. “I practice yoga a couple times a week.”

  “Ahh...I’m a big fan. What’s your favorite position?” he asks.

  My face reddens. I’m imagining Jarrett. I realize he’s asking about yoga.

  “Warrior,” I say.

  He nods. “Good choice.”

  “What do you need me to do?” I ask. “My husband’s a lot of things, but he’s not a murderer.”

  Walsh raises his hands in the air, as if he needs to protect himself from my invisible blows. “I need to know any details you can think of regarding their relationship. If you don’t…” he adds, “these are serious charges. You wouldn’t want to waste time behind bars away from your children.”

  I’m stunned at his threat. “I have nothing to hide, Detective. He came home early yesterday morning,” I advise. “I even spoke to him on the plane, right before they took off.”

  “Did you talk to him between the hours of 7 P.M. and 11 P.M.?”

  I try and recall. My memories are not working on command. I hesitate.

  “No, you didn’t,” Walsh answers for me. “His phone bounced off a tower near Talin’s between those hours. He only called and left her a nasty message.”

  I don’t have a response. I stare at him.

  “You tried to call him a couple times, and he didn’t answer.” Walsh nods towards the door. “You’re f
ree to go. I’ll call you with any questions.”

  “Should I keep this meeting a secret?” I feel woozy, my legs numb.

  If I stand, I will topple over.

  “Yes, please.”

  “What do you want me to say, Detective Walsh?” I feel faint.

  “I want to know why you are both lying about your respective partners.”

  Now it’s my turn to search him, to read his lined face.

  “Our personal lives are no one’s business.”

  “They aren’t until I have a dead girl on my hands in another state and it ties back to this city. You know we will look into your relationships as well?” He motions towards his phone. “He will give you up fast if there’s anything to hide.”

  “I’m not worried about it,” I say evenly.

  “Don’t think your daddy and money will protect you,” he admonishes.

  Abruptly I stand, holding onto the chair arm to steady myself.

  How dare he. I’m astonished at his rough responses and inferences.

  “Meghan,” his voice whispers. “I don’t want her blood seeping into this town and tarnishing our rep. We have enough problems without dragging a Portland homicide into our jurisdiction.”

  Grasping my purse close to my side, I head out of his office, the smell of body odor and spilled cologne permeating the hall.

  I’m going to be sick. I duck into the nearest women’s stall and heave.

  My personal life wasn’t meant to be probed and examined under a microscope.

  Chapter Eleven

  Meghan

  When I climb into my Mazda, I have four missed calls and seven texts from Reed.

  I don’t respond. My mind’s running rampant, picturing a dead girl. Who is this woman? When I found the note a couple weeks ago, I had no return address or name to go by.

  Turning the radio up, I try to focus on music, hoping some oldies will soothe me enough to calm my frazzled nerves and make it back home.

  News travels fast - our street is swarming with unmarked cars and news crews. They line the sidewalk with their equipment and nosy questions, wanting to interview the neighbors.

  Sighing, I call Reed.

  “We need to talk,” he moans.

  “Clearly.”

  “I’m on my way home from the Hanky Panky.” He sounds buzzed.

  Sinking down into a plush beige chair in front of the television, I turn on the TV, pulling off my flats as I rub my sore feet. I’ve been wearing heels most of the week, and my aching Achilles reminds me of this. I’m massaging the ball of my foot when I hear “Reed Bishop, a local Houston native, is being questioned in the murder of a twenty-seven-year-old woman in Portland, Oregon. He’d been having an affair with the victim.”

  That fast.

  It made the news that fast.

  I stare at the screen, transfixed.

  A dark-haired woman speaking into a microphone, talking about this man, this seeming monster I’m married to. As if she knows him, his habits, and she’s so matter-of-fact. I’d believe anything she said.

  Unlike this ‘fake news’ I keep hearing about.

  The garage door clanks.

  “Meg?” Reed yells from the foyer.

  Unmoving, I don’t dare turn to look at this man.

  I can’t.

  The smell of liquor might as well be the scent of cologne, it’s that overpowering, the way it oozes out of his pores.

  His touch on my shoulder makes me cringe, it’s as if a cockroach has crawled on my skin.

  Swallowing, I look at him. His rumpled polo, mussed-up hair, the crazy look in his eyes. He scampers between the television and me.

  “Meghan,” he slurs. “We gotta talk.”

  I nod, unsteady as I stand.

  Vacating my chair, I help Reed sit down. “Turn it off,” he commands. “Turn the damn thing off.” I grab the remote, clicking the off button. He rests his head back against the sofa cushion. I pat his shoulder, as if he were a child, as if my awkward touch can make this nightmare dissipate.

  “I’m going to make sure the garage door is shut.” I turn to walk out of the room. I’m relieved he didn’t drive, his vehicle missing from its usual spot.

  “Water, babe,” Reed says to my back.

  The door’s closed most of the way, but there’s a gap at the bottom, enough for someone to crawl under. I wait for it to rise and then close it again.

  I busy myself with the tap, grab a water glass, and bring it back to him.

  “I need you sober.” I shove the glass in his hand.

  “I saw the news.”

  “So did I,” I murmur. “I guess the hit and run is more than a car wreck you witnessed.”

  “I had to gather my thoughts. His voice trails off. “The implications...”

  “I’m piecing it together, no thanks to you.” I’m snide. “One snapshot of the dead girl at a time.” He looks like he’s been slapped. I slump down on the edge of the sofa.

  “I’m sorry,” I groan. “That was uncalled for. This has been a surreal day.”

  He buries his head in his hands.

  Moving to sit on the sofa next to the chair, I pull my bare feet underneath me. “I think you have some explaining to do.” I keep my voice neutral.

  “I know,” he mumbles. “I didn’t kill her though.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A woman I met in Portland.”

  “Clearly, Reed.” I swipe a piece of hair off my face. “Tell me something I’m not hearing on the news. What is she to you?”

  Silence.

  I knead my hands together. “This isn’t the time to lie, Reed. The truth needs to come out. What do I need to prepare for? A one-night stand? A string of them? How many are there?”

  He bites his lip, gripping the arms of the chair as he speaks. “Six months we’ve been seeing each other. Now she’s dead.” He opens his eyes, searching my face. “I didn’t kill her.”

  Making eye contact, I have to lock eyes with him, see if he avoids my gaze or drops his stare.

  He doesn’t. This has always been my foolproof way to know if he’s being straight with me.

  “Did you fall in love?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think you should move into the spare room.”

  He nods, no argument needed.

  “The cops will contact me?” It’s factual, not a question. I don’t mention they already have. I need to pump him for information, find out what his story is without him knowing I spoke to them. How much of the truth is he willing to tell me?

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I told them you knew. Not necessarily about her, but that we had an…uh…” He stumbles. “An open relationship, and we’re free to date others.”

  “Tell me about the girl.” I can barely spit out the words.

  “Talin?”

  “Tell me enough that I know when they ask.”

  “Everything you probably heard on the news.” His voice drips with acid.

  “The news isn’t going to save you or give me an intimate account of your relationship.” I glare at him. “Don’t put this on me. If you want help, you better start talking.”

  He’s rigid.

  “How long?”

  “Almost six months. It started in December,” he adds. “Beginning of the month. When I went to Portland for a work trip.”

  “I knew something was going on.” I rub a hand over my face.

  “I figured you did. You’ve grown distant yourself.” He shrugs, accusatory. His tone grates on my nerves and I ignore the exasperated voice in my head threatening to scream obscenities at him.

  “Did you talk about me?” I’m shaking inside, trying to keep a cool demeanor on the outside, my hands trembling as I look at his face. “All my failures as a wife?”

  “No.” He’s firm. “I kept you out of it.”

  “And the kids?”

  “She knows I have kids.” He corrects himself. “We have kid
s.” It feels like a slap across my face. He notices the way I tense up, and his hand reaches out, trying to clasp mine. I don’t take it. He lets it drop, limp in his lap. “I love you, Meghan, that’ll never change.”

  I laugh, snorting, the most asinine words to be added after ‘I’m having an affair, she’s dead, and by the way, I still love you,’

  “Did she have any enemies? Crazy exes?” I tick off on my fingers. “Any friends or family that’re pissed off?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Except for my husband,” I cut in.

  We stare at each other, eyes wide.

  “I’ll tell the cops we were involved with other people from time to time.” I bite my lip. “This way it will detract attention from the fact you were hiding it from me. I’ll put on a united front. We will just be another suburbia couple that have skeletons in our closet.”

  “But it’s a big walk-in closet.”

  “Sounds like it is,” I mutter.

  “Why would you cover for me?” His eyes are fixed on my face.

  “Because we have our family to consider.” I pick at a nail, the hot pink polish chipping off. “We have our business and I can shoulder some of the responsibility, make it seem like we are a newly-enlightened couple that loves each other but needs others to stay fulfilled.”

  The phone starts ringing off the hook.

  Messages start piling one after the other on the answering machine.

  “We need an attorney,” I start to say at the exact moment the doorbell rings. I stand, expecting to see a neighbor or my parents.

  It’s not. It’s them.

  Chapter Twelve

  Meghan

  The buzzer keeps chiming, one after the other, as if it’s malfunctioning and an invisible finger keeps pressing it. Except when I peek out the curtains, it’s a news van. Channel Ten. The pale hand belongs to a redhead from the station.

  I jump away from the window, flinging the curtains back into place. Shrieking, I don’t realize Frasier is right behind me as he barks at the intrusion.