All the Pretty Lies

by Marin Montgomery

  The color drains from my face. “Are they sure it wasn’t a man?”

  “That’s what I said.” Martha sighs into the phone. “They were confident it was a woman, it’s a small-family owned company, and the notes said a woman called.”

  I freeze, ice pulsating through my veins.

  “We thought it was you.” Martha adds. “Thought it was payback for sending the shirt to the house.”

  After she hangs up, I’m immobile, unable to move from the spot I’m sitting in.

  A man? A woman? My husband? A stranger?

  Who killed Talin Forrester?

  I look at the time. Jarrett usually works during the day at the bar, but I decide to try him anyway. I call his cell, and he doesn’t answer. I try the bar.

  “Hey Randy,” I ask the man who answers, one of the other bartenders. “Is Jarrett there?”

  “Sure thing. Can I tell him whose calling?”

  I lie. “Marissa.”

  “K, hold on. He’s in the back.”

  A moment later, I hear a thud as he picks up the phone. “Jarrett speaking.”

  “It’s me, Meghan,” I say.

  “Oh, crap, wait a second.” I hear him say something to Randy. He gets back on the line. “I’m going to take this in my office. It’s packed in here. Let me call you back.”

  I answer before the phone can even finish one ring.

  “Hi.” I say, biting my lip, near tears. “I don’t know what’s up or down or right or wrong anymore.”

  “What happened? Where are you?” Concern echoes through the line.

  “I’m home.”

  “In Houston? I thought you got back tomorrow.” I can picture him leaning back in the office that doubles as a storage room in the bar.

  “I came home early.”

  “You sound more stressed.” His soft voice makes me want to curl up in it. “I thought you’d be a touch more relaxed.”

  “I didn’t go to California.”

  “Oh.” He doesn’t know what to say or what to ask. “I don’t want to pry. Do you want to come over here and have a nightcap? I’ve got a bar stool with your name on it.”

  His attempt at humors helps, and I manage a small smile. “What about wine?”

  “Maybe I’ll pull out a six-dollar bottle of wine. Only the best for you,” he teases.

  “Sometimes the more expensive ones ain’t as good.”

  “Spoken like a true Texas girl that knows her roots.” I hear his smile through the phone. “Now y’all get on down here.” The accent makes me giggle and I hang up. If anyone can talk this through with me, it’s him.

  I take an Uber to the bar, not wanting to drive, my nerves shot. One glass of wine might turn into two, and I need to be responsible.

  When I arrive, the joint is packed. The patrons range from some college-aged kids playing pool to some old men reminiscing about when Bush was in office.

  Jarrett’s wearing worn Levis, cowboy boots, and an untucked plaid shirt, his usual attire at the bar. It’s such a change from yoga when he’s wearing Lululemon. I love that he can go from grunge cowboy to athleisure wear.

  He turns and smiles when he sees me, holding up a bottle of pinot noir.

  “This do the trick?”

  “Definitely,” I say. “Make it a double.”

  “Let’s start with one glass and see how you do.” He smirks. “If memory serves me, you don’t hold your liquor well.”

  I’m tempted to stick my tongue out at him. “Okay, one,” I say.

  He hands me a glass and pours himself a scotch on the rocks. Looking up, his stare turns serious as it gives me a searching look. “You wanna go back to my office and talk?”

  I nod, glancing around at all the people. This isn’t a conversation for prying ears and eyes.

  He leads me back to the office, lifting a box of beer bottles off the only other seat besides the desk chair. I sit down. “I’m taking my shoes off and getting comfortable,” I say without hesitation.

  “You should,” he agrees. “Hope those feet don’t stink up my office space.” I grin at him.

  He switches gears. “What’s on your mind, sugar?” The idea of someone calling me sugar would’ve made me cringe if it were anyone else. The term of endearment coming from him makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

  Your husband’s in jail, I chide myself.

  “I’m having trouble with this whole…” I fling my hand in the air, “ordeal.”

  “Reed in prison and your family broken up?” he asks.

  “Not just that.” He waits for me to continue.

  I sigh. “I wasn’t in Cali. I went to Portland. Then I got arrested. And came home.”

  His eyes widen in shock. “Arrested?” For what?”

  “Trespassing.” I look down at my hands.

  “Care to tell me what you went to Portland for?” We both know, but he wants me to say it. His eyes drill into my forehead.

  I look up and meet his eyes. The warmth is gone, replaced by concern.

  Swallowing hard, I say, “I wanted to see where she lived. How she lived.”

  “Okay, and what did you learn from going there?” He narrows his lids at me.

  “That I shouldn’t involve myself in an active investigation.”

  “You could’ve been thrown in jail for that.”

  “For what?”

  “Breaking and entering.”

  Confusion clouds my face. “I didn’t say I went in her house.”

  “You didn’t have to.” He’s quick to add. “I can tell from your body language and your stilted words there’s a lot more to the story.”

  “I think he did it, then I think he didn’t, then I think he did.” I moan. “I can’t make up my mind.”

  “Why do you think he didn’t do it?”

  “Because I know him,” I whisper. “His prints are all over the house, but that’s understandable. Plus, she was being followed.” I exhale. “And if I’m being honest, he loved her. A lot.”

  “Who was following her?”

  “No idea. I don’t think she knew.”

  “Then what makes you say this?”

  “Her best friend told me she suspected it. No real proof. Just a gut feeling.”

  “Okay…” he says slowly. “What about what the cops have on him? They didn’t arrest him for fun. The murder weapon was found in his car. That’s not a small thing.”

  “I know.” I agree. “There’s not a lot going for him. He was at her house, has unaccounted for time, they fought, she ended it, and he had keys to her place,” I whisper. “Which I just found in his desk drawer.”

  “Keys to her house?”

  I vigorously nod my head.

  “That’s a lot of evidence.” He mulls it over, crossing his arms behind his head. “Do you think on some level that you are trying to justify his innocence because how it reflects on you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Meghan, you’ve known the man for twenty or so years. If you’re sleeping beside your husband every night, he’s not a stranger. This man you married, had kids with, you thought you knew. But this behavior, this side of him, is not the person you know.”

  I chew on my lip, contemplating his words. “But why would he stab her?” I sniff. “He has guns. Knows how to shoot. Why would he use a knife?”

  “Stabbing is more personal. Maybe it’s a crime of passion and he just lost control,” Jarrett muses. “Maybe you can’t handle the fact that he could do something so heartless, so calculated, that’s so far off the scale from the man you knew.”

  His words resonate. He’s right. Reed never exhibited signs of being manipulative, a sociopath.

  He helps with charity events, used to attend the boys’ milestones.

  The last six months he’d become a shell of himself, the man I knew.

  “You always hear about the people that just snap,” Jarrett asserts. “The loved-by-all types, the community’s golden child, the one no one ever sees doing this. I thin
k it just happened.”

  “Living a double life got too hard.” I ponder. “He’d been growing distant for a while.” I take a long gulp of my wine. “You know what I wish? I wish he would’ve just asked for a divorce. We’ve talked about it over the years, usually in passing, when we’re mad or not getting our needs met. I wish he would’ve just divorced me, went to live with her.”

  Jarrett swigs the rest of his scotch.

  “You know what I wish, Meg?” He slams his hand down on the desk. “I wish he would’ve left so I could’ve swooped in and had you. “

  With that, he stands up. “I gotta get back to the bar, Randy’s shift ends at one.”

  My face is crimson, the wine and his declaration making me feel both uneasy and flattered in the same moment.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “No problem.” He grabs my chin in his hand. “I’m here for you, Meg Bishop. And I’m patient. I’m ready when you are.”

  With that, he sends me home in an Uber, and I watch out the window, the short drive back home filling me with dread.

  When I go to bed that night, I consider everything I’ve heard and seen about Talin.

  My own relationships, the similarities, the differences.

  I toss and turn, speculating on the people closest to Talin. Setting Reed aside, her closest confidants. Martha had a key to her house, she could’ve been the woman who canceled the security installation. Maybe she wanted Talin to end it with Reed and she wouldn’t? Or hated that Reed was married? But why then would she bother to mention she believed he was innocent?

  Because she killed her best friend?

  Impossible.

  It was a man. The build, the shoes, the strength to overpower Talin. Martha’s tiny and petite.

  What if she didn’t act alone?

  What if…

  The wine gurgles in my stomach.

  Would she have helped Reed?

  But why? And how would she have contributed? He had keys to her place, she knew they were involved.

  As much as I try, I can’t figure out a motive for Martha to be involved.

  I fall into a restless sleep. In my mind I’m peering in the patio door and I see Reed and Martha, taking turns. At 5 A.M., I bolt upright, sweat soaking the sheets.

  It’s just a nightmare, I tell myself, over and over.

  But is it?

  After I pick up all three boys, our schnauzer included in that, I give them tight hugs and hold them close. Would Reed really give up the opportunity to see their childhood?

  When I’m cleaning up the dishes from lunch and the boys are napping, a game of tag and a morning at the park knocking them out, the phone rings. I turn the ringer off and on, depending on my mood. Between the news reporters and television, I’m tired of being asked the same questions.

  Maybe I should do what I asked my father to do.

  “Hello?” I hesitate, waiting for it to be a nosy reporter or an overzealous Internet troll that wants to put me in my place.

  “An inmate from Houston Correctional Prison is on the line. Do you wish to accept the charges?”

  I waver. I can’t ignore him forever. Trial’s coming up soon.

  Accepting the collect call, Reed’s voice comes on the line. It’s terse, not his usual assured self. This voice is hanging on by a thread.

  “Meghan?” He asks.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi. How’re you holding up?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Dumb question.” Nervous laughter echoes through the line.

  “I could ask the same, but I already know.”

  There’s a lull. Awkwardness. Static fills the empty space between us.

  “When you come to visit, can you bring a suit for me?” he asks. “Dress shoes and socks. Tie. Probably a smaller belt. I’ve lost weight.” He tries to crack a joke. “It’s true what they say about prison food. The jail diet is a real thing.”

  I wish I could laugh, find humor in the situation.

  “How’re the boys?” He falters. “Can I talk to them?”

  “They’re napping,” I say. “They’ve been with nana and grandpa for a few days. Speaking of, why didn’t you tell me you told my father where the key to your office is? He scared the crap out of me last night. I didn’t know he’d be in the house.”

  There’s silence. I think we’ve been disconnected.

  “I didn’t.”

  “How’d he get in then?”

  “No idea. The key to my office is in the console of my vehicle. On a key ring. The leather one.”

  My stomach falls to the floor.

  “Your office key is on that? Why was it in your desk drawer then?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking, Meg, and I really need to talk about something else.” He sighs. “Secondly, why would my office key be in the desk drawer of my office? Then how would I get in?”

  I change the subject.

  “Why did you give Talin my push present?” I slump against the counter, another unclear item to address, the story of my life lately, sorting through lies and half-truths.

  “What are you talking about?” He struggles to keep his voice even. “I’m struggling to survive in here, and you wanna throw accusations at me? I have enough of those to last me a lifetime.” His voice cracks. “I would never give your pendant away. It has your birthstone and the boys’ in it. I had it designed especially for you.”

  I rest my head in my hands, sobs wracking my body, as I hold the phone away from my ear.

  “I’m sorry, Meghan, I’m so sorry.” He starts to cry. “I loved her, I pulled away and I fell in love with her. I knew we couldn’t make it work. I should’ve left. I should’ve been a man and told you I wasn’t in love with you anymore.”

  My body shakes, the truth I’d been waiting to hear. Except it’s too late.

  We both bawl through the phone line, his silent, mine more of a wail.

  “My father wants me to have a press conference, put some distance between the company and you.”

  “You should.” He sniffs. I hear him blow his nose through the line.

  “Did you kill her?” I ask indifferently, the last of my emotions cried out.

  “No.” There’s no indecision, no vacillating on his answer.

  I believe him.

  Then I ask myself, would he really tell the truth on a recorded line?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Meghan

  When I get off the phone, I consider his answer about the keys. Why would my father lie about being in Reed’s office?

  I decide to ask him.

  Calling his cell, I tap my fingers impatiently on the counter.

  “Meggie, everything okay?” He picks up on the third ring.

  “Yes, I just wanted to tell you I did some thinking, talked to Reed, and…”

  He interjects. “And he told you he’s innocent so we should stand behind him.”

  “No. Actually, he said to do it.” I’m miffed. “That’s why I’m calling, I’ll do the press conference.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Father?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s wonderful. I’m typing an email to Owen right now.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Uh-huh.” He’s not listening, I hear his fingers clicking on his keyboard.

  “Why did you lie?”

  “Excuse me, young lady?”

  “Reed told me he never gave you permission to be in his office. Or told you where the keys were.”

  “He didn’t. I lied. The keys were on his console before the cops impounded his SUV.” He sighs. “You want the truth?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking me if I want the truth?” I screech. “Yes, I want the damn truth to begin with. Not after having to figure out what’s a lie and what’s real.”

  “I took the keys to search his office before the cops did.” My father exhales. “I was trying to save him at first. Look, Meggie, we have our differences, but he’s married to you. A
nd he’s the father of my grandsons. I certainly didn’t want them growing up without a father.”

  I start to weep. “Don’t cry, Meggie.” He tries his best to be soothing, but it comes out as gruff.

  “I found something.” He’s ashamed. “Last night.”

  “What do you mean?” I think about the blood on the keys, starting to tell him I already know, but his next words cause me to drop the phone, the hard plastic smashing on the tile.

  Frasier comes running in, paws clicking, as he barks at me. I pick up the phone again.

  “I found letters, Meggie. When I was searching... I think he planned to kill himself after he killed her. It’s a suicide note he wrote. I took it with me.” He’s frightened, a voice I’ve never heard from my father. “I don’t…I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “Where is it?” I whisper.

  “It was in one of the folders I took. It’s actually with Owen now.”

  “Does Reed know you have it?”

  “No.” He’s aghast. “Neither of us have talked about it with each other or him. I shouldn’t be saying this on the phone. Meg,” my father says. “Forget this conversation. The press conference is being set up. We have to move on.”

  As much as I want to scream at him that a young woman is dead and my husband is in prison, we both know that nothing we say or do will bring Talin or Reed back. The wheels were spinning long before we had a choice.

  Owen comes by in the morning, his steadiness comforting as he takes charge, his natural dominance in a role he knows inside and out…the law and its repercussions if you break it. I don’t know if he knows I know about the letter, but we don’t discuss it, the air thick with uncertainty between us.

  He’s arranged for the boys and I to be interviewed by the most watched news channel here as an exclusive. The same goes for a Houston newspaper and a large Texan conglomerate.

  My parents arrive later. My mom’s taken the liberty of having a hairstylist come to the house. Leona has graciously offered to come by and help with the twins. She’s disheartened by the turn of events, and her way of showing concern is bringing casseroles and pot roast.

  After my hair and make-up are done, I’m whisked to the living room, taking a seat on the beige sofa, a Stepford wife that is nothing but a robot for the cameras.