Everybody Lies

by Emily Cavanagh

  I put the mugs back in the cupboard and pull out a set of plain white ones I picked up at the thrift store. We’re quiet for a moment, and I’m grateful for the simple act of preparing the tea. Otherwise I would appraise Jack the way he did the house. Already I’ve noticed he’s gained a few pounds, though he’s always been so thin it looks good on him. I wonder what he’s been eating.

  The silence isn’t awkward, but it isn’t comfortable either. I wonder if this will be a long and drawn-out talk or if Jack has come with a plan in mind. Knowing him, he’s already decided what he wants, and it’s just a matter of him telling me. I realize that if he says he wants to move back, I’ll let him, clearing my books off his nightstand and making room in the closet. If he says he wants a divorce, I’ll accept that too, going about the motions of figuring out the rest of my life. My own passivity infuriates me, yet this has been the truth of our entire marriage.

  I pour the steaming water into the mugs and hand him his, then sit beside him at the counter, my chair a little further away than usual. Jack winces at the heat as he takes his first sip. I wait, knowing he’ll speak when he’s ready.

  “They found a body on Osprey Beach this morning,” he finally says.

  These are not the words I expected, and it takes me a moment to process them, my mind still focused on our marriage.

  “Who is it?” Jack’s family extends across every town. His position as police chief makes him a public figure. There is every likelihood that we’re connected to this person, this body, in some way.

  “It was a woman. Layla Dresser was her name. Not from here, only twenty-two. She was here last summer, working at one of the restaurants on the harbor. She was living in Boston, but she was over for the winter festival.”

  Great Rock is a seasonal town. In summertime, the smallness of the island evaporates, and it’s possible to become anonymous. The population soars to seventy, eighty, ninety thousand on a sunny week in August. In the winter, one of the few tourist draws is the winter festival, a day of chili and chowder cook-offs, ice sculptures, and drinking. The festival takes over all of downtown Osprey. The bars and restaurants set up tents and heating lamps on Main Street, and the whole road becomes a bar. Inside, the restaurants have freebies and specials. It’s bigger than the Fourth of July. Though it’s run by the restaurants and bars on the island, it’s an event for off-islanders, full of twenty-somethings and tourists. I haven’t been in years.

  “What happened?” I ask him, although I already have a pretty good idea.

  Alcohol is a problem on the island. In the winter it can be a lonely place, where work is scarce and entertainment options are slim. Walk down Tunnel Drive on a Sunday morning, and you’ll come across more discarded nips bottles and empty beer cans than people. The only businesses that thrive in the off-season are the liquor stores. I’m imagining this girl drank too much and passed out on the beach, froze to death in the cold February night, so I’m unprepared for Jack’s response.

  “She was strangled.” Jack’s large hands grip the mug. His face tightens in a grimace.

  “My God.” Great Rock is a land from another time. A place where people leave their doors unlocked and you know every neighbor on your street. It’s a place where the most common crime is public drunkenness and disorderly conduct, shoplifting or check fraud. There hasn’t been a murder on Great Rock for as long as I can remember. A few cases of manslaughter or attempted murder—bar fights gone wrong, domestic disputes. But not like this.

  “A dog walker found her early this morning.” I shudder, thinking about how often I take Champ for early morning walks, sometimes along that very strip of beach.

  “The last bar she was seen at was Moby Dick’s.” Jack meets my eyes. Moby Dick’s is the restaurant where Connor works as a sous chef, the same restaurant he’s worked at since high school. Scott Lambert is the owner, a local guy who takes good care of his year-round employees.

  “Was Connor working last night? Did he see her?”

  “He worked last night, but I haven’t been able to get ahold of him. Have you talked to him today?”

  I shake my head. The last time I talked to Connor was a week ago when he came over to do laundry. He came when he knew I’d be at work, and I only caught him because I left early with a headache.

  “I saw him last night when he got off work. The bar was packed.”

  “You were there?”

  “I was working earlier in the evening. Cyrus and I had a drink when I got off.” Cyrus is Jack’s best friend, also a cop, and he’s Evvy’s ex-husband. When the kids were little, we used to do everything together—dinner every weekend, beach days in the summer, pizza nights at Papa’s. Evvy and Cyrus split up nearly eight years ago, not long after their daughter Serena died, and while we’ve managed to maintain our friendship, it’s been a long time since it was the four of us. Evvy’s been with Ian for several years now, but Jack and I don’t socialize with him and Evvy the way we did when she was married to Cyrus.

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “Not yet. We think someone might have followed her out of the bar. Lured her down to the beach.” It sounds like something out of a movie or one of the BBC mysteries that Jack and I often watch. I think of how dark Osprey Beach must be at night. There are streetlights on the road, but the beach is down a set of stairs and it’s one of the wider beaches on the island, with a broad stretch of sand before you reach the water.

  “Do you have any suspects?” He averts his eyes at this last question, for we both know that even if he did, he wouldn’t tell me. “Never mind,” I add before he can say this, knowing it will just leave me bristling, even though he’s doing his job. When he looks up, I see the dark circles beneath his eyes. Perhaps I’m not the only one who’s having trouble sleeping.

  “If you talk to Connor, tell him to call me,” Jack says.

  “Why? What does he have to do with any of this?” I ask, another jolt of alarm cutting through me.

  “Nothing, I just need to know if he saw anything that night. Just tell him to call me.”

  I nod because this is how it always is with Jack and Connor: me the middleman trying to help them find some common ground.

  “I have to get back to work, but I wanted to come over to tell you why,” Jack says, but he doesn’t make any move to leave.

  Despite the reason, I feel a rush of relief at having been given a reprieve before we decide our fate. It will not be tonight after all. He hasn’t shaved today and without touching him, I know the feel of his cheek against my palm, the sandpapery roughness and softness together. I keep my hand firmly on my mug.

  Jack and I rarely fought. We’d bicker in the way that married people do, over housework and chores, the daily details of family life. More often, our arguments happened through silence, the distance between us growing larger and colder, until something made it thaw. But over the past year, something’s changed between us. Jack’s quicker to yell, his frustration bubbling to the surface more quickly. And I’m quicker to fight back, no longer taking the easy route for the sake of peace.

  Maybe it’s Connor having moved out. In August, he moved into a cramped apartment over a hair salon on Main Street in downtown Osprey. The house was once so full of his presence—his hockey gear thrown carelessly on the floor of the mudroom, his guitar on the couch, music always creeping from his bedroom, friends constantly coming and going. Since he left, there’d been too much space between me and Jack, the two of us bumping around the suddenly oversized house. We’d grown awkward with each other, too, the silence between us suddenly stilted without Connor’s voice to fill the quiet.

  I like to believe that it’s just empty nest syndrome, the two of us figuring out how to be together without Connor, but I also know that it’s not just Connor’s absence that has taken its toll. It’s the role he used to play in our household. Jack never yelled at me, but he yelled at Connor all the time. A daily grind of barked complaints—shoes left on the floor, his hair grown too long, c
hores left incomplete, a poor play on the ice. Connor is no longer there to take the brunt of it. And then there’s me, so quick to jump in and interfere, so ready to smooth things over in the effort of creating harmony between Jack and Connor, finishing the chores, tidying up behind my grown-up son, tending his bruised ego after a slight from his father. Without Connor at home, there is less reason to keep the peace.

  On the counter between us my phone rings, and I reach to silence it, seeing Evvy’s name light up. A moment later it beeps with a voicemail, followed quickly by the ping of a text. I don’t read the message, certain that Jack will leave the moment my attention wavers.

  I’ve heard rumors in the time he’s been gone. It’s a small island after all, and just because I haven’t told people he’s moved out doesn’t mean they don’t know. Deanna Partridge’s name has come up, the new administrative assistant at the police station who started in September. Young and cheerful, with bouncy hair, always eager to go out with the guys for a drink after work. Evvy heard through Cyrus that she’s been flirting hard with Jack, and last week she was squeezed into the booth at Tanner’s beside him, batting her eyes at him as she sipped her glass of wine. There were others at the table too, but according to Evvy, it was pretty clear who Deanna was there to see.

  At one point I would have dismissed such a rumor with a roll of my eyes and a laugh. Jack Doherty is the most straight and narrow man I’ve ever met, honest to a fault, his moral compass rigid and unwavering. These days I’m less certain. While I don’t believe he’d sleep with Deanna while we’re still in this murky gray in-between place, I bet he’s enjoying her attention. The line between flirting and cheating is a solid one, but it becomes a little fuzzier when you don’t live with your wife.

  Jack takes another sip of tea, steam rising before his face. For years he drank coffee at all hours of the day. It’s only in the past year that the caffeine started to affect him, keeping him from sleeping, making his heart race if he had more than a cup or two. One night last spring, I brought him to the hospital because he thought he was having a heart attack, only to find out it was an anxiety attack. Accumulated stress from the job, the doctor said. He wrote down the name of a therapist on a slip of paper that Jack threw in the trash on the way out to the parking lot. I was the one who convinced him to cut out caffeine, a Band-Aid on a gaping wound, though it seemed to help some. If Jack had another anxiety attack, he didn’t tell me about it, though I also know my husband is the type of man to suffer silently rather than face what he perceives to be a character weakness. I imagine his borrowed kitchen is stocked with an arsenal of flavored fruit teas, the closest to therapy he’ll get.

  “I should go,” Jack says, but neither of us moves. He puts his nearly full mug back down, leaving a ring of water on the counter. Reaching for a paper towel, he carefully wipes the circle till it disappears. “Are you doing okay?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  Jack nods and I wonder if he’s lying too. “We’ll talk more soon,” he says.

  “Okay.” I wonder if soon means tomorrow or next month. Either way, I doubt I’ll be ready.

  Jack rises, pushing himself to standing with effort, the weariness suddenly obvious. We stand facing each other, not touching.

  “Thanks for coming by. For letting me know,” I say.

  Jack nods. I have thought about our relationship more in this past month and a half than I have during our entire marriage, picking apart the patterns and habits we’ve long fallen into as if I’m unbraiding a rug. I see things more clearly now—the good and the bad—yet I don’t know how to remake our entire marriage or if it’s even possible.

  I feel him wanting to reach for me—to hold my hand or squeeze my shoulder—but he doesn’t. It’s not until he doesn’t make any move to touch me that I realize I want him to. The late nights waiting for him, the silence that stretches between us, born of distance or habit or both, the endless stretch of the rest of our lives on Great Rock, even the closed walls of his heart—I wonder if I’m still willing to make these sacrifices in exchange for his return. I don’t know if this is love or fear or simply the desire for something familiar.

  I stare down at the tiled floor and the dirty water stains left by his heavy brown boots because I can’t bear to look at him any longer, his arms hanging limply by his sides, making no effort at all to hold me, still married, but not quite. At our feet, Champ begins to whine.

  2

  Evvy

  When Caroline calls me back, I’m trawling Facebook, scrolling through the islanders’ group, looking for news of the murder or talk of possible suspects. I answer on the first ring.

  “Did you hear? There was a murder at Osprey Beach.” My words tumble out too quickly, matching the racing of my heart.

  “I know. Jack just came by.” I don’t think Jack’s been to see Caroline in weeks; I file this information away for later, when I can pay attention to it.

  “What did he say?”

  She lets out a little laugh. “Not much.”

  “They’ve brought Ian in for questioning. Did Jack tell you that?” I hear the accusation in my voice, and I don’t know why I’m directing my anger at Caroline.

  “What? Why?” I can tell that Jack didn’t say anything about it.

  “A formality, I guess. I think they’re talking to everyone who was at Moby Dick’s last night,” I say, praying this is true.

  “Do you want me to come over?” she asks, and I realize this is why I called her in the first place.

  Caroline’s house is a five-minute drive from mine. You can walk it in a half-hour, though at this time of year the paths are piled high with snow and the roads too treacherous. In the warmer weather, we go for walks on the weekends, meeting halfway between our two houses and then heading toward the bike path. During the winter, we exercise separately at the local Y, and spring feels very far away.

  Caroline gives a quick double knock and then opens the front door without waiting for my answer. I rush into her arms, relieved she’s there to buoy me up with her common sense and innate understanding of what needs to be done. Cold air pours in through the open door, and Caroline slams it shut behind her.

  She follows me into the living room where I curl up on the couch under a fleece throw. “Are you okay? What happened?” Her calm voice is like a hand on my back.

  “I don’t know,” I say, and it’s true. One moment Ian was making lasagna, the next a police officer was at the door to bring him to the station. Carter Davis was the officer they sent, a young man just a few years ahead of Serena in school. “They asked if he could come down to the station so they could ask him some questions. He was at the festival last night.”

  “Did you go with him?”

  “I had to work a party in Heron and then I came home. Were you there?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  Caroline shakes her head. “You know I hate that stuff. Too many drunk tourists. Jack said they were talking to everyone who talked to her last night. Did Ian mention talking to her?” she asks. She’s trying to catch my eye, but I focus on her hands. Like Caroline herself, her hands are strong and capable, the nails trimmed sensibly, light blue veins coursing the backs. I notice she’s still wearing her wedding ring, a simple brushed silver band. I remind myself to ask her about this later. I squeeze my own hands into fists and stare at my ringless fingers. I have the pale freckled hands of a girl.

  “We didn’t even know there had been a murder.”

  “When did Ian get home last night?” Caroline asks. Her careful questioning makes her sounds so much like Jack—always the cop’s wife, even when she isn’t sure she wants to be his wife anymore.

  “I came home and I crashed. I don’t know what time he got in.” I meet her eyes and then look away.

  It’s true I was in bed. But I did feel Ian climb in beside me and in my fuzzy state, I glanced at the clock and saw it was just past one. I could tell right away that he was drunk, by the distillery smell he brought into the room with him an
d the dead weight of his inert body beside me. All of this means nothing though, and there’s no reason to share it with anyone, even Caroline.

  She reaches over and pats my hand. “I’m sure he’ll be home soon. They’re probably calling in as many people as they can find who were at the bar last night. You know Ian. He likes to talk to everyone.” She doesn’t look at me when she says this, and I know she’s only trying to make me feel better. Ian and I have been together for six years, not married but almost. Caroline has never liked him much, but she’s careful not to tell me. “Have you spoken to Cyrus?”

  I shake my head. Cyrus and I still talk, because of Daisy, less frequently now that she’s older. Daisy is twenty, though she still lives with Ian and me. Cyrus hasn’t remarried either, but he’s been with Gina Lerner for several years now. I remember Gina as a shy girl on the freshman soccer team when I was a senior, too timid to get close to the ball. Now, she’s assistant principal at the high school. Like many of the people I grew up with who left Great Rock and then came back, it’s hard for me to reconcile these two versions of her.

  “He’ll be home soon. Don’t worry,” Caroline assures me.

  I nod and sigh. “Let’s have a drink.”

  In the kitchen I pour us two tall glasses of red wine and bring them back to the couch.

  “So Jack called to tell you?” I ask.

  “He came by. Wanted to tell me in person.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “That was nice, I guess.”

  “We were supposed to have the talk,” she says. Her voice is light, trying to minimize the significance of her words.

  “And did you?”

  “He had to go back to work. Another time, I guess.”

  “How was it seeing him?” Despite our closeness, Caroline hasn’t said much about Jack. She doesn’t need to, though. The anger emanates from her like waves of heat whenever his name is mentioned. I don’t know what he did to make her so angry, but Caroline isn’t the wallowing type. She doesn’t cry or throw things or fall apart. She wears her grief like a suit of armor, an impenetrable force that keeps both pain and comfort at bay.