“Connor,” I whisper, pushing him away. “My God.”
“What?” His eyes are blurry, still locked in the moment before. He sees where my gaze is directed. “It’s nothing. Come here. Relax.” He reaches for me again, his hand on my hip, mouth inches from mine, but I pull back, catching hold of his arm. He yanks it from my grasp and sits up. He must see something in my face, that I’m not going to drop this, because he finds his shirt on the bed and pulls it back on.
“Connor, what are you doing?” I want to cry. I want to bang on his chest and slap his face and tell him to stop. I want us to be eight years old again, eating popcorn and hot dogs for dinner, watching movies on a floor full of pillows while our parents laugh in the other room.
“What? It’s not a big deal. Stop freaking out about nothing.”
I reach for his arm, my fingers grabbing hold of the fabric of his shirt, sliding it up his forearm so the marks are visible. “This is nothing? How can you tell me that?”
He jerks his arm away. “Get off my back, okay? God, Daisy. Just forget it.” He gets up from the bed and stares out the window.
A girl we graduated with died of an overdose at Christmas. Another guy a few years older last summer. Yet I don’t know this world that Connor has entered. Not the street names or the landmarks or the terrain. This is a different Great Rock than the one I inhabit, though I know this version exists alongside the one where we grew up, just like the summertime Great Rock exists. This Great Rock isn’t featured in the postcards or mentioned at back-to-school night at the high school. This Great Rock is quiet and slippery, understood through euphemism and what isn’t spoken aloud. Died unexpectedly is what the obituary reads after an overdose.
I know all this, even if I don’t understand it. But not Connor.
“What are you doing?” I ask again. I go to where he stands by the window and rest my head against his back. I’m surprised when he doesn’t pull away. “Please,” I say. I don’t know what I’m asking for. I might not know this world, but I know enough to understand that me asking nicely won’t make him stop. “Please,” I say again, a breath into his tee shirt that smells of sweat and laundry detergent. A plea, a prayer, to this boy I’ve loved my whole life. “Please,” I beg, and finally he turns around, holding me in his arms, stroking my hair, as if I’m the one who needs saving.
10
Caroline
Thursday is my night out with Evvy. We’ve done a Thursday night out nearly every week since the kids were little. Some weeks we go to yoga; occasionally we do some activity put on by Adult Ed at the high school—a cooking class or a book group, sometimes with a few other friends. But usually it’s just the two of us for appetizers and drinks at one of the restaurants in town.
Tonight, we meet at Sam’s Tavern. I like Sam’s because it’s cozy in the winter with a fireplace and lots of big wooden booths. If you sit in the back, it’s possible to have a whole meal without bumping into someone you know.
Our drinks haven’t even arrived before Evvy starts talking about the murder. “They called Ian in for questioning again yesterday.” Evvy takes off her coat and drapes it along the booth.
“What happened?” People always assume I know more about police activity because of Jack. Even before he moved out, this wasn’t true. Jack is one of the most closed-mouthed cops I know.
“They brought up the night a few years ago.” Evvy’s face is tight.
“What night?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I already know.
“The night Cyrus drove us home from Christine’s.” The waitress comes and brings our wine. Evvy doesn’t speak again till she’s gone. “I told you not to tell Jack about that.” Evvy’s small, pretty features are wrinkled up in anger.
“He already knew. He saw you with your face all banged up, and he knew as well as I did that you didn’t get it from slipping on some ice.” I roll the stem of the wine glass between my thumb and forefinger. “It was serious, Evvy. You had a black eye for a week. I was worried.”
“It was an accident. I told you that. Now they think he’s some kind of violent criminal. It only happened once.” Evvy directs these words into her own drink as she takes a large sip, and I’m not certain she’s telling the truth. It’s still hard for me to believe that Ian is capable of hurting her because it seems so at odds with his easygoing personality. When we see each other, he is charming and friendly, the type of guy that flirts with elderly women to make them feel young. At one point, I had thought we could all be friends, but after the night he hurt her, I realized that all I could hope for was that it was a one-time thing that would never happen again. Yet last spring she had a bruise the size of a baseball on her upper arm. I only saw it when the sleeve of her tee shirt rode up, but when I asked her about it, she said she banged it on the car door. No amount of probing could get her to say anything more.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her again. “I really am.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes, and I’m relieved when the food arrives. It’s more difficult to be upset when you’re eating. I reach for a triangle of quesadilla.
“Have you heard if they have any suspects?” I don’t ask if they have any other suspects. No one has officially called Ian a suspect, though we both know he’s a person of interest.
Evvy shakes her head, leans across the table, lowering her voice. “No, but I heard they think the girl was bringing in drugs. She had connections on the island.”
Her words catch me by surprise and my stomach flips, fingers of anxiety poking and prodding. I don’t know what I was imagining as the reason for Layla Dresser’s murder—as if anything could explain away such an act—but I realize I’d been hoping it was something random. I think of the photo I saw online the other day of the smiling, bright-eyed young woman. She had the fresh-faced good looks of someone who’d play the girl next door in a movie or advertised toothpaste in a commercial. I don’t know what I imagine a drug dealer looks like, but this is not the image I had in my head.
I know there are drugs on Great Rock—an island like this, with little to do in the off-season and limited opportunities for employment. While I wish Connor would go to college and find the desire to dream and plan again, as he did not so long ago, it is the drugs and alcoholism on this island that loom large in my mind, even if I can’t say it aloud.
“Where did you hear that?” I ask.
“Jan Bard, who heard it from Nancy Bunker.”
Chad Bunker, Nancy’s husband, is a cop in Egret. If Jack is known for being overly discreet, Chad has the opposite problem. Island secrets run like a leaky faucet from Chad’s mouth, and Nancy is even worse. However, the rumors the Bunkers spread tend to be true.
“I guess she worked here last summer. At the Blue Crab and Moby Dick’s. Connor must have known her. Did he say anything?” Evvy asks.
My whole body goes cold and there’s a ringing in my ears. I focus on my paper napkin, squeezing it until it’s a ball in my lap, trying to control my trembling hands. I can’t believe he spent the night and didn’t even tell me he knew the woman who was killed. We didn’t talk about it for long, but surely he must have been shaken by it, even if they hadn’t known each other well.
“We haven’t talked in a few days,” I lie. “But the summer crew is so big that they don’t know each other as well, and the kitchen staff doesn’t usually spend much time with the servers. There’s so many of them.” Evvy’s worked in the food industry long enough to know this isn’t true. Restaurants are hugely social places in the summertime, cocktail hour at the bar spilling over into late-night parties. “What kind of drugs was she bringing?” I ask.
“Heroin. And pills. People are saying that’s why someone killed her,” Evvy adds.
The whole thing makes me sick—that Connor hasn’t told me he knew Layla, that the pills Jack found in his laundry might have come from her. I think back to Connor’s unexpected appearance at the house the other night, the way he was so eager to leave even though he claimed he’d come by
to see me. A wave of dizziness washes over me, and I wipe a hand across my forehead and down my temples.
Evvy narrows her eyes and peers more closely at me. “Are you okay? You look a little green.”
“I think I might be coming down with something.” I reach for my water glass and am grateful that my hand doesn’t tremble, though I feel as if I could crack into a million pieces any second. I force myself to eat a bite of food. I don’t want to talk about the dead girl anymore, and I know Evvy doesn’t want to talk about Ian. Jack is the next logical topic, but this is also something I don’t feel like discussing. There are suddenly too many things that seem off-limits. I sigh and sip my wine.
“You okay?” Evvy asks again.
“Yeah. Winter blues, I guess.”
“God, tell me about it. It’s been awful. Worst I can remember it being in years.” Evvy brings her hand up to ruffle her own hair. “I really do love your haircut.”
“Thanks.” I run my fingers through it. “Though I probably should have waited till it was warmer to cut it. My neck’s going to be freezing till spring.” Evvy waves to someone across the restaurant. I turn to see Cyrus coming toward us.
“Hey, you,” Evvy says shyly, and Cyrus bends down to kiss her cheek. He turns to me and does the same.
“Evening, ladies.”
He slides into the booth beside Evvy as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Evvy and Cyrus were high-school sweethearts, both of them born and raised on Great Rock. It was Serena’s death that ultimately tore them apart, but they fought even before she died. I imagine Evvy was the force behind those fights, her loneliness and boredom being home all day with the girls boiling over into a frenzy when Cyrus came home late from work yet again. When Serena died, things just fell apart at the seams. Now Evvy is flushed and doe-eyed, listening to Cyrus talk about a patch of ice his car skidded on. For a moment, I understand Ian’s anger the night he hit her; it’s clear she’s still in love with Cyrus.
“You want to join us for a drink?” Evvy asks. If Jack and I divorce, I doubt this will be the kind of relationship we’ll have. Daisy was barely a teenager when Evvy and Cyrus split up. They needed to figure out a way to be together without being married. Jack and I won’t have that issue. In fact, I wonder if I’ll even stay on Great Rock if Jack and I divorce. What would keep me here? Yet despite dreaming about leaving for so long, I have no idea where I’d go.
“Nah, I’m just ordering some takeout.” He holds up the paper menu. “Gina loves Sam’s chicken pot pie.”
Evvy smiles politely. There it is, I think. The same jealousy I would have if Jack ever mentioned another woman so affectionately.
“How are you doing?” he asks me. How are you doing without Jack, is what he means.
“Fine. Just fine,” I answer vaguely. He holds my eye for a moment as if assessing whether I’m telling the truth.
“Okay then. Better put in my order. Nice to see you both.” He stands and turns to Evvy. “I might stop by sometime this week. Daisy asked me to look at her car. She thinks the brakes are going.”
“Evenings are good this week,” Evvy says. Code for that’s when Ian won’t be home.
“Great. I’ll see you soon then.” Cyrus tips his head at us and returns to the bar.
“Do you want anything else?” Evvy asks. We still have food between us and we haven’t even finished our first drink. “You don’t feel well, and I’m kind of tired. Do you mind if we head out?”
“Oh, sure,” I say, both surprised and relieved that we won’t have to pick our way through the minefield of our lives tonight. I gesture to the leftovers. “We can pack this up.”
We’re walking toward the exit when Evvy turns to me. Her face is flushed, her blue eyes shining. She tips her head to where Cyrus is sitting at the bar. “I just need to talk to him for another minute. About Daisy’s car. You go on.” The pink flush that spreads across her cheeks quickly confirms the lie.
I hesitate. It’s not a good idea, leaving the two of them together. Someone will see them. It will eventually make its way back to Ian, and this scares me. I want to like Ian. He’s funny and charming, and Evvy’s been happier with him than she was with Cyrus, though this probably has more to do with the antidepressants she takes now than anything about Cyrus or Ian. Yet, much as I want to like Ian, I don’t trust him. Not after what happened a few years ago. And I don’t trust Evvy around Cyrus.
“I can wait,” I say.
“No, really, go on,” Evvy urges. “It might take a few minutes. I think we need to lend her some money for a new one. I’m pretty sure this car is on its last legs.”
“I don’t mind waiting,” I try again.
“I’m fine. Really,” Evvy says meaningfully.
“Okay. Be safe.” I lean in and give her a quick hug.
“Always,” Evvy answers with a grin, but it isn’t true. Unlike me, Evvy likes to court danger.
11
Evvy
Cyrus is paying for his food when I slide up to him.
“You leaving already? Where’s Caroline?” he asks.
“She didn’t feel well.” This is partly true. “I was hoping to catch you for a minute before I left.”
“I’ll walk you back to your car.”
Cyrus thanks the teenager at the register, a girl a few classes below Daisy. On the way out of Sam’s we wave to a few people. Though I know that Caroline craves the anonymity of another place, I’ve never known anything else. If it somehow gets back to Ian that we left together, I’ll explain why I needed to speak to Cyrus. And then hope he understands.
Cyrus holds the front door open for me, and I wait until we’re outside to speak. A light snow is starting to fall. I turn to him once we’re in the dim glow of the streetlight.
“Is Ian a suspect?” I blurt out. It’s the question I’ve been wondering since Ian first went into the station, the one he won’t answer directly.
Cyrus lets out a sigh. “You know I can’t tell you anything, Ev.”
“Just tell me if he’s a suspect.” He catches my elbow to steady me on a patch of ice. He stops walking and looks at me, really looks at me, but he doesn’t answer. “It’s not going to go away, is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. It’s not. You should get a lawyer.”
“He didn’t do it,” I burst out. “He would never. Ever.” Ian’s rages are born of jealousy and impulse. He’s not calculating or premeditated. He’d never stalk some girl down a desolate beach in the middle of winter.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do,” I say. “He told me he talked with her at the bar and that they left at the same time. That doesn’t mean he killed her.” I shiver in my winter coat. The street is empty, the road crusted with a thick gray snow.
“Did he tell you they got into a fight down the road from the bar? That he split her lip?” Cyrus asks. My stomach flips, like someone’s jumped out from behind a closed door and yelled boo. I don’t want to believe it, but somehow I can picture the scene so clearly: a few too many drinks, Ian’s temper, the bloody lip. Cyrus’s breath is a puff of white that evaporates in the cold air.
I shake my head. “No. No, he wouldn’t.”
“He did, Evvy. Jack saw them. Jack went to make sure she was okay.”
“Then why didn’t he arrest him right then? If Ian hit her, why did Jack just let him go?” I ask.
“She told Jack she was fine. Said she slipped and fell.”
“So she probably did! You know what the sidewalks are like around here. None of the business owners bother to shovel and salt unless they’re threatened with a fine.”
The excuse sounds flimsy even to me, but I can’t believe that what he’s saying could be true. It doesn’t make sense—why Ian would fight with some girl he doesn’t even know, why he’d smack her in the mouth. She must have fallen on the ice, like she told Jack.
“They found her number on his phone. There are records of phone calls between them. Going back mon
ths,” Cyrus says, his voice gentler now.
I want to protest, to call Cyrus a liar, but I know he’d never lie to me. Not about anything, and certainly not about this. I bring my hand up to my mouth, feel my ragged breathing stuck in my chest. I feel so stupid. Ian is many things, but it didn’t occur to me that he might be cheating on me. There were no obvious signs, no vague excuses or unexpected nights out. No texts messages or mysterious phone calls, no credit card receipts for flowers or hotel rooms. I know I have no right to be so hurt. I’ve done things I’m not proud of in the years that Ian and I have been together, but that girl couldn’t have been much older than Daisy. I feel weak, like my legs might give out any moment. I reach for Cyrus, and he puts his arm around my back, supporting me.
“I’m sorry.” He looks remorseful, though he’s not the one who’s done anything wrong. “I thought you knew. I figured Jack or Caroline would have told you by now.”
“No one told me anything.” Later, in the privacy of my own home, I’ll think about how Jack, a man I’ve known my whole life, a man who cared for my own daughter like a father, managed to withhold this bit of information from me. I wonder if he told Caroline or if he didn’t even bother. For now, I can’t get hung up on this, too shaken by what Cyrus has told me to be hurt by Jack or Caroline.
“Between Jack seeing them together outside the bar, the possible assault, and the phone records, it’s enough to charge him. Plus, he’s got a history.” Cyrus’s jaw is set hard, and he’s still holding on to my elbow, his grip a little tighter.
I’m silent for a moment, embarrassed that he knows, pleased that he cares. “It was once. It was a mistake, and it’s never happened since.” This isn’t entirely true, but it’s almost true. It’s not a regular thing. I could count on one hand the number of times Ian has hurt me, and none of them has been as bad as the night that Cyrus knows about. Contrary to what Caroline may think, I’m not afraid of Ian. I’ve just learned to manage him over the years.
Everybody Lies Page 7
