All the Pretty Lies

by Marin Montgomery

  “Who is this?” I stare at the screen. Caller ID blocked.

  “A local that sees you butting your nose into something you have no business looking into.”

  Hitting the automatic locks, I respond. “So you killed her?”

  “Are you deaf? I said yes.” His tone is menacing.

  I want to call his bluff. “If you killed her, then tell me something that only the killer would know.”

  “I lost count after stabbing her twenty-seven times, one for every year she was alive.”

  “You sick fuck,” I’m panic-stricken, my palms covered in perspiration as I hold the phone away from my ear.

  “That’s not news though. Her cat was covered in her blood. If you go look on the back fence that you’re near, you’ll find specks of it on the wood. It looks like dried paint. It’s not.”

  I start to respond. The line goes dead.

  When I hit redial, I get a busy signal.

  Immediately I call Owen, his number on speed dial.

  “Owen.” I’m frantic. “Someone just called me and told me they killed that girl.”

  “Whoa, what?” I hear background noise and murmurs. “Who called you?”

  “Shit, I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s not a problem. Let me step away from this crowd. I’m at a charity golf event at the Eagle Resort.”

  I’m hyperventilating. I stick my head between my knees. “I just got a call from a man who claimed to have killed Talin.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a prank?” He’s logical. It makes me want to scream.

  “I asked him to tell me something only the killer would know.”

  “Oh God, Meghan, why would you do that?” He groans. “You walked right into a trap.”

  “He knew where I’d find blood that wasn’t in the house.”

  “Meghan, listen to me, and listen hard.” Owen’s tone is no-nonsense. “I know you’re under an incredibly high amount of stress right now. People take these types of cases and use them to get off. It’s sick. There’s a lot of disgusting people in this world.”

  “But he said…”

  Owen interrupts. “Of course there’s blood elsewhere. Her cat was found in a pool of her blood.”

  I shake, my hands gripping the phone tightly. “Loras?”

  “How’d you know the cat’s name?”

  Quickly, I answer. “I read about it.”

  “Yes. That’s not info privy to anyone. It’s just someone trying to antagonize you. And it worked, right? I want you to relax, Meghan. We’re going to get Reed out.”

  “It might’ve been him that called.” My voice wavers.

  “Impossible. He’s in an intake cell. He won’t be released into the prison population for a while. He certainly won’t be calling you today. No privileges minus his attorney right now.”

  “Oh.” I say. “Thanks for telling me.”

  He sighs. “And you know your husband’s voice, Meg. Did it sound like him?”

  I demur.

  Suddenly, I don’t know anything. I’m walking on a tightrope and trying to balance as I’m being pulled in opposite directions.

  There’s a lull until I hear a man in the background screaming Owen’s name. “I gotta go, Meg. Call me if you need anything. Do me a favor though, and stop reading the papers and watching the news. You need a break.”

  “Yes sir.” I click the ‘end’ button, taking in my surroundings.

  My eyes glance in the rear view. I don’t see anyone, there aren’t any cars that have driven past.

  Was it one of the detectives messing with me?

  Probably.

  The picket fence is just high enough, six feet to be exact, Lydia Hogan on one side, another neighbor on the opposite.

  I’m tempted to stay in the car, but an invisible hand pushes me forward.

  No one can sneak up on you, I tell myself. It’s broad daylight.

  Wishing I had mace or a stun gun, I check my surroundings one last time. I have Lydia’s number pulled up in case I need her to run outside.

  The gravel crunches under my flats. A large tree stands tall in Talin’s backyard. I can’t see much else, the wall is too high to peer over. I’m tempted to climb up over the fence and look around.

  Do you hear what you’re saying, Meg? I chastise myself.

  You want to break into the house of a girl your husband slept with and who died when he was with her or shortly after while it’s under police surveillance.

  Why not have both parents arrested, leaving Rolly and Henry as orphans?

  My eyes scan the dark brown paint. At first, nothing seems out of the ordinary. The color’s peeling in spots, leaving grayish wood visible underneath. A small hole’s in the one of the boards, a perfect spot for the cat to climb through.

  I’m running my fingers over one of the boards, squinting at the aberration in the wood, when I notice some dark burgundy spots. They aren’t huge. If I’d been passing by and had no idea of the circumstances, I’d assume they were paint chips that didn’t match.

  I squint at the dots. No doubt about it. The splatters are blood.

  Gasping, I pull up the camera setting on my phone. Snapping a few pictures, I wonder if the detectives canvassed the neighborhood and checked the back alley. Surely this area is part of their investigation in case someone entered over the fence.

  As I’m considering where else the cat might have wandered with blood trailing him, I hear a noise. A chomp on the gravel behind me.

  Footsteps.

  Spinning around, I come face to face with a straggly-haired man. His greasy brown hair’s pulled back in a short ponytail, covering a bald spot. His skin’s flaking in spots, acne scars covering the surface.

  He holds a knife out as my scream cuts through the quiet afternoon.

  He found me.

  I’m the next victim.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Meghan

  The man stares at me in earnest, his eyes darting around the alley. “Pipe down, lady. I’m trying to help ya.”

  “What’re you talking about?” I step backwards, my back slamming into the fence, holding my arms out in front of me in warning.

  “Figured you got locked out and needed to pick the lock.” I look at him like he’s crazy.

  “See,” he points to the gate. “That lock is a simple pick. I’m happy to help.”

  “Do you not know what happened here?” I ask, covering my chest with my hand.

  He eyes me suspiciously. “No, should I?”

  I switch topics. “What’re you doing back here anyway?”

  “I could ask you the same.” He narrows his eyes at me. “I ride my bike on a couple trails that’re around here.”

  “If you ride, then where’s your bike?” I glance around, nothing but trash and cigarette butts at our feet. It’s a difference from the pristine yards in the front.

  He points to where the gravel ends and concrete begins. “Over there.” I let my eyes drift farther back. There’s a navy mountain bike with gray stripes perched against a lamp post.

  “Oh, yeah, right.” I nod. “It’s the perfect day to enjoy biking.”

  “So do you need my help or not?” He shifts from one foot to the other. His arms and legs have scratches, long, cragged marks. The joys of mountain biking, I think. “If not, I got a trail to chase.”

  “Thanks for the offer.” As much as I’d love to add breaking and entering to my impressive skills, the cops have to be watching this place like hawks.

  Unless they’ve given up on finding the killer since Reed’s in prison.

  “Actually,” I say sweetly. “Can you? I got locked out. My boyfriend’s out of town and he has the other set of keys. My spare’s on the patio.”

  He searches my face for a second, his eyes drifting down over my chest. I feel self-conscious, the way his eyes linger there a moment too long.

  “No problem.” He steps up to the metal lock. “I used to jimmy these all the time.”

&n
bsp; “What’s that red stuff on the wall?” he asks suddenly.

  “Dried paint.” I finesse over the topic. “Bad paint job.”

  “Oh gotcha. If I didn’t know better, I’d say blood.” My veins turn ice cold but he doesn’t notice, humming an old Jimi Hendrix tune as he works at the lock, the Swiss Army knife twisting in the key hole.

  He clicks the lock off and motions to it like he’s serenading me.

  “There you go.”

  “Thanks.” I’m nervous, my phone slipping in my sweaty grasp. I wonder if he’s planning to follow me in the backyard.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Only a couple of years.” I decide to add. “I’m originally from Texas.”

  “I know a couple people from Texas. This is an up-and-coming neighborhood. Wonder how you liked it.” He brushes a strand of hair off his face. A bruise covers his neck. It looks painful.

  He notices me staring at the contusion and pulls his ponytail out, covering the offending mark.

  Embarrassed to be caught gaping at him, I say. “I love it. The neighbors are great.” We stare each other down. I’m waiting for him to leave, he’s waiting for me to pass him to enter the backyard.

  “Thanks again.” It’s impossible to step around him without brushing past his bulky chest. He’s standing way too close. This was a bad idea. What if he follows me into the backyard? I’ll just peer around the house and leave. I don’t want to get arrested for trespassing.

  His eyes drill into my back. I give a small wave as I shut the gate behind me.

  Her yard’s a lot smaller than Lydia’s. It’s not as green or well-kept. The grass needs tending. Sparse patches of brown spots are intertwined with weeds that seem to have no stopping point in sight. There’s one large tree, a Douglas fir. It stands tall, needles making a blanket around the base. It provides shade to a good portion of the house. There’s a small patio outside of the sliding glass doors which I assume go to a master bedroom.

  The master bedroom, I remind myself, thinking of the news articles.

  My body tingles, as if I’m doing something illegal - which technically I am. It’s more than that, though.

  Eyes. I feel like I’m being watched. I haven’t committed to ghosts, but there’s an eerie sensation, as if I’m not alone. Goosebumps tingle down my body. Shivering, I cross my arms, hoping to warm myself. I move out of the shadows of the deciduous tree, the sunlight once again making contact with my skin.

  Staring at the patio door, I notice it’s the only entrance to the house from the back yard. There’s no garage, just the cement slab in the front, her tan car visible through thin slats in the fence.

  A shudder creeps down my spine. It’s only because something bad happened here, I remind myself. A voice in my head tells me to turn around, not take any steps closer towards the house.

  I sprint across the short distance to the fence, gripping the latch.

  Tugging on it, it groans. It doesn’t move.

  It must be stuck. I pull on it, shaking it up and down, the fastener never coming open.

  Gripping the wood with both hands, I yank as hard as I can. There’s no give. Sonofabitch. He locked me in the back.

  Puzzled, I look down at my phone. I start to panic but remember I have Lydia’s number. Should I call her? She’s not going to be able to help me over the fence. I think about her stooped posture and weak movements.

  Maybe there’s a ladder or step-stool I can use to climb over. Walking fast, I head back to the house. There’s nothing in the yard minus lawn tools and a garbage can.

  The plastic garbage can. It might be high enough that I can stand on it without breaking my neck.

  I step onto the concrete slab near the patio door. There are vertical blinds, but they’re haphazardly pushed to the side, as if someone violently moved them. My hands tremble.

  Walking closer to peek inside, I see a bathroom door to the left. It’s ajar. I can make out the edge of a walk-in shower. Holding a hand to my mouth, my anxiety rises. This is where she was attacked. My eyes drift to the floor. It’s hardwood, except there are large brown spots that look as if someone kept spilling a paint can over.

  Her blood.

  The walls are a cream color, yet on one side there are dried splatters that are reminiscent of those art projects where the spinning wheel sends paint flying all over a blank canvas.

  Gagging, I try and mentally calm myself down. Puking would be a dead giveaway that someone else was here. Can they use puke for DNA samples? Probably.

  I can see from an outline where her body was found, the chalk tracing an awkward position. She must have been on her side with one hand splayed out.

  If Reed did this, I swear to God I want him behind bars for life. He will be dead to his children, no questions asked.

  I’m staring in the glass, careful not to lean up against it and leave prints, when I sense a movement. There’s a flash, as if someone’s outside the bedroom door and dashed across the hall into another room. Squinting, I cover my hands with my eyes and concentrate, the bedroom door open to the rest of the house. I see two other doorways from my vantage point.

  There’s the feeling again, a cold hand squeezing my shoulder, putting ice cubes down my back.

  It’s time to go.

  I start to turn away from the house when I’m sure I see movement inside. I know I didn’t imagine it.

  Someone’s in there.

  What if that guy’s inside? He locked me in, trying to spook me. Maybe this is his idea of a prank. Aren’t the police watching? If someone’s in here, wouldn’t they know? I’d think surveillance would be useful at a random murder house.

  Except they think the killer’s behind bars, I remind myself.

  I’m looking in the glass when I see a blur come around the corner in my peripheral.

  As I gape at the door, a man’s shadow comes up behind me.

  We lock eyes in the window, my pupils dilating, his narrowing.

  He’s tall, rough-looking, the kind of man you would avoid in a dark alley. He’s over six feet tall and muscular, wearing dark clothing from head to toe. My eyes shift down. Black combat boots.

  Swallowing hard, I start to take a step to the side, ready to make a run for it. My eyes are trained on his, the tight expression on his face.

  He’s faster, anticipating my next move.

  Reaching out, he clasps my arms to my side and tightens his grip around my elbows, squeezing me into one tightly wound piece.

  “What in the…” I start to scream. “Help, help me. Somebody help me.” My voice goes up an octave, terror biting each word.

  “Quiet.” The voice whispers in my ear, his hot breath tickling my lobe. He wrangles my phone out of my death grip holding it. Releasing my elbow for an instant, he shoves the phone in his pocket before seizing me firmly again.

  “You can’t hurt me! They’re watching your every move.”

  “Who?” He never loosens my arms.

  I crane my head to try and look at him, but he has me at an angle that I can’t move. “The police.”

  “No, they aren’t.” He says this matter-of-fact.

  I call his bluff. “Yes, they are. Cameras are all over this place.”

  “I didn’t see any.”

  “Why did you kill her?”

  No answer.

  “Are you going to kill me?” I’m frantic, a sense of fear growing in the pit of my stomach. This man could definitely overpower Talin.

  Silence.

  Instead of dragging me backwards towards the yard, he grabs the handle of the sliding glass door and slides it open. It smoothly glides down the tracks. Why is her door open when it’s an active crime scene? I ask myself.

  I didn’t even think to pull on the handle, my prints would be there permanently.

  He’s going to kill me the same way. I shake my head furiously back and forth, searching for a knife on his body.

  Grabbing my hands and clasping them behind my back, he pulls m
e with him.

  “No,” I holler. “I’m not going in there.”

  Roughly, he pinches my arm. “You don’t have a choice.”

  I try and stomp on his foot, but he’s quicker. He yanks me up by my armpits, carrying me into the room as if I’m a doll. He’s careful to step around the stains, his heavy boots thumping on the hardwood.

  Shutting my eyes, I avoid looking at the crime scene, the gruesome aftermath.

  Kicking backwards, I connect with his knee, and his hands slip as he struggles to stay upright.

  “Stop it,” he says angrily, bringing his knee up to bump me on the lower back.

  “Why me?” I ask. “You don’t want me. I’m old. I have kids. I’m not from here,” I blabber on.

  “Why are you causing trouble?”

  “I’m not,” I stammer.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” He plops me on the navy sofa, where I land with a thud on my butt in the living room. A built-in nook full of novels and knick-knacks line the walls.

  I rub my arms. They’re sore where he was clutching me. “Ouch,” I murmur.

  His eyes narrow at me, the dark pupils giving me an ominous stare, pure evil seeping out of them.

  The house has a potent stench - a combination of blood, piss, and dust, and a distinct cat smell. The blinds are shut, the dark encompassing me. I blink my eyes, adjusting to the lack of lighting.

  I start to stand. His voice nails me to the couch. “Stay put,” he barks.

  He reaches into his back pocket. I see a flash of silver and I wonder if he’ll stab me forty times, one for every birthday I’ve celebrated.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Meghan

  Tears prick my eyelids as I watch him pull the object into my line of sight and head towards me. I try to scoot the opposite way across the couch.

  His arm is quick, and he grabs my wrist this time. I close my eyes, predicting the inevitable. He’s going to cut me up, turn my body into a cheese grater. Praying I pass out before the pain gets unbearable, I hear a click.

  A gun?

  My eyes flash open as a cold object rests against my skin.

  Handcuffs.

  “You’re under arrest.” He snaps the other one on and pushes me back against the couch cushions, my arms in front of me.