The Color of Lies

by CJ Lyons

  Darrin. Could he have been the man on the beach that night? The one chasing me? No, the police checked his alibi—it was airtight. Maybe he hired someone? With my mom and dad gone, he was executor of their estate, got to run Cleary and Sons, got to control the money that came to me.

  I wonder at that. Why hadn’t Dad gone to Gram Helen or Joe? Why didn’t he mention them at all? His letter made it sound like he and Mom had no one to turn to for help, no choice but to run. Were they afraid Darrin would target Helen and Joe? Use them as hostages? But then why not warn them, take them along when they ran?

  Maybe it was me. Maybe running with a toddler already made them too conspicuous, maybe I slowed them down.

  Theories and scenarios pummel me from all sides, none of them making any sense. I’m reading the letter again when a sound at the front door has my heart squeezing my throat tight. I whirl away from the computer in time to see a man’s silhouette darken the other side of the glass.

  Darrin. He’s found me.

  CHAPTER 38

  Alec

  The meeting room door bangs open as if a SWAT team is kicking it in. I glance up from where I’m working. It’s only Max, venting his anger, but he’s still polite enough to catch the door before it hits Rory.

  “We’re here,” he says. “But this had better be good.” He takes a position against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

  I ignore him. “Rory, I thought you were with Ella. Is she okay?”

  “The police are with her—they made us leave.”

  I can’t really argue with that, but I don’t like it. I shuffle my notecards one last time before squaring them up and centering them in front of me.

  “Stop stalling,” Max says.

  “This isn’t easy. Bear with me, please. I’m going to try to work backward, put everything in some sort of order, but there are places where I can’t be certain of the chronology—and things where you might be able to help me fill in the gaps, since you’ve known Ella and her family for so long.”

  Max simply narrows his eyes, braced as if for an attack, while Rory nods and says, “Go on.”

  I haul in a breath. Part of me hopes I’m making a fool of myself, that they’ll quickly point out where I went wrong. Most of me is dreading being right. “You know I came here to learn more about Ella’s parents’ murders.”

  “Right, for your tell-all book.” Max rolls his eyes.

  Rory waves him to silence. “You said murders. Plural. You don’t believe Ella’s dad killed her mother and then himself?”

  “I think it’s not as black and white as the police report says. I think what happened in that beach cottage was set in motion years beforehand. And I don’t believe Sean Cleary suffered from mental illness. I think everything he did was to protect his daughter. Including killing himself.”

  Even Max seems interested at that.

  “What if,” I continue, “this was never about Mia and Sean Cleary? What if it was about the company, Cleary and Sons? Specifically, the family trust that owns the company.”

  “Aren’t they all basically the same thing?” Max asks.

  “Not if this all began with Sean’s father and his death.”

  “Ella’s grandfather?” Rory asks. “He died right before Ella was born. How could he have anything to do with it?”

  I slide a piece of paper over to them. Samuel Cleary’s obituary. “Survived by his only son and daughter-in-law. No other relatives to inherit the company.”

  “Not until Ella was born.” This from Rory.

  “Exactly. So if your business is insurance and finance, and your father just died and your wife is pregnant with your first child, what do you do?”

  “Make out a will,” Max says. “Protect my child’s interests in case anything happened to me or my wife.”

  Rory’s head bobs as she pieces things together. “Wait, wait, if you think someone killed Ella’s parents so they could take over the company, then why wait until she was three before murdering her parents? And why not kill her as well? Or do it before she was even born? And . . . whoa . . . are you saying it was someone they knew?”

  “Where’s Darrin in all this?” Max puts in. “He’s been running the company since they died—actually, since before Ella’s grandfather died. He started at Cleary and Sons while her dad was still in grad school, was like second in command under her grandfather.”

  “I looked it up. Chief Financial Officer and Executive Counsel, to be precise. And, don’t forget, he’s executor of Ella’s parents’ wills and the trust fund they left her.” I pace along the narrow space between the conference table and the wall. They’re asking the right questions even if I don’t have all the answers. Yet. “But you’re right. Why wait three years before killing her parents?”

  “Oh.” Rory bounces in her seat, raising her hand before catching herself. “Not just that, but if it’s about insurance money, then suicides don’t pay out, so why make it look like her dad killed himself?”

  “That’s actually not true,” Max says. “Some insurance companies will still pay out after a suicide if the person held the policy long enough. I know because that’s what happened with my aunt.”

  I glance his way, ready to say something sympathetic, but the rigid set of his shoulders warns me off. Instead I return to the few facts I have. “He’s right,” I tell them. “Usually you have to hold the policy for several years. And of course, being in the business, both Mia and Sean Cleary had excellent insurance policies. Which they supplemented after she became pregnant and his father died of that sudden heart attack.”

  “Are you suggesting Ella’s grandfather’s heart attack might have actually been murder?” Rory asks.

  “Or coincidence. I’m not sure. But it’s something to keep in mind.”

  “I’m still not buying it,” Max puts in. “The cold-blooded murder of three people? Doesn’t seem like much of a payoff, not with the risk of getting caught. I mean, Darrin already had control over a lot of the company and made a ton of money. Besides, the police cleared him—he has an alibi, right?”

  “He was cleared. He was in London when Ella’s parents died.” Now for the part that’s a hard sell. “Someone else working with Darrin did the actual killings.”

  “You mean, like, he hired a hit man?” Rory’s eyes grow large.

  “I think his partners are closer to home. Who gains the most from Ella’s parents’ deaths?”

  “Ella, of course, but she was only a baby. You said Darrin was executor of the estate, so that leads right back to him.”

  “Okay.” I try again, fighting back a glimmer of hope that maybe I am wrong. “Think of it this way. Who profited from Ella staying alive all these years to inherit her father’s estate? And who stands to profit if she dies now, like maybe in a suspicious fire?”

  They both furrow their brows in disbelief. Rory shakes her head in denial. “You mean Helen and Joe. No . . . they love Ella. They gave up their whole lives to come and take care of her.”

  “Besides,” Max chimes in, “why would Ella’s mom’s family kill her? They have plenty of money from the company.”

  “Exactly why no one ever suspected them. My research was so fixated on the details of the crime and why Sean Cleary might have killed his wife, I never looked into Mia’s past. I don’t think anyone did. Honestly, there’s not much there. Mia Crveno, daughter of Helen and Joseph Crveno. After her father was killed, Mia fled Sarajevo in 1992, began at Cleary and Sons in data-entry, where her unique skills from her synesthesia allowed her to quickly rise through the ranks to head of the fraud division. Then she drew the attention of the founder’s son. They married and the rest is history, right?”

  Both Max and Rory nod, waiting for the inevitable twist.

  “Except for one thing. I can’t find any records of Helen or Joe Crveno existing here in the US before eighteen years ago. The first I can find are when they moved to New York—around the same time Ella’s mother was pregnant with her and her grandfather
died.”

  “They were war refugees,” Rory says. “Maybe their records from before were lost.”

  “No.” Now it’s Max arguing my point. “Then they’d have records here. Just like Ella’s mom did.” He frowned. “So where were they all that time between leaving Sarajevo and arriving in New York? What were they doing?”

  “Maybe the question isn’t where or what but who? Who were they before they moved to New York?” I wait for the implications to sink in.

  “You think Helen and Joe aren’t really Ella’s family?” Rory asks, her voice breathless. “How did they get custody?”

  “Easy. They had legal identification with the names of Helen and Joseph Crveno. By that time they were well established at their New York state address. Plus, the executor of Mia’s will—Darrin—identified them as the legal next of kin. Why would the police in a small town a thousand miles away, their hands full with a murder-suicide that was the crime of the century, ever question it? Not to mention that in both Mia’s and Sean’s wills, Darrin is named not only executor but legal guardian of their children in the case of their deaths. Which was kind of strange if Mia had relatives living here in the States, right? Technically, the police were obligated to give custody to Darrin once social services cleared him. Which means no one ever did a complete background check on Helen and Joe. Because whoever Darrin chose to help with childrearing was up to him.”

  Max and Rory look at each other, eyes wide. “So no one even looked?”

  “No one even looked. They had no reason to,” I answer. “But once you knew where to look—or rather, when—it wasn’t hard. I found two people from New Jersey who legally changed their names to Helen and Joseph Crveno eighteen years ago before moving to the small town in upstate New York where Mia’s supposed family lived. From then on, they were legally the Helen and Joe you know.”

  “No,” Rory says. “You’re forgetting, they both have synesthesia. It’s hereditary.”

  “Right. A rare disease that affects each patient in a unique way, one that could reveal itself in a myriad of symptoms. One that there is no easy medical test for.”

  A long pause as Rory and Max exchange wide-eyed stares. “It wouldn’t be hard to pretend to have synesthesia,” Rory suggests in a hesitant tone. “I mean, I guess.”

  “The medical literature has articles on people who live their whole lives acting as if they have synesthesia, but when they test them with MRIs and PET scans, they actually don’t. So, if someone wanted to fit in with a family with synesthesia or wanted a way to excuse themselves whenever conversations got too tough or the wrong questions were asked—”

  “It makes for the perfect con.” Max’s tone is bitter. “All those times I’ve been extra nice to Helen when she complained about a migraine, or the way we tiptoe around words to protect Joe—what a laugh they must have had.”

  “Not just us. Think of Ella,” Rory says. “They’re her only family—her entire world revolves around them. This is going to crush her. If it’s true.”

  Neither of them is calling my bluff, telling me I’m wrong. Instead, they’re buying my theory, crazy as it is.

  “Darrin, he’s the one who planned all this?” Max asks. “To get access to Ella’s inheritance? Then why not take a big insurance policy out on her and kill her? Why all this trouble, not to mention the expense of raising a kid?” He starts pacing around the room. “Fifteen years is a long time to be faking all this. And, as soon as she’s an adult and starts to check into her parents’ finances and the company, the gig is up. Why bother with raising her at all?”

  Rory interrupts him. “Is that why the fire started? They were trying to kill her? Before she’s old enough to start working for the company and putting the pieces together?”

  “I think so.” My voice drops, weighed down by guilt. “And I might have sped up their timeline, coming here and asking questions.”

  “No. Not just you,” Rory says. “I know why they waited until now. Ella told me this afternoon. She inherited more than the family trust that came with Cleary and Sons. Her parents had a separate trust funded by their life insurance so she wouldn’t have to worry about education costs. She gained access to it when she turned eighteen.”

  “How much?” Max asks cautiously.

  “She didn’t say—which makes me think it must be a lot. Otherwise she would have told me.”

  The final piece of the puzzle. I stop, my breath frozen. I force myself to exhale, breathe in, and exhale again. But still the weight on my chest doesn’t budge. “Which means Ella’s fair game. Kill her now and they get everything.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Ella

  Before I can hide, the cabin’s door opens. I have my finger on the button of my Howler, the sonic alarm Max gave me for my birthday last year. It’s guaranteed to stun any attacker long enough to let you escape.

  A man steps out of the dark and into the light. Not Darrin. Joe.

  I almost run to him in relief, want to tell him everything, but then I see the pistol in his hand. Aimed at me.

  I pull up short. His eyes fly wide at the sight of me. He glances around the empty cabin. “You’re alone. Good.” He sees me staring at the gun and jerks his body back from his own hand as if holding a snake. He fumbles it into his jacket pocket. “Sorry. I saw the light. Didn’t know who was in here.”

  “Why do you have a gun?” I’ve never seen Joe with a weapon—not even to hunt, which just about everyone around here does. He wouldn’t even bait my hook with worms when he taught me how to fish. Instead, he used rolled-up bread balls for bait.

  He shrugs, walks past me to the computer that’s bright with my father’s last words to me still open in the word processor. I curse myself for not having enough time to close it out and delete it, but it’s too late now. Darrin is Joe’s best friend—does he have any idea what Darrin did? Is that why Joe has a gun?

  I say nothing but edge closer to the door as he reads. At least he won’t be able to see any of the folders from the thumb drive—all I did was look at their titles, and the letter was the only one that opened all the way in a computer program, so I think I’m safe. Then I realize: safe from what? From who?

  “Should have known your dad left you breadcrumbs. Darrin always said he was smarter than the average rube.”

  I stare at him as if he’s speaking Martian. His posture is different, straighter, taller, and his accent has changed as well: more flat and nasal, far from the mountains of central Pennsylvania.

  He glances over his shoulder, sees me staring, and grimaces. “Guess it’s time to tell you everything. I was trying to find the right time—it’s why I wanted you to come away with me so we could figure out a plan. One that hopefully doesn’t get us both killed.”

  “What are you talking about?” My words are a strangled whisper as he turns his back to me to start the gas logs in the fireplace.

  I return my keys to my pocket—after all, I came here to find answers, so using the Howler and running away will do me no good. Besides, although he seems different than the Joe I know and love, he doesn’t seem threatening—his aura is more sorrowful, filled with regrets, not violence.

  If I’m going to stay and listen, though, I want to make sure help is on the way, just in case. I slide my phone into my hand, half-hidden in my pocket, gripping it tight since it’s the best weapon I have, but I’m not hopeful about making any calls. There’s never any cell reception up here. But with Joe’s Wi-Fi, I should be able to get a text out. Worth a shot, I think as my fingers type silently.

  “Well, for starters, I’m not who you think I am.” He moves to plop into one of the leather chairs in front of the fireplace, legs spread wide, relaxed. “Legally, I really am Joe Crveno, just like it says on my driver’s license. Have been for eighteen years. Before then I was Jimmy McCray.” He taps his forehead in a fake hat tilt. “Pleased to meet ya.”

  “My dad said Darrin—you’re working for him?” No, that can’t be right. “Helen, she, she’s not
your mother?”

  “She’s my aunt. And Darrin’s mother. We’re a twisted bunch, our family.” He laughs at my confusion, but it’s not a cruel laugh, more one of self-deprecation. “I know this is confusing, a lot to take in. But I promise, I’m not here to hurt you. I want to help. Sit down, ask me anything.”

  My family isn’t my family—it’s Darrin’s? I want to stay where I am, near the door and its escape, but my legs are quivering, and I know even if I run, he’ll catch me easily. So I move to the chair and slide it back, away from his. Before I sit down, I take the fire poker from its stand. It’s just there for decoration, left over from when the fire took real logs, but its cold iron heft feels good in my hand.

  Then I start. “My dad wasn’t crazy.”

  “Nope. Not even a bit. Your mom, though, she was the tough one—her synesthesia made it almost impossible to fool her once she got her hands on the books. She’s why Darrin changed gears and instead of fleecing the company, he decided to fleece the family legacy: you.”

  “I don’t understand. Darrin knew my father since college.”

  “Yep. Only one of the family to go. Got a scholarship. Well, actually, he stole one. Applied for a bunch under a variety of stolen identities until he got a full ride. See, that’s the family business: grifts, cons, scams, whatever you want to call them. Up and down the Jersey shore, that’s our territory. Or was, until Darrin came up with this game.” He shakes his head in admiration. “Longest, most profitable con in family history. He’s a true genius.”

  “Con?” I ask, although I think I’m finally understanding.

  “After Darrin met your father, he realized that Cleary and Sons was a proverbial pot of gold. False insurance claims, skimming off the top from clients, and a bunch of gullible folks who wouldn’t think twice about trusting him with their life savings. So, Darrin decided to learn everything he could about the business. Graduated with honors. Your dad went on to grad school for his MBA and got Darrin a job at Cleary and Sons. But Darrin knew he needed to get close to the old man, your grandfather, earn his trust. So he went to law school in his free time, proved himself. I mean, seriously, the work he put in was astounding. Had the rest of the family laughing at him, thinking he’d gone straight. Should’ve known better. By the time your father finished his MBA and returned home, Darrin practically ran Cleary and Sons.”