Crooked Little Lies

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  “Yes,” Lauren said. “He’s my sister’s boyfriend.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me last night? The police are looking for him. Do you know where he is? How to get in touch with him?”

  “I don’t. I thought he might be at my sister’s, so I went there and looked through the house. He wasn’t there. I don’t think she knows anything—”

  “So you aren’t sure.”

  “No.”

  “Is that why you came here now, to tell me about your sister? Because you should be telling the police.”

  Lauren let out a long breath. She swiped her hair behind her ears. “I know, but there are issues with my family—”

  “Why are you here, Lauren?” Annie was snappish, out of patience. She couldn’t help it. Don’t tell me your troubles, she wanted to say. I have to bury my brother, but not until the coroner gets through slicing him up.

  Lauren wasn’t paying attention; she was fishing for something in her purse, and when she brought out a small notepad, Annie recognized it, and her heart stalled.

  “Where did you get this?” She took it from Lauren, examining it, lifting the cover, running her fingertip over Bo’s name, tracing the loops, the smudged angles of letters and numbers, mostly nonsense. Looking up, she was startled to find Lauren in tears, visibly shaking, and it seemed ominous. It seemed to confirm that Annie was right to have doubts about her.

  “It’s a simple question,” she said.

  Lauren started to answer, but then the café door opened, and Cooper walked in with Rufus. The dog trotted over immediately, wanting Annie’s attention, but she couldn’t give it. “This is Lauren Wilder,” she said meaningfully to Cooper.

  His eyes widened.

  “It turns out she does know Greg Honey. Her sister’s dating him.”

  Cooper sat down.

  “She’s brought me Bo’s notepad.” Annie turned back to Lauren, locking her gaze. “She was just going to tell me where she got it, weren’t you, Lauren?”

  “I found it on the floor of the mudroom at my house this morning.” Lauren paused to gather herself, mopping her face with a tissue, settling her breath. “I asked my husband about it, but neither of us knows how it got there.”

  “Well, one of you must,” Cooper said.

  Lauren’s gaze fell.

  “Lauren?” Her name out of Annie’s mouth was a warning. “What else happened when you got out of your car last Friday and talked to Bo? Did you buy drugs from him?”

  “No! It was broad daylight. Do you think I would take such a risk? Believe me, when I was on Oxy, I was smarter than that.”

  “Maybe you arranged to meet him later, then.” Annie’s pulse was thrumming. She bent forward. “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. I swear I didn’t see him again after Friday.”

  “Then how did his notepad get in your house?”

  “Jeff thinks Bo gave it to me.”

  “What do you think?” Cooper asked.

  “Bo wouldn’t give his notepad to anyone.” But even as Annie said this, she could hear JT saying she didn’t know Bo as well as she thought she did, that all along she’d had ideas about Bo and how he would act that had turned out to be wrong.

  “Maybe I’m crazy,” Lauren said.

  Annie gave a short, brutal laugh.

  Cooper said, “Is it possible you got the notepad from Greg Honey?”

  “Oh,” Lauren said, and it was as if Cooper’s idea surprised her. “I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him, either.”

  But she didn’t look any more certain of that than of anything else she’d claimed as fact.

  “You know more than you’re saying.” Annie was convinced of it. She’d witnessed unbalanced behavior in Bo. She knew how misled you could be by your wish to believe in people like him and Lauren, who were kind, who appeared to be sensitive and in need of protection. Desire was a fierce thing. It could blind you to all kinds of truth.

  Lauren frowned as if she was trying to work out Annie’s meaning.

  “You’ve told so many stories,” Annie said, and Lauren turned her glance away. “You saw who murdered Bo, didn’t you?” The horrible certainty growing in Annie’s mind drove her voice higher. Cooper put a placating hand on her arm. That didn’t stop her. “You were with Greg Honey when he shot him, weren’t you? Or maybe you shot him yourself, and this is some kind of game.”

  “But why would I hurt Bo? What motive would I have?”

  “Drugs,” Annie said as if one word could sum it up. And she could have cried out over the pointlessness of it. Annie couldn’t think of anything stupider to die over. She waited for Lauren to say something, defend herself, explain. But she only stared blankly at Annie, and there was terror in her silence. Her eyes were wild, her face as pale as old frost. Looking at her, Annie thought: This is what it’s like when a person breaks down, when they cross the border from sanity to insanity.

  “I—I have to go.” Lauren clutched her purse to her chest. “My children—”

  “Why don’t we go and talk to the police.” Cooper’s tone was gently persuasive.

  But Lauren shook her head and slid out of the booth.

  “It will look better if you go to them on your own,” Annie said. When she spoke, Lauren was near the door and she paused on the threshold, but only for a moment. Then she went out, and the door closed behind her with a sigh.

  25

  Walking swiftly to her car, Lauren got inside it and locked the door. Thoughts loomed, erroneous, jumbled—one, that she could die. That people did die in the aftermath of a terrible shock. It wasn’t an old wives’ tale or an urban myth. It happened.

  God! The name, whether prayer or curse, burst into her brain. She grabbed the steering wheel, letting her head fall to her curled fists, feeling the bite of her knuckles.

  What was happening to her? What in the hell was going on?

  Could Greg have shot Bo in a drug deal? Had she been there? Could she have done it? But she had never even held a gun, much less shot one—had she? She wasn’t violent. She could lose her temper, with her kids, with Jeff, at herself, at life. But didn’t everyone? She wasn’t insane. She wasn’t.

  But since the fall, her brain wasn’t reliable. And she was an addict, one with holes in her memory. That much was true and shameful, and it haunted Lauren. She would never forgive herself for the damage she had caused as a result of getting hooked on the Oxy, and she knew there was much about that time that she didn’t remember and never would.

  But could she forget killing someone?

  If her brain didn’t remember, wouldn’t her heart? Her hands? Wouldn’t the knowledge run in her blood, lodge in the pores of her skin, the marrow of her bones? Wouldn’t some living part of her remember robbing the life of another?

  A sound broke from deep inside her, something harsh that hurt her chest, and she clamped her teeth against it, starting the Navigator, backing into the street, then jerking to a stop when a horn blared. Her rearview mirror framed the driver’s red face, the stab of his raised middle finger. She waited until he passed, then waited even longer, because she realized she had no idea what to do now, where to go.

  Talk to the police, Cooper had advised.

  It’ll look better if you go to them on your own, Annie had said.

  She thought of Jeff, remembering his promise to return to her. Quickly, he’d said. An hour, tops. It was longer than that now, more than two hours. Pulling her cell phone from her purse, she tried calling him, leaving a message when he didn’t answer. Clicking off, she didn’t know what she’d said. She wondered if it would make sense. He would be worried, she thought.

  She thought of her children, how angry they were with her, how it was quite possible they hated her, her own babies that she had brought into the world. Lauren could feel their small shapes in her arms, the imprint of the
ir soles when she’d pressed their tiny feet against her mouth. Her heart ached for them, for how she knew she didn’t deserve them, and for the way she understood now that neither her regret nor her atonement would ever be enough to regain their trust, much less their love and respect. But if she could face the truth, no matter how horrible and twisted, it might make a difference—at least to her. She found Detective Cosgrove’s contact card and set it on the console.

  There would be no turning back after she called him, and she couldn’t be certain once she told him about the notepad what the outcome would be. He would arrest her, she guessed. And oddly, the thought didn’t scare her. It seemed inevitable. She would have to make arrangements for her children; she didn’t want them at Tara’s right now. With Jeff out of pocket, there was only one option, and picking up her phone, Lauren dialed Suzanne’s number before she could second-guess herself. In her former life, they had talked or texted or e-mailed nearly every day. Now she was filled with dread. She couldn’t be sure Suzanne would agree to help her . . . Lauren, the nutcase, the dope fiend, the one who left little girls waiting, alone and vulnerable.

  Suppose Suzanne ignored her call? Or hung up on her?

  “Lauren?”

  Her breath froze. “Yes,” she said. “It’s me.” And she rushed on, words tripping over each other—that she was sorry for the misunderstanding yesterday, she didn’t know what happened, well, she did, but it was dumb. Hearing herself, she paused. “Is Amanda all right?”

  “She was more worried than anything. She didn’t want Kenzie going with Steve.”

  “Amanda was right not to.”

  “She’s not as devoted to her ballet lessons as Kenzie,” Suzanne said, and Lauren thought she heard traces of the old affection in Suzanne’s voice. “How is Kenzie? Amanda said they kept her in the hospital overnight.”

  “Yes, but she’s out now. She’s at Tara’s.” Lauren hesitated. She ran her fingertip along the lower arc of the steering wheel. “I’m really sorry, Suze. Not only for yesterday but for so much more. I can’t imagine what you must think.”

  “If you’re asking, what I think is how much it hurts me that you won’t talk to me.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Lauren said.

  “You’ve shut me out. I wanted to help you, to be there for you, but for a long time now you’ve acted as if we’re nothing more than acquaintances.”

  Lauren was dumbfounded. “I thought you didn’t—I mean after everything, the drugs—you know—I—”

  “My sister is an alcoholic. I’ve gone to 12-step meetings with her, the open meetings. I’ve gone to Al-Anon, too. I couldn’t ever judge you, Lauren. I would think you of all people would know that about me.”

  “Oh, Suzy, I guess I—I was just—I’ve been so ashamed of myself, you know?” Lauren’s voice slipped and caught. She almost couldn’t breathe around the tears that were jammed in her throat.

  “You go to 12-step. You know what they say about shame and guilt.”

  “We’re not supposed to go there.” Lauren paused. “It’s hard, Suzy.”

  “Yeah. I can imagine. And this is not an excuse, okay? But it’s not like you were looking to get high. It was the pain. I never saw anyone in as much agony as you were after your accident. God, I still don’t know how you got through it. I admire you, Lauren, in so many ways. I’m not sure I would have had the strength you do.”

  Lauren tipped her head against the seatback. She felt the tears come, felt them sliding down her cheeks, along the line of her jaw. She couldn’t stop them any more than she could stop the wave of love and gratitude for Suzanne’s kindness that swept through her.

  “Lauren?”

  She cleared her throat, swiped at the tears and under her nose. “I never meant for you to be hurt.”

  “I guess I should have tried harder.”

  “No,” Lauren said. “It was me. I have hated myself so much.”

  “You have to stop that now. Okay? Can you?”

  “I need your help, Suze.”

  “Oh?”

  A weight of caution rode in the syllable, and Lauren regretted it, but she went on; she had no choice. “Kenzie is at Tara’s, and I wonder if you could pick her up and keep her with you, maybe all night. I’m not sure.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Tara’s been sick. I don’t want Kenzie catching whatever it was.”

  “That isn’t the whole story.”

  “No. Look, I’ve got no right to ask you to bear with me, but can you?”

  It wasn’t so much that Suzanne didn’t answer as that she seemed to be waiting for the more that Lauren couldn’t say.

  “I would tell you, except I don’t know myself.” Lauren cut herself off with a groan. “I know how it sounds.”

  “I’ll pick Kenzie up,” Suzanne said after a pause. “Does Tara know I’m coming? Should I call her?”

  “I will,” Lauren said. “Thank you, Suzy, more than I can say.”

  “I hope one day we can talk again the way we used to.”

  “Me, too,” Lauren said. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you. I feel so badly for how wrong I’ve been, and you’re right. I should have known better.” Ready tears packed her throat again, and she swallowed them, fiercely. There wasn’t time now for despair or regret.

  After she hung up with Suzanne, she made one more call to Pat, Gabe’s mother, and asked if Drew could come home with Gabe after school. She hadn’t wanted to load the responsibility for Drew on Suzanne, too. Pat seemed a little confused.

  “The boys have an overnight planned here already,” she said. “I’ve been cooking up a storm. You know how they eat.”

  Lauren closed her eyes. Had she known this? Or had Jeff forgotten to tell her?

  “How is Kenzie? We heard she was in an accident.”

  “She’s fine, out of the hospital. She was lucky.” Lucky? The observer in Lauren’s mind sneered.

  Pat said they would take good care of Drew, and Lauren thanked her, and after saying good-bye, before she could lose her nerve, she called Detective Cosgrove. “I need to see you,” she said when he picked up.

  “I’m in your neighborhood,” he told her.

  Her heart jumped. But it seemed reasonable, didn’t it? He was waiting for her, waiting to arrest her. She might have asked if that was the case, but instead she said she would meet him at the house. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she added.

  Before leaving the parking space, she made two more calls, another to Jeff and a second to Tara. Neither of them answered, and Lauren fought a fresh wave of paranoia that rose in her mind, threatening her resolve. She said nothing to Jeff’s voice mail, but reaching Tara’s, she explained that Suzanne would be picking Kenzie up. It bothered her, not talking directly to Tara, but it was the best she could do for right now. Backing into the street, she thought at least the kids wouldn’t be there to see it, if she was handcuffed.

  Cosgrove and Willis were waiting for her in the driveway, standing outside their plain brown sedan. Jeff’s truck wasn’t there, and relief that, like the kids, he wouldn’t have to witness her arrest warred with apprehension. Something about his absence wasn’t right, but she had no time to dwell on what it might be, caught up as she was in greeting the detectives, shaking their hands—oh, they were so congenial—and leading them into her house. She bypassed the formal living room this time, ushering them into the great room instead.

  She had the notion that she didn’t want to be arrested in a room with pink silk-upholstered chairs, and it was laughable that she would choose that detail to be concerned over.

  Cosgrove and Willis sat on the leather sectional, and she settled on an ottoman across from them. The oversized coffee table between them had been a dining table until floodwater had damaged the bottom of its turned legs. Lauren had found it in the South of France while o
n a buying trip there, and she’d had it shipped to the warehouse, where Jeff had cut down the legs. She braced her hand on it now, steadied by the solid feel of the wood, and the sense of its survival, despite its traumatic history.

  “I guess you’re probably aware from the news that Bo Laughlin’s body was found late last night.” Cosgrove wasn’t asking.

  Lauren nodded, not correcting his assumption about her having heard it on the news.

  “Do you know where your husband is?”

  Lauren looked at Willis in surprise. “At work, I think.”

  “He isn’t there, Mrs. Wilder, if you mean the warehouse.” The hint of derision in Willis’s tone seemed to celebrate the fact that he knew something Lauren did not.

  “He might be on the job site. He’s taking down the old Waller-Land building. He was meeting Ben Kaiser, the owner, there.”

  “Huh.” Willis was full of himself. “Getting kind of late to still be on the job, isn’t it?”

  His attitude irked Lauren, but more than that, she was astonished and a little alarmed that the detectives had been searching for Jeff. “Why are you looking for him?” Lauren addressed Cosgrove.

  He said, “You wanted to talk to me?”

  “Yes. I found something of Bo’s, a—a notepad.”

  “Where?”

  “In the mudroom, on the floor. I think it fell out of my purse.”

  “You think? Is there some other way it could have gotten into your mudroom?” Cosgrove regarded her, brows raised.

  Panic forked like summer lightning through her veins. “No,” she answered. “Not that I can think of.”

  “What are you saying, Mrs. Wilder?” Willis asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember how it came into my possession.”