Living Lies

by Dawn Brown

  Haley fell somewhere in the middle. While she wasn’t outgoing like Michelle, she didn’t hate the world like Paige either. She was only fifteen when he knew her, awkward and skinny, quiet with a dry sense of humor that seemed a little old for her.

  The awkwardness had gone now. Her hair had deepened to a dark caramel color, but her eyes were still like liquid gold. He always thought she had amazing eyes, even back when he was too old for her.

  He turned off Main onto Shepherd, and followed the street to the edge of town. A small cluster of rundown houses, set far from the clean, pretty homes on the north end of Hareton, formed the neighborhood where he grew up. He brought the car to a halt in front of a dilapidated, red brick, two-story that probably had been nice in the 1940s.

  After grabbing his bag from the back seat and hoisting it over his shoulder, he trudged up the unshoveled path to the front door. Like many of the houses in the area, this one had been converted into a duplex. According to the name written in faded marker on masking tape next to the buzzer, Allister Glit lived in the apartment on the second floor.

  Dean pressed the button and waited. After a few moments, the door opened and Allister, dressed only in his boxer shorts, stood before him.

  His arms crossed his thin bare chest, and his black eyes went wide. “Dean, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “When I told you about Michelle, I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “Yeah, well, surprise. And until I figure out what I’m going to do, I need a place to stay.”

  “You can’t stay here. Celia will kill me.”

  “She’s back?”

  “Well, no, but if she finds out you were here, she’ll never come back.”

  Dean smiled tightly. “She left eight months ago. I don’t think my being here will impact her decision one way or the other.”

  “Forget it, Dean.”

  “Come on, be a pal.”

  “I work for Haley Carling. If she finds out, she’ll fire me.”

  “I just saw Haley at the coffee shop.”

  Al’s eyes rounded. “What did she say?”

  “Nothing, she didn’t recognize me.”

  “Thank God for that. I wonder what she was doing there.”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess having a cup of coffee before work.”

  “She’s going to work today?”

  Dean could hardly believe someone as white as Allister could get any whiter. “Yeah, I overheard her say so to Karen.”

  “Crap, she’ll know I was late again.” Raw panic filled Allister’s voice.

  “I could go back, maybe stall her. Maybe tell her what a great guy you are. I would know, after all, since we’ve stayed in touch all these years.”

  Allister raked his fingers through his greasy black hair, leaving clumps standing at strange angles when his arm fell back to his side. “Fine,” he snapped. “You can stay, but no one can know you’re here.”

  Dean nodded and followed Allister inside. He tried not to let Al’s words bother him. He’d been a pariah here for so long he thought he’d be used to it by now. He’d been wrong.

  Yellowed walls and sparse furnishings covered in a thick layer of dust made up Allister’s apartment. The smells of fried food and body odor hung heavy in the air. Dean forced himself to suppress a shudder as he watched something scurry across the filthy kitchen floor.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Al said. “I’m going to take a shower. Haley will kill me if I’m late again.”

  “So, she runs the store?” Dean asked, pretending idle curiosity, then sneezed. The dust was getting to him.

  “She sure does.”

  He would have to be deaf to miss the sarcasm in Al’s voice. “Is she a hard ass?”

  “Tries to be.” Al shrugged. “Not as bad as her old man, but she was just a kid when we started there. I don’t know who the hell she thinks she is telling me what’s what.”

  Al disappeared down the hall, leaving Dean alone in the small living room. He sneezed twice, his eyes turning watery. He couldn’t stay here. Never mind his dust allergy, or the way the smell turned his stomach, there was just no way he could be around this kind of mess without going a little buggy.

  Through the kitchen, he spotted a door that led outside. He sneezed three more times crossing the small room, trying to ignore the food crusted on the stove and the cloud of fruit flies hovering over the dirty dishes piled in the sink. Fruit flies in December. He shuddered openly this time.

  As he opened the door and stepped out onto a square deck, the wood creaked and shifted under his weight, and the snow nearly reached his knees. But he’d rather freeze his legs off than go back inside with the fruit flies and whatever had scurried over that floor. He had to find somewhere else to stay. Maybe Matthew could book a room over the phone with his credit card. They were business partners, after all. Matt knew he was good for it.

  As he searched for a solution to his habitation dilemma, he spotted the roofline to the shitty little house he’d grown up in. The morning sun glared off the patches of snow covering the peeling shingles.

  He knew his mother had gone. He had tried looking her up before coming back, but there was no forwarding address or phone number. For all he knew she might have lit out of this town right after he did.

  The bitterness surprised him. He had a pretty good life now. His own business, a nice house, friends. But being here brought back all those old feelings of inadequacy and powerlessness. He supposed they were never really gone, that they were always there, gnawing at the edges of his soul with rat-like teeth.

  So what was he doing here? He had no plan and no place to stay. What could he possibly hope to gain in a town where everyone called him a killer?

  Chapter Two

  One day. She could survive one day. Paige rested her forehead against the cold glass of the living room window. Outside, the late afternoon sun glittered pinkish-orange off the snow-covered lawn.

  Home again after four years and not an ounce of warmth or sentiment within her. Only jittery nerves and a sort of tight strangling sensation that left her desperate for escape.

  She’d arrived mid-morning and spent most of the day working from the kitchen table. Her mother hadn’t come downstairs at all. Thank God.

  Paige had heard her mother stir only once. Heavy footsteps overhead, the flush of the toilet, more footsteps, then nothing. All the while she sat frozen, afraid to breathe, afraid the slightest sound would summon the old witch. After what felt like a lifetime, Paige had exhaled a slow, steady breath, got back to work and tried not to think about her mother.

  Working kept her mind from wandering, but now, as the day wound down, there was nothing she could do but think. And remember. She flopped down on the couch, drew her thighs to her chest and rested her chin on her knees, trying to forget the image of her father standing at the big picture window.

  After Michelle disappeared, he had stood there almost every night, like a sea captain. His legs spread shoulder-width apart, his hands gripped together behind his back.

  By late summer, Michelle had been gone for nearly eight months. Paige remembered sitting on the couch in the darkened living room, just as now.

  “You should go to bed, Daddy,” she’d said.

  Her mother and father had given up playing parents, and Paige had the first real inkling they would never again reprise the roles.

  “Whenever any of you were late,” he told her, “I would wait by the window until I saw you coming up the driveway. I could never sleep until I saw you. I keep hoping if I wait long enough, she’ll come up the driveway, and she’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.”

  Paige didn’t know what to say. She stayed curled up on the couch, looking at her father’s back. At some point she’d fallen asleep, and when she awoke, her father had gone.

  He died four years ago of a heart attack and though she’d been away the last years of his life, she was sure he had stood at the window ev
ery night, hoping Michelle would come walking up the driveway.

  The shrill ring of her cell phone snapped her back into the present. She left the living room and picked up the phone from the kitchen table cluttered with her laptop and papers.

  “Paige Carling.”

  “It’s Lucy,” her assistant said. “I got your email.”

  “Good.” Static crackled through the earpiece, and she circled the kitchen, searching for a better signal. Lucy’s voice suddenly came in clear, and Paige froze.

  “Say that again. I missed most of it because of this piece-of-crap phone.”

  “Should I fax out the new paperwork to reflect the rates you gave me?” Lucy asked, raising her voice to a yell.

  Paige held the phone away from her ear and rolled her eyes. “Yes, then wait a half hour and call to follow up. See if you can’t get them back signed by the end of the day. I would like this deal booked by Friday. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal,” Lucy replied.

  Paige suspected Lucy might be doing a little eye rolling of her own. The floor above her creaked followed by a loud thump. Damn it, she’s awake.

  “Lucy, I’ve got to go. Let me know if you have any problems. You can reach me online or on my cell.”

  “Sure, I’ll call you if I need anything.”

  “Do that. I’ll check in with you before the end of the day,” Paige added and snapped her phone closed. She imagined Lucy would be cursing her now. After all, she’d just dashed any hope Lucy had for sneaking home early. Paige smiled to herself. Her boss used to do the same thing to her, until she finagled her way into his position and him out the door.

  She tidied the papers on the table and folded away her laptop. The sounds above had stopped. Her mother was probably back in Michelle’s room.

  Maybe she’ll stay there. Unlikely, unless she had a bottle hidden away.

  Paige carried her things into Garret’s old room off the kitchen. Her childhood bedroom upstairs had been filled with so many boxes and forgotten bits of furniture she could barely open the door. It would seem sweet Haley could hold a grudge.

  Yeah, well, let her. This room was as good as any other to spend the night. And besides, by this time tomorrow she would be home in her apartment, with her childhood repressed deep inside her, as it should be.

  Hesitant footsteps on the stairs followed by three quick thuds told Paige her mother had fallen. She went out to the hall and found the old woman sitting on the bottom step.

  She looked up at Paige with dull brown eyes, her gaunt haggard face expressionless. Did she even recognize her?

  “Where’s Haley?” Claire asked at last.

  Paige did her best to ignore the way her insides twisted into tight knots. “Work, I imagine.”

  Without a word her mother stood, shuffled past her through the kitchen and into the den.

  “And hello to you too, Mother,” Paige muttered. She slumped down on the bottom stair, resting her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand. No need to worry about an emotional welcome home in this house.

  A loud crash shattered the quiet. First one, then another. Paige jumped to her feet and ran into the den. Her mother stood at the bar, her face bright red and her hands balled into tight fists on either side of her thighs. Paige half expected her to start stomping her feet like a child in the throes of a good tantrum. The shattered remains of a crystal highball glass and a bottle of what looked like vodka littered the floor opposite her. Clear liquid ran down the wood paneled wall.

  “Do you know what your bitch sister did?”

  Paige shook her head but didn’t speak, afraid the next bottle might be thrown at her.

  “She filled the bottles with water.” Her mother’s voice rose to a piercing screech. “She thinks I’m too stupid to notice.”

  Claire unscrewed the top of another bottle, sniffed loudly, then, like a baseball pitcher smoking one over home plate, she hurled it against the wall. Paige cringed at the sound of exploding glass, and lifted her forearm to protect her face from any stray shards. When she lifted her head, her mother had moved on to the next bottle.

  “I can’t handle this,” Paige muttered, turning away. Another explosion of tinkling glass made her jump. One day? I’m never going to last. She went to her room and closed the door.

  For a moment, there was quiet from beyond the closed door, then the sound of metal clattering to the tile floor in the kitchen. Now what?

  “Paige,” her mother called. “Paige.”

  Paige opened the door and found her mother standing in a pile of forks, knives, spoons and various cooking utensils. Two empty drawers teetered on the edge of the counter.

  “Paige,” Claire began. “I need you to take me to the store. I think Haley hid my car keys again.”

  Paige bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling. So, Saint Haley had finally grown a spine.

  “I’m not taking you anywhere. How about I make you some coffee and something to eat?”

  “You have to take me!”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” Paige said. A mirthless smile curved her lips.

  “I’ll go myself then. I’ll take a taxi or walk.”

  “Do what you have to do.” Paige shrugged. “But you might want to get dressed and give that hair a brush before you go.”

  “You’re a horrible daughter.” Her mother screeched so loud Paige thought her ears might bleed, then the old woman stormed out of the kitchen.

  Paige knelt and gathered the silverware from the floor. One day, she reminded herself, just one day.

  “We need Christmas decorations. Something bright and cheerful to really get people into the spirit.”

  Haley tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth and continued dabbing furniture stain onto the wide headboard, ignoring her teenage part-timer. She didn’t see the point in telling Billy that with her sister’s body found, and her mother home drunk and passed out, and her other sister—the same one who made out with her now ex-fiancé at their father’s funeral—arriving today, other people’s Christmas spirit was actually quite low on her list of concerns. “I have other things on my mind,” she summed up instead.

  “Well, you need to think about this.”

  Haley lifted her gaze from the intricately carved fruit and glared.

  “All I’m saying,” he went on quickly, “is Christmas spirit sells. Real Christmas spirit, not this peace on earth and good will toward man crap. That’s a myth. Christmas spirit is cold hard cash. It’s buying the perfect gift and trying to top other people’s gifts. It’s all about money.”

  “How is it possible for you to be this cynical at sixteen?”

  “Call it cynicism if you want. I call it realism.”

  “Whatever you call it, if you want to see Christmas spirit on your next check, I suggest you get back up to the counter where you belong.”

  “Why? The shop’s empty.”

  Thanks for the reminder. “Because I’ve got a lot to do here, and you’re distracting me.”

  “You can’t talk and work?”

  “No, I can’t. I told Mrs. Beaumont I would have the suite done by Saturday.” She swung her arm out at the bedside tables and dresser, all in various states of completion. “Al’s on a delivery and I’m on my own here until he gets back. So, either sit at the counter or don’t speak.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” Billy said, lowering his voice to a hush. Why he bothered, she didn’t know. They hadn’t had a customer in nearly two hours. The skinny wooden paintbrush dug into her flesh as she tightened her grip.

  “What?”

  “I think Al might be gay.”

  Haley snorted. “Why would you think that?”

  “Some guy came to see him while you were getting coffee, and Al got all nervous and embarrassed. He wouldn’t even talk to the guy in the store.”

  Something fluttered in her stomach, and her skin turned cold. “Who was the guy?”

  “I’ve never seen him before. I don’t want to sou
nd mean, or anything, but I think he’s a little out of Al’s league.”

  “I doubt Al’s gay. He lived with Celia for over a year.” And how Celia could stand him Haley didn’t know.

  “Then, who’s the guy?”

  “He could be anyone. Some friend or relative of Al’s, maybe his bookie or drug dealer. Who knows?” Maybe the guy from the Java Joint. She tried to suppress the shiver running down her spine. So what if he was? Why would that bother her?

  “Do you think Al’s into drugs?”

  Haley sighed and tossed her brush down next to the can of stain on the newspaper. “No, I don’t think he’s into drugs. I swear, you’re worse than an old woman when it comes to gossip.”

  The telephone on the counter rang and she said a silent prayer of thanks. “Can you get that?”

  Billy shrugged and slipped through the door from the workshop into the store. She liked the kid. He worked hard for her three nights a week and every other Saturday. Best of all he worked for minimum wage, but sometimes his non-stop chatter drove her crazy.

  She peeled off her blue, latex gloves, tossed them into the trash and washed her hands in the bathroom sink. When she emerged, Billy was waiting for her.

  “That was Al. He delivered the table, but he said he won’t be back in.”

  “Oh?” She should fire him, she knew she should. He was late more often than on time, he called in sick at least three times a month, usually on a Friday or a Monday, and he argued with her every time she made a change. So why didn’t she? Because her father hired him? A throw back to a time when her world had been okay?

  Billy shifted from one foot to the other. “’Cause it’s four now, and by the time he gets back it’ll be nearly six.”

  “Is he planning on walking back? Is that why he’ll take two hours?”

  Billy shrugged.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s probably for the best anyway. That’s two hours I don’t have to pay him for.” She sighed. “There’s not much going on. If you want to take off early too, you can.”

  Deep frown lines grooved his usually unmarred forehead, while he wrestled with the decision. Clearly, choosing between money and free time was not easy for him. But finally, after careful consideration, going home won out over getting paid.