Whispers and Lies

by Joy Fielding

  “I found it under the bed,” Alison protested.

  “I believe you. But in the beginning, I didn’t know what to think. I had to find out the extent of your involvement, how much you knew. I tried flirting with you, but you weren’t interested, so I hit on Denise, convinced her to let me tag along for Thanksgiving dinner. I realized pretty quickly that you had nothing to do with Erica’s disappearance. But the more I got to know Terry, the more convinced I became she did.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because there’s something very weird about that lady.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’ve been watching her for months, phoning her, following her in my car, trying to spook her, anything to get her to slip up. And she’s starting to crack. I can feel it.”

  So it hadn’t been my imagination. Someone had been watching me. And not just today. K.C. was the shifting shadow outside my window, the anonymous, yet strangely familiar, voice on my telephone. That subtle Texas twang he couldn’t quite disguise—how had I failed to recognize it before now?

  “You’ve been harassing her for months,” Alison stated, “and you’re surprised she’s acting strangely?”

  “Terry knows what happened to Erica. Damn it, she’s responsible.”

  “Are you finished? Because if you’re finished, then it’s time for you to leave.”

  “Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said?”

  “You haven’t said anything,” Alison shot back. “Your girlfriend pulled a disappearing act. I’m sorry. I know being dumped is a hard thing to accept. But what you’re suggesting is outrageous. And I’ve heard quite enough, thank you. I want you to go now.”

  There was a second’s silence, then the sound of feet shuffling reluctantly toward the front door.

  “Wait!” Alison called out, and I held my breath, inched forward, leaned my head against the closet door. “You should have this.” She walked around the side of the bed, pulled open the drawer of the nightstand. “You said you gave it to her. You should have it back.”

  I pictured Alison walking toward him, Erica’s thin gold necklace dangling from her fingertips.

  “Come with me,” he urged. “It’s not safe for you to stay here.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she told him flatly. “I’ll be fine.”

  I heard the front door open as I crept out of the closet and inched along the side of the dresser, my palm leaving a bloody trail on the white wicker as I balanced against it.

  “Be careful,” the man calling himself K.C. warned the young woman who called herself Alison Simms.

  And then he was gone.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I don’t know how long I stood there, my breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my mouth, my hand pulsating with pain as I pressed the handle of the knife against my torn flesh, like a branding iron. Could I really use this knife against Alison, even in self-defense?

  “What the hell is going on here?” Alison demanded suddenly, and I lunged forward in response, my arm instinctively arcing into the air, while blood from my palm streaked down my arm, as if someone had outlined the path of one of my veins in red ink.

  But Alison hadn’t been speaking to me, and she was already out the door and on her way to the main house when I emerged from the shadows, her anguished, unanswered question vibrating against the still air, like smoke from a discarded cigarette. “Terry!” I heard her shouting, as once more she pounded on my kitchen door. “Terry, open the door. I know you’re in there.”

  I watched as she backed away from the door, her head tilted toward my bedroom. “Terry!” she shouted, her voice targeting my window like a well-aimed stone, before she gave up in defeat. What now? I wondered, swallowing what little air I could find, holding it hostage against my lungs.

  Alison stood very still for what seemed an excruciatingly long time. Weighing her options, I thought. Just like me. Ultimately she decided to give it one last try, turning on her heels and running around the side of the house to the front. Only then did I push open the cottage door and creep into the night, a sudden breeze scratching at my neck, like the tongue of a cat. As Alison banged on the front door, I was opening the back.

  In the next instant, I was inside my kitchen, the aroma of freshly baked chocolate cake settling about my head, like a bridal veil. I slid the bloody knife back into its triangular wooden holder, then wrapped my bleeding palm inside a dishcloth as Alison returned to the back door, her eyes widening with shock as I flipped on the light and opened the door to let her in.

  “Terry! What’s going on? Where have you been? I’ve been so worried.”

  “I was taking a nap,” I answered sleepily, in a voice not quite my own. Hell, K.C. wasn’t the only one capable of disguising his voice.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I waved my hand into the air, as if to dismiss her concerns.

  “My God, what happened to your hand?”

  I glanced at my injured arm, as if seeing it for the first time. Blood had already soaked through the thin, cotton towel. “I cut it. It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. Let me have a look at it.” She unwrapped the towel before I could protest further. “Oh, my God! This is awful. Maybe we should go to the hospital.”

  “Alison, it’s just a little cut.”

  “It’s not just a little cut. You might need stitches.” She pulled me toward the sink, ran the cold water, guided my hand under the steady stream. “How long has it been bleeding like this?”

  “Not long.” I winced as the water hit my palm, pushing the blood aside, and exposing the fragile white line of my wound. My wounded lifeline, I thought, as blood continued to wash across the inside of my hand.

  “What’s that smell?” Alison looked toward the stove.

  “Terry’s magic chocolate cake,” I said with a shrug.

  Confusion brought her eyebrows together at the bridge of her nose. “I don’t understand. When did you have time to bake? I’ve been waiting for you for hours. When did you get back? And what’s your car doing parked around the corner?” The questions were coming faster now, out of her mouth as soon as they entered her head, one piled on top of the other, like pancakes. Alison shut off the water, grabbed a handful of paper towels from the roll on the wall, and pressed the absorbent white towels into my cupped hand. “Tell me what’s going on, Terry.”

  I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts together, to give order to my lies. “There’s not that much to tell.”

  “Start with when you left here. Where did you go?” Alison prompted. She didn’t have to say any more. She didn’t have to mention the aborted kiss.

  I noted a small red circle metastasizing in the middle of the white paper towels, like menstrual blood, I thought, watching it grow wider and darker, reach toward the edges. “I’m so embarrassed about what happened,” I whispered as she led me to a chair. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It was all my fault,” Alison interjected immediately, sitting down beside me. “I obviously gave you the wrong impression.”

  “I’ve never done anything like that before in my life.”

  “I know. You were just upset about Josh.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, thinking this was probably true. “Anyway, I’m not sure where I went after I left here. I was pretty confused, so I just drove around for a while, tried to clear my head.”

  “And you parked around the corner because you didn’t want me to know you were back,” Alison stated quietly, traces of guilt bracketing her words.

  “I was feeling pretty shaky. I thought it was best if we didn’t see each other right away.”

  “I was so worried about you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  I looked around the room. It felt so bare, so empty, without the women watching. “Baking’s always been a kind of therapy for me,” I continued, glancing from the shelves to the oven. “So, I decided, why not b
ake a cake? I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Isn’t that what they say?”

  She nodded. “Seems like they’re always saying something.”

  I smiled. “You like chocolate cake, don’t you?”

  Her turn to smile. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  I patted her hand. It felt ice-cold. “It should be ready in a few minutes.”

  “Is that how you cut your hand? Baking?”

  “It was stupid,” I began, the lie wiggling around the tip of my tongue, like a worm on a fisherman’s hook. “I was reaching for something in a drawer, and I sliced it on a small paring knife.”

  Alison clutched her own hand in sympathy. “Ooh, that hurts.”

  “It’s a bit better now.” I glanced back at the oven, smiled. “Cake should be ready. Feel like a piece?”

  “Don’t you have to let it cool off for a while?”

  “No. It’s best fresh out of the oven.” I rose from my seat, walked to the stove, opened the oven door with my left hand. A gust of heat rolled toward me like an ocean wave as I bent forward and inhaled the rich chocolate perfume. I reached for my oven mitts on the counter.

  “I’ll do it,” Alison offered immediately, sliding her hands inside the waiting pink mitts, then gingerly transferring the cake to a nearby trivet. “This looks as good as it smells. Should I make some coffee?”

  “Coffee sounds wonderful.”

  “You sit. Keep that hand still. Raise it above your heart.” She rolled her eyes. “Listen to me—you’re the nurse, and I’m telling you what to do.” She shook her head, laughed with what I recognized was relief—relief that I seemed to have a reasonable explanation for everything, relief that I seemed no longer angry with her, relief that things seemed back to normal.

  Seemed, I thought, sitting back in my chair. Good word.

  I smiled as I watched Alison prepare the coffee. It was amazing how comfortable she was in my kitchen, among my things. She knew without asking that I kept the coffee in the freezer and the sugar in the cupboard to the left of the sink. “There’s whipped cream in the fridge,” I told her as she measured out the coffee and poured the water into the back of the coffeemaker.

  “You’re amazing,” she said. “You’re always prepared for everything.”

  “Sometimes it pays to be prepared.”

  “I wish I was more like that.” Alison leaned against the counter. “I’ve always acted more on impulse.”

  “That can be pretty dangerous.”

  “Tell me about it.” There was a moment’s silence. Alison glanced at the floor, then at the empty shelves, an impish grin spreading across her face. “Smashing all those heads was a pretty impulsive thing to do.”

  I laughed. “I guess it was.”

  “Maybe we’re more alike than you think.”

  “Maybe.” Our eyes locked, and for a moment, neither of us moved, as if we were daring each other to be the first to look away. Of course I was the one to blink first. “What say we have some of that cake?”

  “You stay right where you are. Keep that hand up. I’ll do everything.” Alison removed two small plates from the cupboard, along with two sets of cups and saucers, and set them on the table beside several paper napkins, the sugar, and the bowl of whipped cream. Then she returned to the counter and reached for a knife. “Remember the first day I was here, and I grabbed the wrong knife,” she said, pulling the giant butcher knife from its wooden block as my breath froze in my throat, “and you said, ‘Whoa! Overkill, don’t you think?’ Whoa!” she repeated now, staring with openmouthed wonder at the blood-encrusted blade. “What’s this? Is this blood?” Her focus shifted to the shaft of the knife. “And it looks like there’s blood on the handle too.” She stared at her palm.

  “More like blood on the brain,” I said, rising quickly from my chair and removing the knife from her hands, then dropping it into the sink and running hot water over it. “It’s not blood,” I told her.

  “What is it?”

  “Just a stubborn case of strawberry jam.”

  “Jam? On the handle?”

  “Are you going to cut me a piece of cake, or what?” I asked impatiently.

  Alison grabbed another knife and proceeded to slice into the warm cake. “Oh, no, it’s starting to crumble. You’re sure it’s not too soon to do this?”

  “The timing is perfect,” I said as she slid a large piece of cake onto a plate. “Give me one half that size.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I can always come back for more.”

  “Don’t count on it.” Alison returned to her seat and eagerly stuffed a heaping forkful of cake into her mouth.

  I watched the crumbs form a dark outline around her lips. Like a clown’s mouth, I thought, as she licked the errant crumbs into her mouth with the flick of her tongue. A snake’s tongue, I thought, watching her swallow.

  “This is absolutely the best cake you have ever made. The best.” She swallowed another forkful. “Will you teach me how to bake one day?”

  “It’s really very easy.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to make it difficult.” Alison laughed self-consciously, quickly finishing what was left on her plate. “This is so yummy delicious. Why aren’t you eating?”

  “Thought I’d wait for the coffee.”

  Alison glanced at the coffeemaker. “Looks like it’ll be a few more minutes. ‘A watched kettle never boils,’ ” she reminded me, looking away. “You told me that.”

  “Do you remember everything I say?”

  “I try to.”

  “Why?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  “Because I think you’re smart. Because I admire you.” Alison hesitated, as if there was more she wanted to say, then obviously thought better of it. “Can I have another piece? I can’t wait for the coffee.”

  “Be my guest. Try it with some whipped cream.”

  Alison cut herself another, even larger slice of cake, then spooned a large dollop of the whipped cream on top of it. “This is heaven,” she enthused, filling her mouth. “Absolute heaven. You have to taste this.” She extended her fork toward me.

  I shook my head, pointed toward the coffee.

  “You have such willpower.”

  “It won’t be long now.” I watched as she wolfed down the second piece of cake. A human Garburetor, I thought, with something approaching awe. “Ready for thirds?”

  “Are you kidding? One more piece and it won’t be just the china heads exploding around here.” She hesitated. “Although maybe I have room for one more very tiny piece. With my coffee.” She laughed. She lowered her gaze to her lap, closed her eyes. “I’ll miss this,” she whispered, her body swaying.

  I leaned forward, wondering if she was about to fall, thinking that even a strong sedative like Percodan needs more than a few minutes to work its magic.

  Instead of falling over, Alison bolted upright in her chair, her eyes popping open, as if she’d just awakened from a bad dream. “Please don’t make me leave.”

  “What?”

  “I know you said you’ve already rented out the cottage to someone at work, but I’m really praying you’ll change your mind and give me another chance. I promise I won’t mess up this time. I’ll do everything you say. I’ll follow all your rules. I won’t screw up again. Honest.”

  She sounded so sincere that I almost found myself believing her. In spite of everything, I realized I wanted to believe her. “What about Lance?”

  “Lance? That’s over. Lance is gone.”

  “How do I know he won’t come back?”

  “Because I give you my solemn vow.”

  “You lied to me before.”

  “I know. And I’m so sorry. It was stupid. I was stupid. Stupid to think Lance would ever change, that things would be any different this time.”

  “What about the next time?”

  “There won’t be a next time. Lance knows he went too far, that he crossed the line when he came on to you.” />
  “Why am I any different than anyone else?”

  She paused, looked up, then down, as if searching for just the right words. “Because he knew how important you are to me.”

  “And what makes me so important?”

  Another pause. “You just are.” Alison jumped to her feet, then grabbed for the table.

  “Alison? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I just got a little dizzy there for a minute. I guess I must have moved too fast.”

  “Are you still dizzy?”

  She shook her head slowly, as if she wasn’t sure. “I think I’m okay now. Kind of scary though.”

  “Have some coffee. Coffee’s a good antidote to dizziness.”

  “It is?”

  “I’m the nurse, remember?”

  She smiled. “Two cups of coffee coming right up.” She poured the freshly brewed coffee into each cup, then added three heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a large dollop of whipped cream to hers.

  “Cheers.” I clicked my cup against hers.

  “To us.”

  “To us,” I agreed, watching as she took a long sip.

  She made a face, lowered the cup to its saucer. “Kind of bitter.”

  I took a sip from my own cup. “Tastes fine to me.”

  “I think I made it too strong.”

  “Maybe you need more sugar,” I teased.

  Alison added a fourth spoonful, took another sip. “No. Still not quite right.” She brought her hand to her head.

  “Alison, are you okay?”

  “I don’t know. I feel a little strange.”

  “Drink some more coffee. It’ll help.”

  Alison did as she was told, throwing back the coffee as if it were a glass of tequila, then taking a long, deep breath. “Is it warm in here?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, God. I hope I’m not getting a migraine.”

  “Is this how they usually start?”

  “No. Usually I get this kind of tunnel-vision thing going, and then this horrible headache takes over.”

  “I have some more of those pills.” I got up from my chair and pretended to fish around in a drawer. “Why don’t you take a couple? Strike a preemptive blow.” I handed her two little white pills, returned the bottle of Percodan to the drawer.