A Mother's Lie

by Jo Crow

  A Mother’s Lie

  Jo Crow

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, DECEMBER 2017

  Copyright © 2017 Relay Publishing Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.relaypub.com

  Contents

  A Mother’s Lie

  Blurb

  About Jo Crow

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  The End

  Thank you!

  Mailing List

  Sneak Peek

  Blurb

  When her child’s life is at stake, a mother will do anything to save him.

  Clara McNair is running out of time to save her son, James. When the two-year-old is diagnosed with a rare form of brain cancer, only an experimental treatment can save his life. She desperately needs money to pay for the surgery, but she’ll have to travel back to the site of her darkest memories to get it.

  Clara has escaped the demons of her youth—or so she thinks. It’s been ten years since the mysterious disappearance of her parents. Widely suspected of murdering her mother and father, Clara fled west to start a new life. Now, a documentary film crew is offering cold, hard cash—enough to pay for James’s treatment—in exchange for the sordid secrets of her past.

  With no other choice but to delve into a long-ago tragedy, Clara must unravel the lies surrounding that terrible night. Facing hostile gossip, Clara is fighting to clear her name and learn the truth about what really happened. But how far will she go into the dark to save her son—and herself?

  About Jo Crow

  Jo Crow gave ten years of her life to the corporate world of finance, rising to be one of the youngest VPs around. She carved writing time into her commute to the city, but never shared her stories, assuming they were too dark for any publishing house. But when a nosy publishing exec read the initial pages of her latest story over her shoulder, his albeit unsolicited advice made her think twice.

  A month later, she took the leap, quit her job, and sat down for weeks with pen to paper. The words for her first manuscript just flew from her. Now she spends her days reading and writing, dreaming up new ideas for domestic noir fans, and drawing from her own experiences in the cut-throat commercial sector.

  Not one to look back, Jo is all in, and can’t wait for her next book to begin.

  You can contact Jo at:

  authorjocrow@gmail.com

  1

  Dense red clay was pushing between the teeth. Pond mist drifted across the manicured lawns, wisping through the dark eye sockets. Parts of the cranium were shaded a vile yellow-brown, where decomposing leaves clung to its surface like bile expressed from a liver. The jawbone was separated from the skull, its curved row of teeth pointing skyward to greet the rising sun.

  Two feet away, closer to the oak tree, other bones were piled haphazardly: a pelvis, high iliac crests and subpubic angle; a femur, caked with dirt, jammed into his empty skull. Sunlight decorated the brittle bones in long, lazy strips and darkened hairline fractures till they blended with the shed behind them.

  It was peaceful here, mostly. The pond no longer bubbled, its aerator decayed by time; weed-clogged flowerbeds no longer bloomed—hands that once worked the land long ago dismissed. Fog blanketed the area, as if drawn by silence. Once, a startled shriek woke the mourning doves and set them all into flight.

  It was the first time in ten years the mammoth magnificence of the Blue Ridge Mountains had scrutinized these bones; the first song in a decade the mourning doves chorused to them from their high perch.

  A clatter split apart the dawn; the skull toppled over as it was struck with another bone.

  In a clearing, tucked safely behind the McNair estate, someone was whistling as they worked at the earth. The notes were disjointed and haphazard, like they were an afterthought. They pierced the stillness and, overhead, one of the mourning doves spooked and took flight, rustling leaves as it rose through the mist.

  A shovel struck the wet ground, digging up clay and mulch, tossing it onto the growing mound to their left. The whistling stopped, mid note, and a contemplative hum took its place.

  Light glinted on the silvery band in the exposed clay—the digger pocketed it—the shovel struck the ground again; this time, it clinked as it hit something solid.

  Bone.

  A hand dusted off decayed vegetative matter and wrested the bone from its tomb. Launching it into the air, it flew in a smooth arc, and crashed into the skull like a bowling pin, scattering the remains across the grass. With a grunt of satisfaction, the digger rose and started to refill the hole from the clay mound.

  When it was filled and smoothed, and the sod was replaced over the disrupted ground, the digger lifted the shovel and strolled into the woods, one hand tucked in a pocket as they whistled a cheery tune lost to the morning fog.

  For two days, the bones rested on the grass by the shed, until they were placed, carefully, into forensic evidence bags in a flurry of urgent activity: flashing police cameras, and gawking, small-town rookie officers who’d never seen their like before.

  Silence blanketed the McNair estate once more, and the looming, distant mountains stood watch over a town that had seen too little so long ago, and now knew too much.

  2

  In 2007, on the night of June 19th, my parents, Richard and Glenda McNair, went missing from our family home on the outskirts of Hickory Hills, North Carolina.” My lips drew thin as my throat clenched, knotting in a way that threatened to bring tears. “The last traces of them were found in a shed on land behind the main house, where forensic testing confirmed the blood recovered at the scene was a match with both my mother and father. The awful details of the case gained national attention, but despite widespread interest and extensive investigation, Richard and Glenda McNair simply disappeared; I never saw them again after that night.”

  “Cut.”

  I let my shoulders slump, and dropped the stoic, distant look from my face. The sorrow welling in my chest manifested instead, dragging at my lips. Talking about their disappearance was still a struggle. No matter where I ran, or what I did to occupy my mind, my parents were always there. I had never stopped worrying over what had become of them, wondering why they left me.

  Revisiting memories, here, in this place, only made that pain more real.

  “It was good, but not great,” Samuel said, scratching his chin. His eyes were set
on the small screen jutting off the side of the stationary camera. “I’m thinking it’ll be more effective to move you off to the side of their graves instead of between them. More artistic. Leaves the eye to wander and the viewer to wonder. The delivery of your lines was crisp, but the second half a little foggier than the first. Keep in mind you need to maintain the same tone of voice throughout the introduction.”

  “Yes, Mr. Lowery.” It was the last thing I wanted to say, but I was bound by obligation.

  “We’re at risk of losing the dynamic light from sunrise. If we’re going to stick to our production schedule, we need to get moving. Get her into position, people. Heidi, touch up her makeup. The camera is picking up the smudges at the corners of her eyes and they’re not doing us any favors.

  “And what the hell is going on with her shoes? The red clay makes it look like she just waded through a puddle of blood. Get that cleaned up, or switch the shoes, or do something. If we’re going to hook the viewer, we can’t leave her looking like she just traipsed through a slaughterhouse.”

  “Yes, Mr. Lowery,” Heidi chirped.

  As an assistant guided me from my position between the memorial stones to stand off to the side at an angle, Heidi balanced her makeup palette on her arm and wielded a beauty blender. She touched the sponge against the palette, feather-light, then went to work. As the sponge dabbed away imperfections at the corners of my eyes, I recited the same thing I’d been telling myself since I returned.

  I’m doing it for him.

  The thought was a small comfort, but seeing James nested in the director’s chair, fast asleep, drove the feeling home. I wasn’t going to let another setback stop me now. I had good reasons for agreeing to be a part of this documentary, and no matter how hard it was coming back, I was going to see it through.

  “You’re looking great,” Heidi whispered as she traded the beauty blender for an aerosol can of setting spray. I closed my eyes as she spritzed it on my face. “You’re going to look fabulous, movie-star gorgeous. The natural light is really bringing out your inner beauty. You’re glowing.”

  “Only because of the highlights you applied,” I murmured, but I smiled anyway. “It’s your work.”

  Heidi waved dismissively as she stepped back. “Give yourself a little credit, honey. I can put a client in great makeup, but it takes the right kind of person to pull it off. Are you sure you’ve never acted before? There are some people Samuel uses who are just… well. When I say it takes the right kind of person, I know what I’m talking about. Not even Hollywood-level makeup can save a performance dead in the water, but you’re a natural actress, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmured, biting down on the inside of my lip. “I guess. Sometimes, life forces you to pretend you’re something you’re not, doesn’t it?”

  “Quiet on set. We’re about to start shooting again.” Samuel had moved to a different stationary camera, hovering behind it as he made his adjustments and framed the shot. I stood a little straighter, bracing for another take. “Clara, are you good to go?”

  “I am, Mr. Lowery.”

  “No, you’re not. Look at those goddamn shoes! Heidi, I told you—” He bunched his lips and narrowed his eyes, looking over his shoulder toward the lane. The area was cordoned off by traffic barricades and further reinforced by the cluster of production vehicles parked along the road, but they didn’t do much to stop the crowd who’d breached the area on foot.

  Twenty strong and leering, they started to call out cutting words.

  “Murderer!”

  “Thief!”

  “Heartless bitch!”

  Faces I’d known in the past, but whose ugly sneers made them strangers to me now: Mr. Wexler had taught me history in the tenth grade. He glared at me like he’d never once sat at my side and patiently re-explained the impact of the Civil War on the industry and economy of the nation; Jill Fields, who’d run the bakery I’d worked at for a summer when I was sixteen, spat at me.

  The hateful jeering had started again.

  James began to stir; I rushed to his side, hoping he’d look up with dewy wonder in his eyes, then go back to sleep, as he always did. I didn’t want him exposed to the ugliness in Hickory Hills.

  “Mama?” his voice was bleary.

  “Go back to sleep, baby.” I dropped to my knees by the director’s chair. “You’re safe here.”

  His eyes searched mine for meaning. He was too young to understand what was going on, or what it meant for us as a family, but he knew he could trust my word.

  “For the love of—” Samuel planted a palm across his eyes and shook his head. “Where the hell is that security? We’ve got a documentary to shoot here, and I do not want our schedule disrupted. We’re losing light; I don’t want to wait until the next clear summer morning to take advantage of it again. Clara, get back on set. Heidi, make sure you get out those mud stains on the knees of her pants. I can still see them. And someone had better get these people away before today turns into a total wash.”

  “Time to cut your losses,” a voice announced; it was closer than any of the others.

  A tall man was crossing the site, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders broad with confidence. There was more gray in his hair now, and his face bore deeper wrinkles, but there was no mistaking who crossed the graveyard to approach me.

  “Filming’s over for today, folks. I need to borrow your star.”

  “Christ.” Samuel stepped back sharply from the camera, frustration flaming his cheeks. “And who the hell are you to tell me that?”

  “Detective Tony Elkins.” The man took out his badge. He came to a stop several feet from where I crouched beside James. “You’ll have to excuse Miss McNair. She’s been out of town for a long, long time, and our reunion is long overdue.”

  The restrained anger on Samuel’s face convinced me I’d be hearing about the incident—the interruption—later on, but, if I was honest, we wouldn’t have got much else done, regardless of Detective Elkins’s presence. Now that the local residents had tracked us down, I knew they wouldn’t leave us alone. It was going to be exactly as before.

  “We’re taking a break, people,” Samuel announced, his voice rising over the cries of the townsfolk and the general hubbub on set. “Back in fifteen with battle plans for the rest of the day. Appreciate the downtime now because it’s not going to stay this way forever. You, detective. What did you say your name was again?”

  “Elkins.” Detective Elkins’s face hardened. “While I appreciate you relinquishing your leading lady, I’m afraid my business here today isn’t with you. We’ll be taking our leave.”

  Detective Elkins placed a hand on my shoulder and made a move to lead me away from the set, but Samuel threw up his hands to stop him.

  “Hold on now. Hear me out.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “What would you say to a featured spot in the documentary? We’re putting together a follow-up to reignite interest in the case on its ten-year anniversary. You’ve got the right kind of face to be in front of a camera, and some testimony from someone directly involved in the case should—”

  “Forget it.” Detective Elkins pushed me forward, firmly, but not unkindly. “I’ve got one job to do, and I’m not going be distracted by a money-grab capitalizing on the misfortune of others.”

  “But you were there on the night of the disappearance, weren’t you?” Samuel asked. “Detective Tony Elkins, newly minted into his position and eager to prove himself, only to come face-to-face with a case no one could solve. You know more about the investigation than anyone.”

  “And it’s going to stay that way.” Detective Elkins continued to guide me forward. I almost tripped over my own feet, but caught myself before I could fall. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. Hollywood isn’t the place for me.” He leaned closer and spoke against the back of my ear so that only I could hear it. “And it sure as hell isn’t the place for you, either, McNair. If you think you can blind me wit
h dazzling lights, you’re more deluded than I originally thought.”

  We left Samuel behind. When we were out of earshot, Detective Elkins brought me to a stop. From where I stood, I could still see James. As long as I could keep my eyes on him, I knew he’d be okay.

  Keeping James’s location in my peripheral vision, I looked up into Detective Elkins’s dark eyes and braced myself for what was to come. I found no sympathy on the detective’s face, but it didn’t surprise me. I’d always known he’d be coming to find me, though I hadn’t anticipated it would be so soon.

  “What is this about, detective?” I asked. There was no chance James was going to fall asleep now, so I stepped around to block him from Detective Elkins’s line of sight.

  “There’s been a development.” Elkins’s eyes hardened, the darkness in his gaze solidifying into coals. “Remains were discovered on the McNair estate—on your land, Miss McNair. I’m going to need you to come with me to answer some questions.”

  No.

  My lips parted, but I held my jaw firm by sheer force of will. I hadn’t spoken to my mother for close to a decade; they had vanished overnight. Gone in the morning. Their graves were empty markers that represented what everyone in town thought they already knew had happened to them. Back then, the grounds had been searched, no corner left unturned. It couldn’t be them. For their remains to appear now…