The Good Liar

by Catherine McKenzie

  “How much do you want to know?” she said to Cecily when they were back in the living room. She wished she could ask Cecily for a drink. Something she’d avoided since her near blackout with the bottles of red wine in her hotel room that first week in Montreal. But there wasn’t anything that could blunt this task. She had to face it head-on. Sober.

  “About you and Tom? All of it. The minimum.”

  “I can’t do both.”

  “I know. You know what? I wish I didn’t know any of it.”

  “I wish there wasn’t anything to know.”

  Cecily pulled one of the couch cushions into her lap. She wrapped her arms around it. “Do you mean that? How can you?”

  The tone of Cecily’s voice was a blow. Back when she’d been two things—Tom’s and Cecily’s—she’d built up some defenses. She’d had to. But they were all washed away now. By time. Knowledge. The pain in Cecily’s voice.

  “You have no reason to believe anything I’m saying,” Kaitlyn said. “But I came to you. I was free and clear. I didn’t need to come back. Does that count for something?”

  “Maybe. Maybe it counts for a little.”

  “So what do you want to know?”

  “I’m not ready to hear about the Tom stuff. Not now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why are you here? What’s the big plan?”

  This Kaitlyn had given some thought to in the hours after she’d read that article about Franny in Vanity Fair. Had learned that she’d wormed her way into her family and was about to take her place. In those moments, she knew exactly what to do. Get to her family. Stop Franny.

  “We need to find a way to let Joshua know Franny isn’t who she says she is.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Seriously? How can you ask me that?”

  “You ran out on him. You ran out on your kids.”

  Kaitlyn felt ashamed, but not as much as she ought to. This wasn’t new information, after all. She’d been living with it for a long time. “I know what I did.”

  “They think you died, Kaitlyn. They’ve had to deal with that. Added to that, now there’s Franny in the mix. And you’re not dead. How are they going to process all of this?”

  “You can’t tell them I’m alive.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “They don’t have to know. There must be a way. Please.”

  “What? I have to keep your secrets now? That’s the big plan?”

  “I don’t have a plan. None of this was planned.”

  “I feel like we’re going around in circles.”

  “We have to stop Franny. That’s why I’m here. But I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt anyone more than I already have.”

  Kaitlyn couldn’t stand the pained expression on Cecily’s face any longer. She broke eye contact and tried to focus on something else. The pictures on the mantel, the four of them together. Looking like the perfect family they weren’t anymore. Because of her. Because of Tom. She should’ve deleted that first e-mail from him. She should’ve shut down any attempt to follow through. But instead she wrote back: You don’t look so bad yourself.

  And sealed her fate. Cecily’s, too.

  “How are we supposed to do that if you’re not going to come forward?” Cecily asked. “I mean, why would anyone believe me? I haven’t got any evidence.”

  “We’ll have to get some, then. Investigate her. Look into her past. I’ve been reading a lot online, and I don’t think anyone’s done that yet.”

  A spark of hope crossed Cecily’s face for the first time. “I might know someone who can help us with that.”

  INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT

  TJ: That’s your real name, isn’t it, Franny? Eileen. Eileen Warner.

  FM: So what if it is?

  TJ: Well, I’m interested in why you might have changed it, for one.

  FM: Haven’t you ever wanted to change something in your life? You know, start over, start fresh?

  TJ: I’m sure it’s a common feeling. But most people don’t act on it.

  FM: Well, I’m not most people.

  TJ: Are you referring to something specific?

  FM: What did she say?

  TJ: Who?

  FM: Her. Sherrie. What else did she say when you spoke to her?

  TJ: She mentioned you’d been in some trouble.

  FM: Typical. Tell me something, is this how the rest of this interview’s going to go?

  TJ: How do you mean?

  FM: Are you going to pull out pieces of information one by one and spring them on me? Do you think I’m going to sit through that?

  TJ: You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.

  FM: That is such a joke.

  TJ: I feel as if we’re having two conversations here.

  FM: Now you know how I feel, right? When did you speak to her? How long have you been letting me sit here making a fool of myself? Since the first time? Since the beginning?

  TJ: Calm down, please.

  FM: I hate it when people say that to me. I am calm, okay? I’m allowed to raise my voice when something upsetting is happening to me. I’m allowed.

  TJ: Do you want to end the session?

  FM: No, I want to know what else you know about me. All of it.

  TJ: You know that’s not how this works.

  FM: Well, none of this is working out the way it was supposed to, is it?

  TJ: How about . . . What if you just told me your story in your own way? Without my prompting you or anything. Just tell me whatever you want to tell me.

  FM: Why should I do that?

  TJ: You might find it helpful to unburden yourself.

  FM: Like therapy?

  TJ: It doesn’t have to be like that. And I’m not a therapist.

  FM: Then what would be the point?

  TJ: You’ll have to decide that for yourself. But I’ve found, doing this all these years, that often there’s a certain kind of catharsis in telling someone your story.

  FM: And if I do that . . . what? You get your big scoop, right? And I’m . . . I just go back where I came from like none of this ever happened.

  TJ: It doesn’t have to be like that.

  FM: Oh, sure, right. You don’t know what’s going to happen. No one does.

  TJ: Why don’t you tell me, and then we’ll see?

  FM: Just tell you the truth? The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

  TJ: This isn’t a court of law.

  FM: Maybe not. But I’m going to be judged anyway, aren’t I?

  31

  THE FRIEND OF MY ENEMY

  CECILY

  “Everything I tell you is confidential, right?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  I’m back in therapy, back in the confines of Linda’s office, the tie I thought I cut turning out to be just another loose end to get tangled in.

  “Because I have to tell you something I can’t tell anyone, so I have to know it’s safe.”

  “I have to keep confidentiality unless I think you’re a threat to yourself or others. Are you?”

  I think of the flashes of red rage I’ve felt off and on since Kaitlyn walked back into my life. But if I didn’t strike her last night, I’m unlikely to do it now.

  “No, it’s nothing like that.”

  “Is it illegal?”

  “That’s a good question. If you fake your own death, is that illegal?”

  “Is this a hypothetical discussion or something you’re planning?”

  “What? Oh no, no, it’s not about me.”

  “But it is about someone.”

  “Maybe. I’m still fact gathering here.”

  Linda shakes her head. “Well, I’m not a lawyer, but theoretically, if you faked your death to get an advantage, insurance money, say, then yes, I think it would be illegal.”

  “What if it was just to get away? Not for financial reaso
ns. Not directly, anyway, and I don’t know how this person could’ve known about that anyway . . .”

  “Cecily, why don’t you simply tell me who you’re talking about, and we can take it from there?”

  “And you’ll keep whatever I tell you to yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  I lean back on the couch, unleashing a trace of the previous occupant’s perfume. I don’t recognize it, but it smells expensive. I’ve smelled it before, and my mind wanders to who it might be. Do I know her? Linda specializes in people in highly confidential positions. She has separate in and out doors so patients don’t run into one another in the lobby. I never thought I’d need that kind of privacy, but I’m happy for it now.

  I force the words out. “Kaitlyn’s alive.”

  “Kaitlyn Ring?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Linda’s looking at me in a way she hasn’t before. As if I might be crazy. It didn’t occur to me that this might be an issue, that I’d be the one treated with suspicion.

  “I’ve spoken to her,” I say. “So yes.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “If what she says is true, and I’m adding a big ‘if’ here, she was having some kind of panic attack a few moments before the explosion, so she left the building. That’s why she was at the elevators a few minutes before . . . I don’t know if I ever told you that part?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, either, because it’s Initiative business, but anyway, you said it was confidential, so . . .”

  “Take a breath, Cecily.”

  I inhale deeply.

  “Take two.”

  I do it again. In and out slowly like Linda showed me early on in our sessions when everything would come spilling out of me in a manic stream.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “So she was leaving the building, and then what?”

  “She’s not sure. Everything blew up and she came to a block away. She doesn’t know how she ended up there—she thinks she was thrown by the blast; it’s super-unclear—but the next thing she knew she was buying a bus ticket for Montreal. That’s where she’s been all this time. Montreal. Looking after someone else’s children! Can you believe that?”

  “This is a bit hard to absorb, I’ll admit.”

  “Right?”

  “How did you learn all this?”

  “She showed up at my house last night.”

  “She’s back?”

  I nod. “She read that story in Vanity Fair about Franny. I don’t know if you saw it, but Franny’s engaged to Joshua.”

  “Yes, I did see that.”

  “I’m sure you’d have a field day with that one. Man gets engaged to his wife’s secret daughter. Only she’s not her daughter.”

  “What?”

  “Apparently, Franny’s a fraud.”

  “This is a lot of information to absorb, even for me,” Linda says. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m a fucking mess. But I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.”

  “There’s a best part?”

  “Yeah, good point. It’s probably the worst part. She’s the woman.”

  “The woman?”

  “The other woman. The woman who was sleeping with my husband. It’s Kaitlyn. It was Kaitlyn this whole time.”

  Saying it out loud rips something apart inside me, and now I’m crying like I haven’t since my early sessions. Hard-core crying that will end in hiccups, like Henry.

  When I finally made it back upstairs last night, Henry had fallen asleep cradling his DS, and Cassie was reading the new Veronica Roth book. I’d said a quick good night and told her I’d fill them in in the morning but that the information ban was still in place. Then I’d texted Linda that it was an emergency, and could she please fit me in?

  “That’s disappointing news,” Linda says. “I’m sure.”

  “Disappointing? That’s all you’ve got to say? I find out my life is actually some Lifetime movie plot and that’s ‘disappointing’?”

  “Perhaps that wasn’t the best choice of words, but you seem very angry with me right now.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wasn’t prepared for this. What have I been doing here all this time if something like this can just blindside me and send me back where I was a year ago?”

  “Are you back where you were a year ago?”

  “Of course I am. Look at me. I’m a mess.”

  “I don’t see a mess.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I see a woman who’s survived some big shocks only to have several more thrown at her. So it’s no surprise that you feel off-kilter today. It would be more surprising if you didn’t.”

  My shoulders start to shake. “How could she do this? How could she do this to me?”

  “She must’ve been very sad. Very confused.”

  “I’m thinking more that she’s some kind of sociopath.”

  Linda gives me a half smile. “That damn book.”

  “What?”

  “The Sociopath Next Door,” Linda says. “Everyone thinks they can diagnose a serious clinical condition now.”

  “But am I wrong? Isn’t it totally crazy what she did?”

  “I don’t know Kaitlyn, so I can’t say. But you’ve told me before that she suffered from clinical depression, and affairs are a common side effect, shall we say, of depression.”

  “They are?”

  “It’s a way of feeling something, when everything else feels like nothing.”

  “So I’m just a side effect? My family’s a side effect?”

  “Of course not. I’m simply providing some context for her behavior.”

  “It’s totally fucked up.”

  “You could also say that.” Linda smiles at me. “Cecily, I can’t begin to imagine what you must be feeling right now. Hate, regret, anger, confusion I’m sure are all a part of it, but I sense there’s something more. Something more immediate that’s pulling at you.”

  “She wants me to help her.”

  “Help her how?”

  “Help her with her plan to expose Franny.”

  Linda looks at her hands. For a woman who presents as so calm, so in control, they’re a wreck. Bitten nails, ragged cuticles.

  “Does she need your help? Couldn’t she simply come forward and expose Franny?”

  “But then she’d be exposed, too. And the girls and Joshua would know what she did.”

  “Which is worse than what they think now?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a tough position she’s put you in.”

  “It’s a ridiculous position to be in.”

  “But you’ve made your choice, I think. That’s why you’re telling me instead of speaking to the press. Or simply telling Joshua yourself.”

  “I couldn’t do that. Am I wrong?”

  “What does your heart tell you?”

  “It feels like it isn’t working properly.”

  “I think your heart is working fine.”

  “Sure, right.”

  “Look at the love you’re displaying now, Cecily. For Joshua, for his children, even for Kaitlyn. It may come at a cost, but you should be proud of that heart.”

  I know her words are a compliment, something that should warm me. But I don’t feel warm.

  I feel cold and sick, sick in my heart.

  • • •

  On my way downtown, after I beg off work, I try Franny again. The call goes right to voice mail. I try again, then leave her a message. I’d appreciate it if you’d call me, I text. It’s important. I wait for the bubble to appear, but the screen stays blank. Perhaps she’s turned it off. Or maybe she’s reconciled with Joshua and doesn’t want me to know. I start to dial his familiar digits, then stop. I can’t talk to Joshua right now, not with Kaitlyn hiding in my basement, and I have no idea what to say to
him or how I’ll react when I hear his trusting voice.

  I’m heading downtown to meet Teo. When I texted him from the therapist’s parking lot, I wasn’t sure he’d agree to meet me. Not after the way we left things last time. But I have a lure, one I was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to resist, and I was, sadly, right. I use it right off, not wanting to find out if my own request would be sufficient. I can’t take any more rejection right now, not even that of someone who’s rejected me already.

  When I get to the coffee shop around the corner from the Compensation Initiative, Teo’s already sitting at a table, though I’m ten minutes early. He’s wearing his trademark outfit, that smooth path he’s created through life.

  He stands when I get to our table.

  “Let me help you with that.”

  He takes my coat and hangs it on a hook on the wall, then returns with a large cup of coffee for me.

  “You take it black, right?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “How’ve you been?”

  “Fine.”

  I take a sip. It’s too hot and scalds my tongue, which seems about right for today.

  Teo fiddles nervously with his napkin. He has a muffin in front of him, carrot, I think, but he hasn’t taken a bite.

  “How are things with you?” I ask, feeling, like I did weeks ago, as if we’re in some well-mannered drama where we should be wearing period costumes.

  “Fine. Busy.”

  “How’s the documentary coming?”

  “Chugging along. Obviously the news about Franny and Joshua is going to put a different spin on things.”

  If only he knew.

  “You didn’t see that coming?” I say, thinking of Julia.

  “Frankly, no. She was still calling him Mr. Ring half the time in her sessions with me. And he’d skipped our last few appointments claiming he had work conflicts, which, in retrospect, I should’ve realized meant more than that he didn’t want to talk to me.”

  He sounds frustrated, defeated.

  “Do you ever think about giving it up?”

  “What? Filmmaking?”

  “Documentaries. I remember reading once about how you can spend years of your life on something and in the end, there’s no story there.”

  “That can happen.”