Every Single Lie

by Rachel Vincent

  ELEVEN

  “Hey.”

  My brother’s foot appears in the bathroom, pushing the door open slowly. He’s dressed and ready, though he doesn’t have to leave for school for another twenty minutes, even if he’s dropping Landry off first.

  “Hey. I’ll be out in a sec.”

  I lean toward the mirror again and apply a second coat of mascara. The tube is practically empty, and I have neither the time nor the money for a run to the store. But I saw a video on Instagram the other day—back before I had to disable comments on all my posts—promising to show me how to make use of every bit of mascara from a tube I’d assumed was empty. Maybe I can find that video again without uncovering too many more death threats.

  “I don’t need the bathroom.” He digs his phone from his pocket. “I just wanted to say, after last night—”

  “Penn, I’m sorry. I had no right—”

  “Just let me finish. You did enough talking yesterday.”

  “Okay.” I shove the wand back into my mascara tube and twist it closed. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  “You’re a hypocrite.”

  I blink at him in the mirror. That’s not the opening line I was expecting.

  “All these people online—and in school—are saying Lullaby Doe is yours, just because you found the body. It isn’t right for you to jump to the same conclusion about me.”

  “I know. I’m—”

  “You’re doing the same thing to me that they’re doing to you.”

  “I’m sorry! Okay?” I spin away from the mirror to face him. “You’re right. I’m an asshole.”

  “Sometimes,” he agrees. “And just to rub that in . . .” He unlocks his phone and shoves a picture of his girlfriend, Daniela Montes, at me. “She sent me that on Wednesday night. One week ago. Two days before Lullaby Doe was born. Do you see any way she could have been pregnant in this picture?”

  The short version? No.

  My brother’s girlfriend is crazy-hot. And in this selfie, she’s about to combust. She’s posing on her bed in nothing but a matched set of lacy red underwear and a Santa hat, the phone angled to show her entire body from above. Including part of a butt sculpted from years of soccer and a tiny, tiny little waist.

  I know that sometimes a pregnancy isn’t noticeable through clothing until late-term. I’ve done the same googling everyone else has over the past week. But there’s no way on earth that Daniela is thirty weeks pregnant in that picture.

  There’s also no way the picture is from last year, because last Christmas she and my brother weren’t together yet.

  Also, last year her hair was down to her waist, and in this picture, it’s just below her shoulders. She cut it in October, so she could fit it into an updo for the Fall Ball, which the school settled on last year as a way to cut spending by replacing the homecoming dance and the winter formal with one event.

  Yes, they canceled the homecoming dance. Permanently.

  “I believe you.” I hand his phone back to him. “I believed you even without the picture. I’m sorry, Penn. I guess I’ve just been a little preoccupied with clearing my name.”

  “By dragging mine—and Daniela’s—through the mud?”

  “All I can say in my defense is that last night the pieces really seemed to fit. And I really need the truth. Sorry I got carried away. This whole thing just really sucks.”

  Penn exhales slowly. Then he comes in to sit on the closed toilet. “It’s getting pretty bad, isn’t it?”

  I turn back to the mirror and select a lipstick I don’t hate. “Yesterday I got chased down the street by a reporter from WBBJ.”

  “I saw.”

  “What?” I spin again, and Penn pulls his phone from his pocket. “They used the footage? I didn’t even answer any of their questions!”

  “Evidently you’re news either way. I don’t know whether it was on TV, but they posted the clip to their website and to Twitter, and the Crimson Cryer retweeted it half an hour ago. It already has five hundred retweets.”

  He hands me his phone, and I tap the play triangle superimposed over an image of my face frozen in midshout, with the local flower shop visible over my shoulder.

  It is not a flattering shot.

  The video starts, and instead of the footage I expect to see of myself running down the sidewalk, ignoring the reporter and her cameraman, the clip begins in To Dye For, with me shouting expletives at a room full of stylists and customers.

  “Great.” I stop the clip and hand Penn back his phone. I can’t watch anymore. “How am I supposed to convince the world that I’m not evil when I’m online cursing at a bunch of senior citizens? Believe it or not, that horrible old lady started it.”

  Penn shrugs. “I believe you. And I thought you were kind of awesome.”

  Somehow, I don’t think Jake’s parents will agree. Even if they no longer believe I’m Lullaby Doe’s mother.

  He stands. “I can pick Landry up, if you’ll drop her off this morning.”

  “You’re not working?”

  Penn cleans out kennels at the animal shelter in Daley three afternoons a week, for minimum wage.

  “Nah. Mr. Mattson said maybe I should stop coming in until all this dies down.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  He shrugs. “That salon wasn’t WBBJ’s only stop yesterday.”

  “Crap. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s only temporary,” he insists.

  But he can’t possibly be sure of that. Mr. Mattson will have to replace him and there may not be any job for Penn to go back to, by the time all this blows over. But I decide to look on the bright side. For once.

  “Maybe that’ll be sooner than we think. Mom said the coroner’s report came in last night. Lullaby Doe was stillborn. Which means no crime was committed. Surely once everyone knows that, this’ll all just go away.”

  “I hope so.” Penn’s jaw clenches. “If I’m associated with this, I’ll never get into West Point. The admissions board scours social media for anything that might reflect poorly on the army or the academy.”

  “I know. Jake’s parents are worried about his scholarship potential for the same reason.”

  I’m glad I have nearly another year before I have to worry about that. Not that I’ll be applying to West Point or expecting athletic scholarships . . .

  The truth is that I have no idea what I want to do after high school. But every day that someone online calls me a baby killer and threatens to shoot me in the street, my options seem fewer and fewer.

  “Speaking of West Point, how did the CFA go? Did you pass?”

  His smile lights up the whole planet. “I kinda killed it. Not that it matters. All the top candidates will have strong CFA scores.”

  “I’m not worried,” I assure him. “You’ll stand out.” And with any luck, that will have nothing to do with Lullaby Doe.

  There are three news vans parked in front of the school when I get there. Either they don’t know what my car looks like yet or the principal has banned them from the grounds, because they don’t follow me into the parking lot.

  I park as close to the building as possible, but before I can get out of the car, I see Jake walking toward me from across the lot. He looks great, as always, in his crimson and white letter jacket, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

  His grin sets my insides on fire.

  He opens my passenger’s side door, letting in a gust of frigid air as he slides onto the seat. “Hey.”

  “Hey. Were you waiting for me?”

  Jake shrugs. “You said we could talk today.”

  “Yeah.” And I’m even more grateful now that the student parking lot is behind the school, where the reporters can’t see us.

  “Does that mean you’re thinking about what I said the other day?” He reaches across the center console and traces the length of my index finger with his own. “About us starting over?”

  “Actually, I’m still thinking about the things you haven’t said.”
/>   He blinks at me. “Okay, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I heard about your dad. I didn’t want to—”

  “Not that. You’re right. There would have been no good way for you to even start that conversation with me. I’m talking about the paternity test results. My mom said she called you out of class yesterday. Why didn’t you say anything while we were on the phone?”

  “Because I wanted you to believe me without proof. Just this once.” His crooked smile feels like a dagger straight to my heart. “And if you weren’t going to do that, then I wanted to tell you in person. That’s part of why I wanted to come over.”

  “I did believe you.”

  Fact-Check Rating: Inconclusive. I really wanted to believe him. But I couldn’t quite let go of the possibility that he was lying.

  “But I’m glad you got proof, for your sake,” I add.

  “I didn’t need it. I’ve never been with anyone but you, Beckett.” He takes my hand, and suddenly I’m clinging to him, grasping for balance as my head and my heart pull me in two different directions.

  “Then why were you hiding texts from me? And don’t say you weren’t, because—”

  “I was,” he says. I try to pull my hand free, but he tightens his grip. “But those texts weren’t about some other girl. There’s no one else. There never has been.”

  The sudden intensity of his focus makes me feel like the world no long exists outside this car. “Beckett, I fell for you the first day of your sophomore year. Do you remember that morning? Penn gave me a ride to school, and you were in the back seat, looking at me in the rearview mirror with those big blue eyes. I couldn’t look away. But your brother thought it’d be weird to see a teammate with his sister, and it took me a while to change his mind. Then even longer to change your mind. I worked for this. For us.”

  He squeezes my hand again, yet somehow I feel the pressure in my chest.

  “I wouldn’t mess that up for anything. I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

  My heart explodes into a thousand shards of white-hot regret, and I lean across the center console. My mouth finds his, and suddenly we’re kissing, like the past week never happened. His hand slides behind my neck, his fingers diving into my hair, and I am gone.

  Game over.

  This is the best of us. This is what I’ve missed so much, and I’m so hungry for him that I don’t pull away until my lungs demand a deep breath.

  He groans as he leans back in the passenger’s seat, and I wonder if his pulse is racing like mine is. “Well, that went better than I expected. So, a do-over, then? Clean slate?”

  My heart is a mess of shredded tissue, still trying to beat. “I want that. I do. But I can’t deal with secrets, and—”

  “And I need you to trust me.” His thumb strokes over the back of my knuckles. “Just believe in me, Beckett. I would never hurt you. Will you let us start over?”

  I exhale. “Jake, I’m so messed up right now. Everything is in chaos. I can’t think straight, and I just need to . . . ​I need to take it slow.”

  “Fine. I can do slow. Just stop pushing me away.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” His smile is the sun breaking over the horizon, lighting up the whole world.

  “Yeah,” I say, and he leans over the console to kiss me again.

  “I have to get to the weight room, but I’ll see you at lunch?”

  “Yeah.” Another kiss, and I’m starting to doubt that slow is a thing that really exists.

  Tingling all over, I watch him get out of the car and head into the building. Then I take a minute to get my head back in the game before I go inside.

  On my way down the main hall, I hear Coach Killebrew complaining to Amira’s mother that reporters were hounding her on her way into the building. Shouting questions about the circumstances under which Lullaby Doe was found.

  I know exactly how she feels. Frustrated and mystified that this has managed to stay in the headlines for five days, when, according to Penn, school shootings only seem to hang around for three or four, and corrupt politicians are hardly a blip on the radar.

  But, as Mrs. Bhatt laments to Coach Killebrew as I pass them in the hall, everyone loves a dead baby.

  At lunch, I glance out one of the tall, skinny cafeteria windows to see that the reporters have all left, but I don’t understand why until Amira plops down across from me holding her phone. She offers me one of her earbuds without explanation, and I accept it when I see my mother on her screen.

  The press conference has started.

  I’ve missed the first few minutes of it, but I get to hear my mom reiterate that the Clifford PD is no longer involved with the Lullaby Doe case, except in the search for a next of kin to notify, which is standard procedure in every case involving an unidentified decedent. Evidently I missed the part where she told them the baby was stillborn, so there would be no murder investigation.

  The press room—really it’s just the multipurpose room where they set out cake when someone has a birthday—erupts as reporters start shouting questions.

  “Is it a crime in the state of Tennessee to fail to report a death? If so, wouldn’t that mean the mother should still face criminal charges?”

  “That is not something the Daley County district attorney general is interested in pursuing at this time.”

  “Why might that be?” another reporter shouts, and I recognize her voice. That’s the WBBJ reporter who chased me down the sidewalk outside To Dye For.

  My mother turns to her right, and a man in a suit steps up to the microphone. Evidently he’s the county’s district attorney general.

  “At most, failing to report a death would be a misdemeanor, punishable by probation and a fine, on the outside. Pursuing such charges would cost the county money and produce little result, yet would likely keep the next of kin from coming forward to claim the remains. The county court system and the Clifford Police Department have no wish to add to the suffering of that family, whoever they are. Our interests are in helping reunite this poor baby with her family and seeing her properly laid to rest.”

  “We would also like to offer to connect her mother with counseling services, at no charge, should she come forward and claim the remains,” my mom adds as the attorney steps back again.

  “Detective, isn’t it possible that the mother’s prenatal neglect directly led to the death of that baby?”

  I can’t see which reporter shouts this, but the question gives me chills.

  “Couldn’t she be charged with criminal neglect?”

  “Again, we have no reason to suspect, based on the coroner’s report, that—”

  I pull the earbud from my ear when Jake walks into the cafeteria. I can’t listen to any more of that anyway.

  He looks around for a minute, then he takes the chair next to me without going through the line for a tray. I guess none of us are really very hungry today.

  “Is that the press conference?” He glances at Amira’s phone.

  She nods and offers him an earbud.

  “No thanks.” Jake takes my hand, and Amira arches one brow at me with a tiny grin. “My mom just texted to say that your mother exonerated me on live TV. Right at the beginning.” He glances at the phone again. “She said that the only paternity test the police had run so far had come back negative.”

  Which means she cleared Jake without naming him as a potential suspect. Because unlike the Crimson Cryer, my mother is a professional.

  Amira gives him a half-hearted smile. “Congratulations, I guess?”

  Maybe I should see if the police department will run a DNA test on me, to prove my innocence.

  Then again, when it comes back negative, they’ll probably accuse my mother of wasting taxpayer dollars and using her position to help her daughter. Or even of falsifying the results.

  I swear, I’m not even capable of optimism anymore. Over the past week, the internet has taught me that most people aren’t good at heart, and that mob mentality never leads
people to do something positive for the world, like adopt puppies and kittens en masse.

  Why must mobs always carry pitchforks and burn people in effigy? Why can’t a mob, just this one time, carry cotton candy and throw out air kisses? Or candy, like at a parade?

  People are always more pleasant when they’ve had a little sugar.

  If I’d thought that having Jake’s name cleared would clear mine as well, I would have been sorely disappointed. Fortunately, based on my new embrace of pessimism as a life choice—nay, a religion—I was expecting no such thing.

  The only conclusion I can draw from the fact that people seem to believe he’s not the father, yet rumors still claim that I’m Lullaby Doe’s mother, is that they must think I cheated on him. The irony of that burns deep into my soul.

  I’m still fuming about it when I walk through my front door to find my mother standing in the kitchen, leaning over the island with her back to me. She turns when I close the door, and the startled look on her face tells me I’m not who she was expecting.

  “Beckett.” She’s still wearing her badge.

  There’s a uniformed cop behind her, and when he turns from the sink holding a glass of water, I realize it’s Doug Chalmers.

  “I thought you were picking up Landry this afternoon.”

  “Penn said he’d do it, since they asked him not to come in to work anymore.”

  My mother frowns. “He didn’t tell me that.”

  “A reporter showed up, and I guess the animal shelter doesn’t agree that all publicity is good publicity.” I glance past her at Doug. “Any chance this is a social visit?”

  The fact that he’s still wearing his uniform doesn’t necessarily mean it can’t be, considering that he only lives across the street.

  “Um . . . ,” Doug says, articulate as usual.

  Then I notice the still-sealed cotton swab lying on the kitchen island.

  Uh-oh.

  “That’s not for me, is it?”

  “No.” My mother pulls out one of the bar stools. “Sit down, Beckett. Please.”

  “You’re giving Penn a paternity test?” I squeak, knowing this is my fault. My wild conclusion jumping has infected my mother. “Daniela was never pregnant. This morning Penn showed me a selfie she took two days before I found the baby. There’s no way she was thirty weeks pregnant in that picture, Mom.”