The Truth Beneath the Lies

by Amanda Searcy

  “Hey, where are you going?” Finn calls. I’m walking with his phone. I have his sweatshirt shoved under my arm.

  I explain over and over again where the girl is, but the operator keeps telling me I’m at Bluebird Estates. “I know. She’s not here,” I try again. “I’m going to her now.”

  “No, don’—” I hang up. I’m not going round and round anymore. The cops will come. I will flag them down from the side of the road if I have to.

  My feet take me right to her. She’s cold. Her breath is raspy. She’s stopped moaning. She doesn’t have much time.

  I can’t make out much about her. She’s young. Dark hair and skin. Her clothes are ripped to shreds and covered in blood. I have the sweatshirt. I know I’m supposed to apply pressure, but I can’t figure out where. I drop it in a pile of wet leaves and touch her hand. She doesn’t react.

  “My name’s Kayla.” The gentleness of my voice surprises me. The dam of emotion behind my eyes could break at any time and shower us both in tears. “The cops are on their way. You’re going to be okay.” That same lie again.

  I want to move her leg off the tree. When I lean forward, I can see it’s propped up at a funny angle. My stomach is empty, but bile forces its way into my mouth. She must be in agony. There’s nothing I can do. I have never—not even the last time I called 911, when I was five years old—felt as helpless as I do in this moment.

  Sirens. I put her hand down and grab the sweatshirt. “I’ll be right back.”

  They drive past the street. Three cop cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance. I run to the middle of Bluebird Lane and jump up and down, waving the sweatshirt. “Here,” I yell. “Here!” They don’t stop. It’s starting to drizzle. My hair sticks to my face. I run screaming, as if I’m possessed.

  The ambulance stops. “Please,” I say. My arms shake. They won’t flap over my head anymore. Tears run freely. My knees give out. I fall onto Bluebird Lane.

  The cop cars swing around. They come back. I hold my finger up and point into the trees. I can’t get out of the road. They miss hitting me by inches. But they see where I’m pointing. The cars empty, and dark-suited figures scatter into the woods.

  A soft grip on my shoulder. “Are you hurt, miss?” I can’t shake my head, can’t breathe, can’t see through the water pouring from my eyes.

  He lifts me to my feet and sits me down in the back of the ambulance. “Help her,” I manage to whisper.

  “The cops will clear the scene, the paramedics will go in and get her, and then we’ll take her wherever she needs to go.” He doesn’t say hospital. My face crumples again. A blanket wraps around my shoulders. A device latches onto my finger.

  He’s a large man; rotund. He wears a food-stained, white, button-up uniform shirt and black pants. He examines a tablet in his hand. “Your pulse is pretty high. Can you take a deep breath for me?” I try. “Good,” he says. He has kind eyes. Eyes you don’t see on Bluebird Lane.

  The radio at his hip crackles to life. He listens to the unintelligible voices on the other end and brings it to his mouth. “Ten-four,” he says.

  “What’s happening?” I leap to the ground and paw at the thing on my finger.

  “Easy,” he says. “They’ve stabilized her. It will still be a few minutes before they can bring her out.”

  “She’s still alive?”

  He smiles. “She’s alive.”

  “Miss?” I turn around. A cop, in jeans and a black slicker with POLICE across the back in neon yellow, holds up the badge hanging around his neck. “I’m Detective Cavallo. I need to take your statement.”

  I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “Do you live nearby?” he asks. I point at Bluebird Estates. “Are your parents home?”

  “My mom,” I squeak.

  “Maybe you’d feel more comfortable talking with her there?” I wouldn’t, but I nod anyway.

  He leads me to his unmarked car and opens the door. The front passenger side. Not the back, where they put the bad guys. An officer wearing blue rubber gloves runs up holding my backpack. I take it from him and let it plop into my lap.

  A car is pulled over at the end of Bluebird Lane on the edge of the parking lot. A Camaro. Drake leans against it. Even in the dim yellow light, I can see that his face is tense and colorless.

  “This is it, right? This is where you live?” I haven’t gotten out of the car. The detective looks at me with concern. I can’t tell if it’s concern for my mental state or concern that my mental state might affect his investigation.

  Now the front lobby door is propped open. The detective examines it as if it might be a clue. I keep going.

  Finn meets me at the top of the stairs. “Where’s my phone?” He steps forward into my face, but his eyes flit over my shoulder. They expand. The glint of the detective’s badge under the zinging fluorescent lights propels Finn backward. His apartment door slams.

  Apartment 26 opens. Mom stands in the doorway with her arms crossed. The look on her face stabs me in the heart. All the disappointments of her entire life focus on me. Me, her daughter, being dragged home by the cops.

  The detective introduces himself and asks if he can come in. Mom glances nervously over her shoulder. There’s nothing in the apartment except dust and dirty dishes, but old habits die hard.

  He sits across from me at the table. He’s middle-aged but fit, muscular. His dark brown hair is neatly parted and swept to the side. But his most eye-catching feature is his nose. It’s two sizes too big for his face.

  He shifts his weight on the unsteady, mismatched secondhand chair that’s too small for his bulk. He’s uncomfortable.

  Join the club.

  Mom hovers over us. Now that she has determined I didn’t do anything, she’s trying to be maternal. It doesn’t suit her. She offers him something to drink. He declines. She brings me a mug. It contains lukewarm tap water, but I accept it and pretend to be drinking something soothing.

  The detective flips open a notebook. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I was on my way home from work”—I glance up at Mom—“and I heard a noise in the woods. I went to see what it was, and I found her.”

  “You were walking home from work alone? This late?” Mom wrings her hands behind his back and watches the door. She’s waiting for him to cry neglect and for social services to come charging in.

  “My boyfriend picked me up. But, um, we got in a fight, and I took off. It was stupid.” It’s a half lie. I focus on the stained tabletop.

  He asks me other questions about where I found her and my call to 911. I tell a prettied-up version of the truth, but I leave in the important parts.

  He closes the notebook. I’ve done it. I’ve made it through. Mom relaxes. “One more question.” The tension in the room rises into the red zone. “Have you seen anyone strange hanging around? Anyone in the woods?”

  Three girls. This guy has attacked three girls. I was almost one of them. I look at Mom. I have a choice to make. A horrible choice. If I tell him about the man in black, it might help the investigation. It might save another girl. But what if Mom is accused of neglect for making me walk home late at night? For letting me almost get attacked? They would take me away. It would be Mom’s last strike. She wouldn’t have anything to live for. She’d go back to using.

  I could go back to Marie’s.

  I’m going to be sick. I gulp the metallic, bleachy water. The detective waits. He’s had practice with this. He will sit at our broken table all night if that’s how long it takes for me to answer.

  My eyes lock on Mom’s. I shake my head. The lie seeps out of my pores like sweat.

  He can smell it. He flicks a business card onto the table. “You can call me anytime.”

  Mom thanks him for getting me home safely. When he’s thumping down the steps, she closes the door and presses her back against it, as if he’s going to try to break back in.

  I stand up from the table and go to my room. I can’t look at her.

&nb
sp; I still have Finn’s phone and sweatshirt. I shake a stray leaf off the sweatshirt and try not to think about where it came from. I pull it on over my damp clothes and dial the number I memorized when I was five. Marie made it into a song, so if I ever got lost, I would just have to hum the tune and the number would come to me.

  I feel so lost.

  She answers on the third ring. Her voice is scratchy, full of alarm at being woken in the middle of the night.

  “It’s me,” I say. The full weight of what happened crashes around me. My knees give out. I hit the floor. The dam breaks. I sob into Finn’s sweatshirt.

  “Kayla? Where are you? I’m coming to get you.” I hear rustling. She’s shoving her shoes on, scrambling to find her keys.

  I manage to regain enough control to tell her no.

  “What’s going on?” she asks in the same tone of voice she used my first day with her. Calm, loving, but afraid to say the wrong thing.

  “It’s not me.” My voice is small, fragile, like the squeak of a little mouse.

  “Kayla, honey, you’re scaring me. What’s happened?”

  “There’s another girl. I found her. I didn’t want you to think it was me.”

  “Oh, Kayla, I am so sorry.” I hear the tears in her voice. It sets me off again.

  “I would like to speak to your mother, please,” Marie says, now with determination. It’s the voice she uses with teachers who accuse her little bears of being disruptive.

  I crawl out of my room. Mom is still against the door. Holding it up. I hand her the phone.

  Marie will be polite, businesslike, and distant. She will tell Mom that she is here for us. She has resources. But Mom will get the real message. She’s being scolded.

  Mom doesn’t say anything. She listens and hangs up the phone. She hands it back to me, eyes wide and overwhelmed.

  She has no idea that tonight I’ve given up going back to Marie’s to keep her clean and safe.

  I don’t sleep. At five a.m., I turn on the TV. An attention-grabbing jingle plays, and the screen turns red with the flashy breaking news graphic. Another girl. Number three. She was found in the woods. The police think she was grabbed on her way to work. At McDonald’s.

  “What were you thinking, Betsy?” Teddy yells. “You can’t wander into the desert at night on some kind of crusade. Do you know what could have happened to you?”

  The woman and child have been consuming my every thought. Those that aren’t about Adrian killing me, at least. Finals distracted me for a week, but then I had all winter break to think. I have to know what happened to them. And to find out, I had to tell Teddy.

  I didn’t tell him everything, just the basics. I followed Adrian out into the desert. There were people in a shack. Border Patrol came and took them away. That’s it.

  I don’t respond to his anger. I stand still with my hands clasped in front of me and wait for him to finish.

  His face is red. His mustache twitches. “I’m not going to tell your mother about this. It would only scare her.” He points a finger at me. “And you’re not going to do anything like that again.”

  I nod. I knew he wouldn’t tell Mom. He wants to protect her. Make her world a land of unicorns and rainbows. One where her delinquent daughter gets straight As and helps old ladies cross the street.

  “Will you find out what happened to them?” I ask, and look down at my hands. “Please.”

  “Don’t put me in that position, Betsy. What am I supposed to say if someone asks why I want to know?”

  “It’s for Adrian.” I look up at him through my lashes. Everyone loves Adrian. But really, it’s for me. And I need someone else to see what he was doing out there.

  Teddy shakes his head. “I’m not encouraging that boy. What he’s doing is dangerous and illegal. He could get in real trouble.”

  “What do you think he was doing?” I ask. Teddy of all people should see what’s going on here. Why am I still the only one who has figured Adrian out?

  “What did you think he was doing?” He narrows his eyes. I imagine a command to go to my room would come next if he could get away with it.

  I shrug. “He was acting strange.” Please figure it out. Please release me from having to hide from Adrian every day, from pretending to agree with everyone when they tell me how nice he is. What a good boy he is.

  Teddy’s not buying it. I hold my body so rigid my muscles shake. “I need to know! I need to know if another child died.” A tear of frustration splashes off my face and lands on my crewneck sweater.

  Teddy’s shoulders go slack as the anger leaves his body. “Betsy,” he whispers.

  I hold my hand out. I’m back in control. “No. Don’t say anything. Just find out what happened.”

  I go to my room and slam the door. I pull out the black monster. It hasn’t rung, but I send a text anyway.

  Fuck you.

  In my head, I see him raise an eyebrow and chuckle to himself. The monster buzzes.

  Tsk. Tsk. Such language. Careful you don’t get your mouth washed out with soap.

  I toss the phone and pick up the sweatshirt it used to nest in. I press it against my cheek. It smells like cardboard and dust. Anything that used to be there is long gone.

  —

  Teddy’s still pissed, but he comes through. I muster up my courage to enter C&J’s. I haven’t been here since before Thanksgiving. Just because Adrian hasn’t come after me yet doesn’t mean he won’t. And I’ve been avoiding Happy. I don’t want her to get hurt. It’s better if I just slip out of existence than have to say goodbye.

  I get through the door that doesn’t jingle, but no farther. I hover between the in and the out, with the door against my back, letting the warm, oily air escape.

  Angie glances up, but she doesn’t hop to the door with a menu. Disgust is all over her face. Adrian probably told her I stole the money from the table, but she can’t prove it. She’s going to keep a close eye on me from now on.

  Adrian is in the back near the kitchen door, rolling silverware into napkins. Seeing him sends a chill down my spine. I don’t want to do this.

  Happy takes a drink of juice and waves to me from our booth.

  I don’t see Rosie. It’s the extra boost I need. I step inside. Happy waves again. She has her good-luck charm sitting on the table.

  I avoid Adrian’s eyes and slide into the booth across from her. “Hi.” I try not to look at the fish.

  “You came back.” She smiles broadly and makes me feel like crap for disappearing on her, even if it was for her own good.

  She looks around the empty restaurant, leans over the table, and whispers, “I’m glad you know now. I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone.”

  I sit back. “Know what?”

  “About Adrian,” she says.

  My heart races. Happy can’t know the whole truth if she’s still smiling. I wonder how Adrian sucked her in, how he made her believe in him. Made her look the other way.

  I clap my hand over my mouth and try to breathe through my nose. When I’ve forced my stomach to settle, I remove my hand. “The woman and the kid from the desert are okay,” I whisper.

  “That’s good,” Happy says. She picks up her fish and swims it on the table. “I thought Adrian was in over his head with them. But you know Adrian.” She chuckles.

  “What do you mean?” I have to ask, even if I give something about myself away. I have to know what she knows, and I desperately want someone to talk to.

  “They usually leave food and water out there, but then Adrian found the sick kid and the mom. He was determined to make the kid better, so they could keep going.” She rubs her protruding belly. “If it were my baby, I would want to take him to a hospital, even if I got sent back.” She looks up at me and shrugs. “But who knows why they left to begin with.” She takes a sip of her orange juice, like this is a normal conversation.

  “That’s what Adrian told you?”

  She crinkles up her brow. “He’s been working with that immigran
t aid group since we were, like, fourteen. He’s kept it a secret for a long time. Only me and Tomás knew.” She smiles. “I hate keeping secrets.”

  I melt into the torn seat. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  Helping people cross the desert? That’s Adrian’s cover story? I almost laugh. He’s good. Impressive. Because who’s going to follow up if “immigrants” go missing? Who’s going to suspect a nice boy trying to help?

  Adrian has had months to kill me. He could have done it after the birthday party or in the desert. He could have had someone else do it. Sneak into my window in the middle of the night and poof! I disappear forever.

  But he didn’t.

  I’m not wrong about him. I can’t be. I’ve seen him do too much. Being wrong is what gets innocent people killed.

  I slide out of the booth. “I’ll be right back.” I have to know why I’m still alive. I’m going to poke the beast.

  Adrian doesn’t look up as I approach him.

  “I need to talk to you,” I whisper.

  He treats me like a ghost or an echo of a person. Without acknowledging my presence, he picks up a gray dish tub and walks through the flapping doors.

  Angie straightens paper placemats on a table, pretending she isn’t still watching me. I take a deep breath.

  I go through to the kitchen.

  Mr. Morales is up to his elbows in suds. He scrubs a giant stockpot while singing softly to himself. When he sees me, he smiles, like I’m his favorite person, and winks. “Hello, Betsy,” he says in his deep, warmly accented voice.

  A piece of my frozen heart melts. I want to bounce to the sink, pick up a towel, and help. But my feet stay planted. My face is still and without expression.

  Adrian grabs my shoulder and spins me around. “You can’t be back here,” he snaps.

  “We need to talk about what happened.”

  His eye twitches. He glances at his father, who has resumed his singing, and pushes me into the walk-in.

  I stand between two clear bins of tomatoes and wrap my arms around myself to protect my slight body from the cold. Adrian leans against the stainless-steel shelving that lines the walls. His body shakes with barely contained fury.