Every Single Lie

by Rachel Vincent

  “You have to tell a reporter that something is off the record before you say it.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m underage. My mom’s a cop. You don’t have permission to interview me. So put your phone away.”

  Audrey’s eyes narrow, and I get the distinct impression that she’s finally taking me seriously. “Go on camera, and I won’t mention the death threats.”

  “Most of the threats are being posted in public. Anyone who wants to know about them already knows. And I’ve already told you I can’t talk about the baby. There may not be a criminal case, but they’re still trying to ID her, and—”

  “You don’t have to talk about any of that. Just tell us about the vigil. Give me something to air, other than this background footage. Let the world see your face.”

  “Why would the world want to see my face?”

  “Because you found a dead baby. Your mother’s the detective in charge. Until we find out who the baby’s family is, your family is the story.” She shrugs. “If you go on camera, the story about the vigil will get more airtime. The station will post it online.”

  Sophia waves her arms over her head at me from behind Audrey’s back. Do it! she mouths. And suddenly I realize everyone’s looking at me. Including Landry. Waiting to see whether I’m truly willing to help the cause.

  Because surely if I were really a #babykiller—even through prenatal neglect—the last thing I’d do is go on television and talk about my victim’s candlelight vigil. Right?

  “Fine,” I say at last. “Five minutes. And I’ll only talk about the vigil.”

  FOURTEEN

  “Holy crap,” Amira whispers as we step onto the stone path.

  The park is packed.

  These little white stone paths form the spokes of a wheel, the hub of which is a beautiful gazebo at the center of the park. It’s basically the prettiest thing in Clifford. But I can’t even see it tonight. All I see is an ocean of people milling in the light from several streetlamps, because Sophia and her Key Club army are still handing out the donated candles.

  Amira and I had to park behind the yogurt shop four blocks away, because every single lot anywhere near the park is packed. Both sides of the street are lined in cars.

  At the intersection a block down, I can see Doug Chalmers’s familiar silhouette, dancing with blue light from the strobe on top of his cop car while he directs traffic.

  “You did this,” Amira whispers.

  “No way. I’m not taking the blame for this. This is you and Sophia. The vigil was her idea. You two did most of the work organizing it.”

  I’m not even sure why I came. My presence does nothing for Lullaby Doe. But unlike all these people, I feel like I actually met her. Like I owe her something, because of that one moment when it was just the two of us, before I went looking for help. Before I brought this notoriety down upon Clifford like a plague of locusts.

  That’s why I’m here.

  Or maybe I’m drawn to the spectacle just like everyone else.

  “It’s your interview,” Amira insists. And she may actually be right. WBBJ licensed it to one of the national networks—or however that works—and according to Sophia, several million people saw me on the news last night.

  The very thought makes my chest feel like it’s being compressed in some kind of vise.

  I didn’t watch. I couldn’t. Audrey Taylor didn’t stick to my conditions. After I talked about the vigil, she asked me what it was like to find Lullaby Doe lying there on the locker room floor, and despite having no intention at all of talking about that on television, with the camera’s red light blinking at me—with the entire Key Club and my little sister staring at me from behind the lights aimed at me—I didn’t know how to gracefully decline to answer.

  So I told the truth. That it was a shock. And very sad. And the whole time she was making me remember that, I kept glancing at Amira. I could hardly see her through the bright lights, but all I could think about was that I might be talking about my best friend’s baby. My brother’s baby. I was thinking about how I didn’t really have any right to do that, no matter what Audrey Taylor asked me.

  Then she asked if I’d like to address the rumors that I’m actually the baby’s mother. At which point I realized there was nothing stopping me from reminding her that I hadn’t agreed to talk about any of that.

  According to Amira, they didn’t air that part. But evidently what they did show was enough to bring at least a thousand people to the vigil. And there’s no way all these people are from Clifford.

  Of course, the fact that the Crimson Cryer also tweeted about the vigil—and retweeted my stupid interview—probably didn’t hurt the turnout either.

  “Hey! There you are!” Sophia Nelson appears out of the crowd, carrying a canvas bag over her shoulder. “Here you go!” She digs into the bag and pulls out a candle for each of us, complete with our homemade paper plate drip shields. “We’re not giving out matches, obviously. We’re just going to light our own candles, then spread through the crowd and let everyone else light their wicks from ours.”

  “That seems wise,” Amira says over the buzz of dozens of low-pitched conversations.

  But I’m hardly listening. I’ve just realized that not all this light is from the streetlamps. There are journalists here, from several different stations. They have lights of their own, aimed at on-air reporters who’re shooting intro pieces with their backs to the crowd.

  “Reporters.” I told Sophia this would happen. But she’s mistaken my dread for the triumph this moment has evidently brought her.

  “This is because of your interview!” She grabs my hand, her eyes wide, and continues to speak in high-pitched exclamations. Like the yip of a small dog. “Thank you for helping us shine the light on Clifford! You made such a difference!”

  Is that what I did?

  “Sophia.” I squeeze her hand until I see the excitement in her eyes die. Until she’s back on earth with me, hopefully able to really hear what I’m saying. “Don’t forget that this is for that baby.”

  She cocks her head to the side, long, straight brown hair shining in the light as it falls over her shoulder. “It isn’t, though. Not really. We’re doing everything we can for Lullaby Doe with the fundraiser. With the funeral and the headstone. But she’s already gone, Beckett. This is for the people of Clifford. To heal our wounds. To bring the community together in the face of an unspeakable tragedy.”

  I can tell from the way she says it, with that polished conviction, that she’s practiced those words. That she’s going to say them just like that into a microphone in a few minutes, probably when she introduces Brother Bill, the youth minister from First Baptist, who’s agreed to lead everyone in a prayer.

  “Is that what you think this community deserves? You think Clifford has earned this big spectacle of a Band-Aid for its ‘wounds’?”

  Sophia blinks at me, insulted and confused. “Don’t you watch the news, Beckett? Don’t you know what they’re saying about us? Claire Tillman and her mother went on TV and made us sound like a bunch of ignorant rednecks. That reporter said this is our fault. That Lullaby Doe died because we let her down. Because we refused to see the problem or were just too damn lazy to notice. They’re lying about us on national television. Crucifying us for things we didn’t do. That’s why I invited the reporter to film us organizing the vigil. Someone has to stand up for Clifford. Someone has to show the world who we really are.” She lowers her voice even further as her eyes shine with conviction bordering on fanaticism. “Someone has to defend our honor!”

  I don’t understand why she feels personally victimized by the news coverage. No one’s calling her a #babykiller. No one’s threatening to shoot or dismember her.

  I also don’t understand why she seems so convinced that the Clifford community is blameless in all of this. “Sophia . . . ​can’t the truth be somewhere in the middle?”

  She frowns. “What does that mean?”

  “I mean, isn’t it p
ossible that we’re not as bad as they’re making us out to be on TV, but we’re not as good as you think we are either?”

  Her cheeks flush as if I just slapped her. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because no one cared about Lullaby Doe before she died!” I whisper fiercely, near the end of my patience for her rose-colored delusion. “No one even cared enough to notice that she existed. That there was another pregnant teenager who probably needed help.”

  “How were we supposed to know, if—”

  “Someone should have noticed,” I insist. “Someone should have seen that a student or a daughter—or a friend—was acting strange. Pulling away.”

  I glance at Amira, and she’s staring at me with wide eyes. Her entire body is tense.

  “But no one gave a damn until it was too late, and now there’s a dead baby, and you think we should defend this ‘community’ for not caring enough to notice there was a problem. That we should reward Clifford with good press. That we should heal wounds I guarantee you no one but the baby’s mother is feeling right now.”

  “Well . . .” Sophia looks like a spring under too much pressure. Like she’s going to break if I make her think about this for one more second. “Well, this is for Lullaby Doe’s mother too. She’s a part of this community.”

  “Is she?” I hold Sophia’s gaze, because I can’t wring her neck. “Do you think she feels like she’s a part of this?” I spread my arms to take in the whole circus.

  “I really, really hope so,” Sophia says. And the truly stupid thing—the truly miraculous thing—is that she actually seems to mean that. “I gotta go make sure the microphones are set up.”

  She gives her head a shake to fluff out her hair, then she plucks a fresh smile from the endless supply that evidently blooms deep in her soul, nourished by her relentless optimism.

  “Find me in about five minutes, and I’ll light your candles.”

  Then she practically runs from me, headfirst into the crowd. Accepting greetings and praise for her work, which probably chase away every unpleasant thought I tried to baptize her with.

  “You okay?” Amira whispers.

  “Peachy.”

  “Beckett,” my mother calls, and I turn to see her headed toward me with Landry at her side, my sister’s eyes wide as she stares at the huge crowd. My mom’s wearing her badge; it’s all hands on deck tonight for the Clifford PD.

  “Hey.”

  “I want you to take Landry home, and both of you stay there. You can watch the vigil on TV, if you want. It looks like several stations will be covering it live.”

  “What? Why?”

  My sister wanted to come because all her friends were coming, and because she’d helped with the candles. Why would my mother bring her, only to tell me to take her home?

  “Chief Stoddard just called. He said internet chatter says there’ll be protests tonight, and I’m worried it could get out of hand.”

  “Who would protest a vigil for a dead baby?” Amira asks.

  My mother gives me a look, and suddenly I understand. “That’s not what they’re protesting,” I say. “Don’t they need permits?”

  “In a public park? Not as long as the demonstrators number fewer than fifty per group and they don’t use a sound system.”

  “I don’t understand. What are they protesting?” Landry asks.

  My mother sighs. “It appears that a couple of different groups have latched onto Lullaby Doe as a symbol for causes they were already championing.”

  Amira frowns. “They’re using a dead baby to further their own political agendas?”

  I shrug. “That’s what Sophia Nelson’s doing. Only without the political angle.”

  “No it isn’t!” Landry insists. “She’s just trying to help. Because she cares.”

  I exhale slowly. “I agree. But Lan, I think she’s also gotten a little caught up in the attention this is bringing her.”

  Landry frowns, but I can’t think of any gentler way to phrase the truth. “I want to stay,” she says.

  “No. Go—”

  “We’ll stay on the edge of things,” I promise my mother as the squeal of microphone feedback makes the entire crowd flinch and grumble. Sophia’s about to start speaking. “And I promise we’ll bug out if this gets weird. We’re parked behind the yogurt shop.”

  My mother hesitates, glancing from Landry to Amira, then to me. “Fine. But I want your word, Beckett. You’ll all three leave if this gets bad.” I can’t help noticing that she’s including Amira in her warning.

  “I promise.”

  Hands on her hips, which keeps her blazer open to expose her badge, she gives me an official-looking cop-nod. Then she heads into the crowd to Assess The Situation—another Detective Julie Bergen specialty.

  “I’m going to go find a candle,” Landry says, and when she starts to push into the crowd, I grab her arm.

  “Here. You can have mine.”

  “You don’t want it?”

  “Not really.”

  All the news stations—there are three of them—have set up at the perimeter of the gathering. None of the reporters have noticed me yet. Maybe they won’t, with this many people.

  I scan what I can see of the crowd, hoping to spot the protesters before they begin chanting, or waving signs, or whatever protesters do. So I can steer us away from them. But if the protesters are here, they’re blending seamlessly with everyone else so far. I see no sign of matching hats or shirts. No sign of . . . ​ well, signs.

  But I do see my brother.

  “There’s Penn. Come on.”

  I tug Landry with me, but she resists until Daniela steps out of the crowd with a lit candle, which she holds wick to wick with my brother’s to light it.

  “Hey,” I say as I stop next to them.

  Penn scowls at me, but he can’t ignore me in front of our sister or his girlfriend unless he’s willing to explain why he’s mad at me. And he’s definitely not willing to tell Daniela that the police gave him a paternity test.

  “Hey!” Daniela looks amazing, as usual, and she’s obviously finally recovered from the flu. But instead of the knee-length gray wool coat and black leggings she’s actually wearing, all I can see is the tiny red bikini underwear and Santa hat from the selfie Penn showed me. Which, ironically, makes me think of Amira.

  But when I turn, I realize Amira’s still standing at the edge of the crowd, holding an unlit candle, pretending she doesn’t see my brother.

  Or me. Not that I can blame her. I don’t think she and Penn have said four words to each other in my presence in . . . ​well, around thirty weeks, give or take. Which was easy for me to miss, because she’d basically quit coming around.

  “Hi,” I say, returning Daniela’s greeting. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

  “Thanks. The flu sucks. Hey, let’s get you a candle!”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m holding one in spirit.”

  “Yeah, I guess you are.” Her smile fades. “I heard that you found her. That must have been so traumatic.”

  I feel like that statement is going to follow me for the rest of my life. Maybe I should have it printed on some business cards.

  “Yeah.” I turn to Penn. “Can you watch Landry? Get her out of here if this goes downhill?”

  “I don’t need to be watched,” my sister grumbles.

  Penn cocks his head to the side. “Downhill, meaning . . . ?”

  “Mom said they’re expecting protesters. Looks like a couple of groups are trying to commandeer the Clifford baby as their own personal political symbol.”

  “How awful!” Daniela flips long, straight black hair over her shoulder. “I don’t see any, though. Maybe they changed their—”

  “Hello! What an amazing turnout! Thank you all so much for coming out tonight, in spite of the cold!” Sophia Nelson’s voice echoes over an unseen speaker, and I look up to discover that I can actually see her. They’ve erected a podium in front of the gazebo, and she’s standing on it
with a lit candle in one hand and a microphone in the other.

  “What is this, a pep rally?” Penn mumbles.

  “Hey, keep an eye on Landry, okay?”

  “Why?” He turns to me with a frown. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. I just don’t want her with me in case any of the reporters”—or protesters—“recognize me.”

  Penn nods with a glance around at the reporters, who’re now all filming Sophia.

  “Thanks.” I head back to Amira, and Landry doesn’t even seem to realize I’ve gone. She’s holding her lit candle, staring, rapt, at Sophia and Brother Bill on the podium.

  I’m not supposed to know that Amira slept with my brother, so it would make sense to ask her why she hung back. And I’m tempted, considering she may be the reason I’m getting death threats.

  Is that why she’s suddenly back in my life? I thought she felt bad for what I’ve been going through, with the rumors, and the reporters, and the online vitriol. But is this actually just an attempt to ease her conscience? Does she feel guilty because I’m being blamed for what she did? For abandoning her stillborn daughter on the floor of the locker room?

  Is that why she’s been so involved with the fundraiser and the vigil? So that she’ll have a place to visit her secret daughter?

  “Hey,” I say, while unspoken questions tumble around in my head like shoes clunking in the dryer.

  “Hey.” Amira’s gaze stays locked on Sophia. Her unlit candle hangs at her side, clutched in a white-knuckled fist.

  I wonder what she’s thinking.

  Suddenly she turns to look at Penn, but my brother doesn’t notice. He truly doesn’t believe the baby was his. Could he be wrong and not know it? If so, don’t I have a right to know that, considering how deeply snared I am in this whole thing?

  In a moment of bold indignation, I step closer to Amira so she can hear me over the speakers. So that no one else will. “So, why didn’t you tell me—”

  “When are we going to talk about the real problem?” a voice shouts, echoed by the staticky reverb of a bullhorn. The question bashes through Sophia’s hopeful tribute to community spirit, and her voice falters.