The Liar Next Door: An absolutely unputdownable domestic thriller

by Nicola Marsh

  Andre has gone outside to take his call so I pick up my cell. Once again, Walter doesn’t answer and I leave another message.

  “Hey, Walt, it’s me. Again. Are you okay? Please call me back. If you don’t I’m going to harass you at work and you know how much you hate getting personal calls at the bank. Call me.”

  I hang up and on impulse I call our old beachside cottage number. He may have left his cell in Hartford and can only be contacted in Ziebellville the old-fashioned way. Unlikely, but plausible. However, the landline at the cottage rings out and he’s disconnected the answering machine. I feel foolish, worrying about him. He’s a grown man and we’re nothing but distant friends these days that only speak once a year.

  Discounting those extra few fraught calls lately I don’t want to think about.

  But Walter is a creature of habit. His life runs by rote and no way would he leave his cell anywhere let alone not return a call. But I’m not his keeper and I’ll back off, give him a day or two. Maybe he’s done with me? Is tired of our annual chat? He seems to enjoy them as much as I do otherwise I would’ve given up years ago.

  No, it’s not that, and I can’t help but think he’s sick or injured or lying in a hospital somewhere. Julia would know but the last thing his partner wants is his ex-wife calling and explaining we still catch up yearly in some warped attempt at sentimentality.

  My work threat will do the trick. When we were married he forbade me from calling the bank. He loathed mixing business with pleasure and when he made manager he banned his staff from accepting personal calls too. He’d hate for me to contemplate it, let alone do it, so he’ll definitely return my call.

  After checking on the scones I arrange the raspberry jelly, whipped cream and fresh strawberries on white serving dishes and clean the counter. I’m doing an English theme for my stream today after a local company sent me an exquisite hand-painted teapot covered in tiny poppies. By the way Andre had been drooling over my handiwork earlier, he’ll have no problem demolishing the rest of the scones after I finish filming.

  My cell rings and I grab it in relief. But it’s not Walter calling me. It’s Celeste.

  I contemplate hitting the decline button but she’ll leave a voice message I’ll have to respond to regardless.

  I stab at the answer button. “Hey, Celeste.”

  “Hi, Frankie. Does Luna like jigsaw puzzles?”

  Luna loves them. I remember doing her first with her a few years ago when she’d just turned two, a zoo theme comprising sixteen giant pieces that covered the floor of our living room. She delighted in making the pieces fit with my help and loved breaking it up and doing it all over again. Since then, we give her a puzzle for her birthday and Christmas every year and it’s a family thing we do, sit with her to complete it.

  “She does.”

  “Vi does too and she’s just opened a new one. Would Luna like to come over and do it with her?”

  My first instinct is to say no. Despite Andre’s reassurances earlier I still can’t shake my fear that Celeste’s ex is dangerous and by letting her close to my family, particularly Luna, I’m exposing us all.

  But Celeste is new to the neighborhood and a single parent trying to do the best for her daughter. And while I don’t know enough about her past to allay my fears, I’ve already let her into our lives and it would be cruel to renege now.

  “How about you bring it over here? I’ve got a few things to do but our living room is quiet.” This way, I feel better about not putting Luna in a potentially dangerous situation.

  There’s the barest hesitation before she says, “That sounds great. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

  She hangs up before I can respond and I wonder anew whether she’s lonely too and it’s not just Vi who needs friends. I’m not comfortable with sending Luna alone next door but having Celeste and Violette here means I can keep an eye on them. I have a direct line of sight from the kitchen where I’m filming, to the living room, even with the sliding glass doors closed.

  Yeah, I’ve done the right thing.

  Then why can’t I shake the feeling I may be inadvertently putting my family at risk?

  Thirty

  Celeste

  One of the things I always loved about Roland was his manners. My most precious memories of our time together were family lunches and dinners, when we’d sit around the table chatting about anything and everything, and he’d make appreciative sounds every time he forked my food into his mouth. I’d loved preparing him meals: lasagna and lemon cake had been his favorites.

  I’d harbored dreams of us marrying one day. He loved Vi instantly and that made me love him all the more. Watching him build sandcastles with her in the early days or patiently posing as she drew him in stick-figure version or their mingled laughter at some whacky cartoon used to make me feel complete.

  Until it didn’t.

  The possibility of having another child, a sibling for Vi, drove an irreversible wedge between us. It resulted in me moving to Hambridge Heights to get away and Vi not having a father anymore. He left me no other option.

  “Hurry up, Mom, ring the doorbell.” Vi’s impatient, practically juggling the puzzle box in her hands, as she bumps my hip with her shoulder.

  I do as I’m told and Frankie opens the door looking like she’s stepped off the pages of a magazine. She’s wearing a red sundress covered in white daisies, her hair snagged in a high, glossy ponytail and her make-up flawless.

  “Are you going out?”

  “No, I’m about to start filming, but come on in. You’ll be doing me a favor keeping Luna occupied with that puzzle.” She smiles at Vi. “That looks like fun.”

  “It’s an octopus.” Vi brandishes the box toward Frankie. “I saw one at the beach once with my dad. Mom’s made his favorite cake. It’s really yum.”

  Frankie’s eyes meet mine and she’s awkward, unsure how to respond to my daughter’s mention of a father who’s no longer around. She has no idea what I’ve been through. She leads the perfect life and for a brief moment I wonder how she’d feel if Luna didn’t have her dad around anymore? Would she be resilient, like me, or fall apart?

  “I’m looking forward to trying it,” Frankie finally says, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

  “Thanks for having us over,” I say, trying not to let my envy show as I step inside. If Frankie looks like she belongs in a magazine so does her house, with its gleaming honey-colored floorboards, trendy prints in vibrant crimson, orange and peacock-blue arranged artfully on the walls and understated modern furniture that appears comfortable but is probably worth my quarterly wage.

  “Head into the living room, make yourself at home,” she says, taking the cake from my hands when I hold it out to her. “And thanks for this. We can have it after I finish.”

  It’s a statement, not a question, and I bristle at her take-charge attitude. Why did she invite us over if she had to work? When she’d mentioned on the phone she had a few things to do, I’d envisaged her tidying up, not filming.

  As Luna bounds into the room, waving hi to me and making a beeline for Vi, who’s already sitting on the floor in front of a coffee table with the puzzle box open, I see Frankie’s doting gaze follow her daughter and I know why she invited us over.

  She didn’t want to send Luna to my house alone.

  I’m disappointed. I thought we were becoming friends. What does she think, that I’m a crap mother and I won’t look after her daughter as well as mine? That I don’t have boundaries and rules for a child to follow? It’s undermining and I don’t like feeling like a bad mother when I’m not. I’ll do anything for Violette.

  I hide my frustration and smile. “You go ahead and do your stream. The girls and me will be fine in here.” I sit on a suede sofa not far from the girls and she hesitates, as if she can’t bear to leave me alone with them.

  Gritting my teeth, I make a shooing motion with my hands. “Go. The sooner you finish the sooner I can have a coffee with that cake.”<
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  Her smile is tight and I belatedly realize I’ve insulted her by implying she hasn’t offered me a drink. When I’m nervous I’m not good around people and this is one of those times, saying the wrong thing.

  “Truly, Frankie, we’ll be fine. Do your work and we can relax later.”

  “It should take about fifteen minutes, twenty max.”

  “No worries.”

  She hesitates for a second longer before heading into the kitchen, where she places my cake on a side counter, then closes the glass doors to the living room. She can still see us, probably her intention, though considering her picture-perfect kitchen I’m not surprised she always films there.

  I re-watched a few of her videos last night after Vi had gone to bed. They exhausted me. How someone could appear so confident in front of a camera, so competent as a mother, I’ll never know. I’d watched her make raspberry jelly and cucumber pickles, whizzing around the kitchen and smiling at the camera like a natural. She’s pretty in a wholesome way, with all that thick shiny blonde hair and big blue eyes. I’d been beyond envious.

  Now I get to watch her perform again, though I can’t hear what she’s saying, like a mute film, all glossy perfection without the distracting chatter. She’s demonstrating how to make scones, with a pre-prepared batch off to one side to bring in at her grand ta-da moment. Even from a distance they look light and fluffy. I’d made Roland scones once. They’d had the texture of rocks. He hadn’t approved.

  Does Andre appreciate his wife? He has a great body, which means he must do a hell of a lot of working out if he consumes everything she prepares. He’s handsome, in a boyish way, with that underlying hint of spontaneity many women find appealing, like they don’t know what to expect from him. He unnerves me a little.

  “What happened to your dad?”

  I tear my gaze away from Frankie and focus on the girls, curious to hear Vi’s response to Luna’s innocent question. She’d been at a birthday party during my last argument with Roland, the day I’d finally realized I had to escape. It had been ugly and despite doing my utmost to protect Vi from the worst of it I fear she still blames me for taking her away from her father.

  “He’s not going to visit us anymore,” Vi says, handing Luna a corner piece from the jigsaw.

  “How come?” Luna takes the piece and lays it on the table.

  “Mom said sometimes parents don’t get along and it’s better to have a fresh start.” Vi glances at me somewhat fearfully. “Isn’t that right, Mom?”

  “It is, sweetheart.”

  A fresh start far from the pain of the past.

  “You can share my dad if you want,” Luna says, oblivious to the way my heart seizes. “Not all the time, but just if you need to do dad stuff like open jars and reach into the top cupboards.”

  Vi frowns, as if she’s never heard of sharing fathers, before shaking her head. “Don’t be silly. He’s your dad. He can’t be mine too.”

  I release the breath I’ve inadvertently been holding and silently wish Frankie would hurry up. I need a coffee, pronto. Not that caffeine will soothe my jangling nerves. I need to get out of this house, away from its cloying perfection.

  Perfect home, perfect couple, perfect family.

  But if anyone knows there’s no such thing as perfection, I do.

  Thirty-One

  Saylor

  I wait until Lloyd’s out for his run before heading across the park to knock on Ruston’s door. I know he’s home because I’ve been watching out the window like some bored housewife from the sixties, spying on the neighbors. I don’t like the woman I’m becoming since moving here but I need to be on the lookout.

  Being blackmailed does that to a person.

  I remember the day I received the first phone call. I’d just announced my pregnancy at thirteen weeks and had been high on hormones and congratulations. Once my folks absorbed the news, they threw us a celebratory dinner and invited all the church elders, who bestowed copious blessings on us. While their religious fervor made me uncomfortable, it had nothing on my reaction when my cell rang the next morning and I heard that sinister, distorted voice extorting me for money.

  Pay up or my secret will be revealed.

  I could’ve dismissed it as a crank, but the blackmailer knew details and I realized then what I had to do.

  Move to Hambridge Heights and set my own blackmail plan into action.

  I don’t worry about the neighborhood gossips this time because I have a legitimate excuse to visit Ruston: issuing my dinner party invitation. I have no idea if he’ll accept. I’m half-hoping he won’t. But it had been Lloyd’s idea to invite him and it’ll look weird if I don’t.

  While I felt relieved after talking to Ruston at the share-plate supper—having our first confrontation after the last time I’d seen him five months ago hadn’t been as bad as I’d imagined—it didn’t last, and in some perverse method of self-torture, I looked him up online. Since we broke up, his photography and modeling careers have escalated and he’s done several big shoots. I’m happy for him. I’m less happy with the photos of him draped over that campaign manager, the one whose house he’s living in, his “friend.”

  It’s silly, as I have no right to be jealous, and I felt petty when critically appraising her shoulder-length mousy brown hair, snub nose, murky gray eyes and tiny teeth that vaguely resembled a rat. I’m not this person, bitchy and judgmental, so I’d been grateful when Lloyd had come home and I’d quickly closed the browser, ashamed of my online reconnaissance.

  I’m about to knock again when the door opens and he’s there, sexy as hell in low-slung denim and a fitted white T-shirt that clearly delineates every muscle I’ve had the pleasure of running my hands and lips over. Damn memories.

  “Hey, Say. Can’t keep away from me, huh?”

  He’s a conceited ass and I wish he didn’t have the power to still make my heart beat faster. But I need to relax, to issue my invitation in the name of fostering neighborly harmony and proving to my husband Ruston means nothing to me anymore.

  “We’re having a dinner party and you’re invited.” My tone is friendly but I’m faking it hard.

  “Really?”

  His grin is smug, like he knows exactly how uncomfortable I am around him.

  “I thought it might be nice, getting to know some of the neighbors in a more intimate setting.”

  “Intimate, huh?”

  I scrub a hand over my face, wishing I could eradicate his smug image. Was he always this much of a jerk?

  “Look, Ruston, can we leave the past in the past and just hang out as friends?”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “Whether you still have a thing for me.”

  Damn him. He hasn’t changed a bit. Too cocky for his own good. The problem with Ruston—that my parents had seen way before I had—is his complete self-absorption that means he can never commit to any woman because he’s too in love with himself. He gets off on attention and that makes him bad partner material. Inherently selfish, he’d been late for our dates more times than I can count and preferred partying with equally beautiful model types than a quiet dinner with me.

  I need to focus on his bad qualities and forget he can also be sweet and attentive and generous. “I know this is your thing, flirting with any woman over the legal age. But I’m over it.”

  He quirks an eyebrow, as if he knows that’s BS. “I’m just messing with you. Sure, I’ll come. When’s this dinner party?”

  “Friday night.”

  He flashes me a smile and damn if I don’t feel it in the one place I don’t want to: my heart. “I’ll be there. Want me to bring anything?”

  “No, all good.”

  I stand there way longer than I should, wanting to say so much to this man—why did you hurt me, why wasn’t I enough for you, why are you here, now, disrupting my life when it’s bad enough—but I don’t. His answers to my questions won’t change anything, and I have enough drama in my life with
out adding to it.

  “Everything okay?” He’s looking at me with concern. Too little too late.

  “Yeah.”

  But as I turn away, tears sting my eyes, because nothing is okay—my life as I know it is in danger of imploding.

  Thirty-Two

  Frankie

  THEN

  When I met Walter I thought I knew what love was. That love embodied comfort and stability, and having someone kind and reliable to come home to every day. Meeting Andre made me realize I was wrong.

  Ever since I first saw Andre strolling along the beach outside the cottage in Ziebellville, I felt something shift, making me off-kilter, like the first time Walt took me out in his dinghy. I’d still been living in the cottage at the timeeven after we divorced Walter let me live there until I figured out where I wanted to go—and I’d just come home from work, finishing a marketing plan for the grocery chain in New Haven I freelanced for. I was sitting out back on a deck chair when he’d walked right up to me and said hi. His deep voice sent a shiver of excitement through me and when he’d asked me out, brazen and confident, I accepted.

  We’ve been inseparable since that first momentous meeting. He’s a free spirit and the opposite of Walter in every way. Andre is laid-back, carefree and funny. He makes me laugh every day with his acerbic observations on everything from our favorite bagels at the corner store to the newest boutique opening on the Upper East Side.

  I thought I’d loved Walter but now I know this is love, this heady, hedonistic, crazy, overwhelming emotion that inspires me.

  Maybe Walter has the same realization too. He’s back with Julia, the girlfriend he dumped because of me, and I’m glad. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for her to learn I’d divorced him, that I’d broken up their relationship for nothing. I suspected she’d been behind those incidents when Walt popped the question, especially as they stopped after we married and she probably realized our relationship was serious. Regardless, I’m pleased Julia and Walt are back together. He deserves to be happy, and we haven’t seen each other by mutual agreement because while our divorce was amicable it’d be too awkward. I don’t need a reminder of how I broke his heart.