Everybody Lies

by Emily Cavanagh

  I click my wine glass against the lip of Cyrus’s can, and we lock eyes for a moment. “How’s her car doing?” Cyrus asks, settling in on one of the stools by the counter bar.

  For a moment I forget the pretense of why he’s here. “Oh, I’m not sure,” I say after a beat. I sit down beside him and rest my feet on the bottom rungs of his chair. “She didn’t come home last night, and she’s been out all day. Sent me a text this afternoon that she was out with some friends.”

  Cyrus raises an eyebrow. “Friends?”

  I shrug. “I’m not sure.”

  “Is she seeing anyone?”

  “Not that I know of. She hasn’t mentioned anyone. Other than Connor.” I roll my eyes.

  “What? What’s wrong with Connor?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with Connor.” I drain my wine glass and get up to pour some more. I get another beer for Cyrus though he hasn’t even finished his first.

  Cyrus narrows his eyes at me. “Come on, Ev. What’s that look mean?”

  I put my hand on my hip and let out a sigh. “Are you a cop now?”

  His face softens, and he shakes head. It’s our code. Unlike Jack, Cyrus realizes that life is not always black and white. Cyrus is able to turn off the part of his brain that is a cop in order to let the other part function. “No.”

  I come and sit back down beside him. “Connor’s doing drugs.” He doesn’t answer, draining his beer in one long swallow and cracking open the second one.

  “How do you know?”

  “Have you seen him lately? He looks awful. You know he’s living with Keith Dunphey?”

  “Yeah, I know, but that’s not exactly proof.”

  “It’s not just that. Caroline said he was taking pain medication. That she found some a few months back, months after the doctor stopped prescribing it.”

  “Jesus. Not Connor.” He’s quiet, mulling over this new information, what it means for Jack and Connor and Caroline, what it means for Daisy. “Oxy, probably. There’s a lot of that on the island right now. Heroin too. It’s cheaper. When people can’t afford Oxy anymore, they start doing heroin.” He takes another long pull on his beer.

  “Jack didn’t say anything?” I ask. I shouldn’t be surprised, since Caroline barely told me, glossing over the details and making her own excuses.

  Cyrus raises his eyebrows. “You know Jack. He doesn’t say much.”

  “Have you seen Jack lately? I mean, outside of work?”

  “We went out for beers last Saturday.” He avoids my eyes when he tells me this.

  “The night of the festival? Did you see that girl? The one who was murdered?” Layla, I think to myself, but I won’t use her name, won’t bring her into this house anymore than she’s already here.

  Cyrus nods soberly. “Yeah, I saw her.”

  I frown at him. “Why didn’t you tell me that? Did you see Ian too?”

  “He was there.” He avoids my eyes.

  “Were you going to mention this?” I ask.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say, Evvy,” he says defensively. “I saw him. He was talking to her. I didn’t see them arguing, but they were sitting at the bar talking.”

  “There were hundreds of people out that night. I’m sure she talked to more people than just Ian,” I say.

  “Yeah.” Cyrus looks down at his hands. “Yeah, she did.”

  “So, are you questioning all of those people too?” I ask.

  “Most of them.” Cyrus still won’t meet my eyes.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I know him, and I can tell when he’s holding something back.

  “Nothing,” he mumbles into his beer.

  “Cyrus, what is it?” I ask, my voice gentler.

  He finally looks up. “I saw her talking to Connor too.”

  “Connor?” I blink, taking in this information. I think about Caroline, denying that Connor knew Layla despite having worked together over the summer.

  “Just briefly. He didn’t get there till late. He came and sat with Jack and me for a while before we left. But when he went to order a drink, I saw him talk to her.”

  “Has he been questioned?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  He shakes his head. “I wanted to keep him out of it, so I didn’t mention it to Jack. You know Jack—he’d haul Connor in just to prove a point. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Even after, I didn’t think it was a big deal. He was standing right next to her when he ordered a drink, he could have just said hello.” He frowned. “Except…”

  “Except what?”

  “We know she worked at Moby Dick’s for a little while over the summer, so Connor must have known her. And even though she stopped working there in September, she’d been coming over at least once a month since the summer,” Cyrus says.

  “Why?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer. In the summer there are plenty of day-trippers, but not too many people bother coming in the off-season, not unless they own a house. It’s one thing to come for the winter festival, but there aren’t many other reasons for a visit. Unless you’ve got a delivery to make.

  “We think she was supplying someone on the island,” Cyrus says, and my heart sinks.

  “You think Connor might have been dealing?” It will break Caroline’s heart if this is true.

  Cyrus runs a hand over his short hair. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think that, but I have to wonder now, with what you just told me. It might explain why Jack’s been leaning on Ian so hard.”

  It takes me a minute to piece together what Cyrus is saying. A shiver runs up and down my spine, a cold current of air zipping right through me.

  “You think he’s setting Ian up?” I ask in disbelief.

  “No, not at all,” Cyrus says quickly. “I just mean that’s probably even more reason for why he wants to keep Connor out of this.” I sit with his words for a moment, trying to find my bearings in the conversation. How is it possible that two people I’m close to may have gotten mixed up in a murder?

  “You don’t think he did anything to her? God, Cyrus, this is Connor. You’ve known him since he was a baby,” I finally say.

  “I know he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. I’m not saying that.” He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “That’s why I didn’t say anything to begin with.”

  “Connor’s a good boy. He’d never hurt anyone.” My voice is too loud in the small kitchen. I want him out of Daisy’s life, but not like this.

  “I know that.” Cyrus lets out a long sigh.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you going to tell Jack?” I imagine Connor getting hauled into the police station. Poor Caroline.

  “I don’t know. I think I have to. And then I’ll have to explain why I didn’t say anything in the first place. I just wanted to keep Connor out of this.”

  “Jack won’t be upset. He’ll know you were just looking out for him.” Cyrus shakes his head, and his face is dark. Though they’re best friends, Jack is still his boss. Not that Jack has ever lorded his position over Cyrus’s head, but he makes more money and gets more respect. There have been times when this has been difficult. For all four of us.

  I rest my hand on Cyrus’s knee. His leg is warm and solid underneath the soft fabric of his jeans. He lets out another sigh, and it’s as if the weight of the world is resting on him now. But his face relaxes when he meets my eyes.

  I stand and lean into him, and his fingers hook under the belt of my jeans. His mouth finds mine, and his palms move quickly over my hips.

  “Come on,” I whisper into his lips, glancing at the clock. Ian won’t be home for hours. I take his hand and lead him through the living room.

  We’re at the bottom of the stairs when the front door slams. Cyrus’s face freezes in panic, and I know my expression must be the same. I imagine Ian smashing Cyrus’s face to a bloody pulp, the force of all that contained rage finally let free. T
hough it’s unlikely he’ll release it on Cyrus. He’ll wait till it’s just me and him.

  “Mom?” It’s the soft trill of Daisy’s voice, and I let out my breath in a harsh puff of air.

  “Hi, honey,” I call, trying hard to sound normal. Daisy comes into the living room and glances first at me and then at Cyrus, both of us standing awkwardly by the staircase. Her long blond hair spills out from under a pink wool cap and her cheeks are flushed from the cold.

  “Hi, Dad.” She smiles, though confusion shadows her face. “What are you doing here?”

  I look to Cyrus, relieved that we’re both still clothed and neither of us looks particularly unkempt. A few minutes later and it would have been a different story.

  “I came by to check on that car of yours. Your mom told me the brakes have been acting up. Is it outside?” He cracks an easy grin and lies so smoothly that for a moment I wonder if this was his intention all along. Daisy nods. “I’ll go take a look. Got your keys?”

  She fumbles in her jacket pocket and hands them to her father. Cyrus slips out the front door, leaving me to deal with Daisy.

  “Where’s Ian?” she asks.

  “Work. I haven’t seen you all day. Where have you been?” I say, trying to keep my voice light. I go to straighten the pillows on the couch and then go back into the kitchen. Daisy follows me.

  “Out.” She stops at the sink and pours herself a glass of water. She drains it in one long swallow and then refills her glass. “So, Dad just stopped by?” There’s a hint of accusation in her question, and she eyes the empty beer cans on the counter beside my wine glass.

  “Just a few minutes ago. He stayed for a drink.”

  She folds her arms across her chest and looks at me skeptically, and though I’m the mother and this is my house, I feel like a teenager in trouble.

  Through the window over the sink I see Cyrus holding a flashlight up to the wheel of Daisy’s car. It’s Saturday night and it’s been dark for hours. It’s only when I see Cyrus splayed on his backside in my driveway that I realize how ridiculous his story is about checking out Daisy’s car, and I can’t help but be pleased. I take a sip of wine and search for something to talk about.

  “Where have you been all day?”

  “With some friends.” Her face pinkens.

  “Who?” I know all of Daisy’s friends, since they’re the same ones she’s had since she was little. So many of them have moved off-island for school that her circle is much smaller now than it once was.

  “Nobody.” Daisy’s always been a terrible liar. She’s not even lying now, merely evading, but we both know it.

  “A boy?”

  “Maybe.” A smile lurks at the corners of her mouth.

  “Anyone I know?”

  She shrugs. “Just someone I met at the party last night.”

  “At Molly’s?” A flicker of annoyance cuts through me. “You were supposed to be working.”

  “I was.” She shakes her head in frustration. “God,” she says under her breath.

  “Honey, I’m just saying, I want to make sure you’re focusing on work. I’m still a new name in this business. We need to act professionally at all times. I hope you weren’t drinking—that’s a liability.” I hate that I have to give her this lecture. I’d much rather hear about the boy she spent the day with. But companies on this island collapse every season. Each year that Petunia’s survives is a gift.

  “I turn twenty-one next week. And I had one drink while I was waiting for the party to finish up. There was nothing for us to do anyway. We were just waiting for everyone to leave.”

  “Well, there’s always something to do,” I can’t help but add.

  She stands up quickly. “Can you ever give it a rest? Just once?” She puts her cup into the dishwasher too hard, and it rattles against the other dishes.

  “Hey.” I hold up my hands in defense. “If you don’t like the way I’m running things, you’re always free to find another job.” I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth, but I can’t help myself.

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then I’ll be home forever. Living in your house, asking for money like I’m twelve years old.” She slams the door to the dishwasher with such force that I flinch.

  “Daze.” I grab her hand as she stalks past me. “I’m sorry. Come on, tell me about the boy.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. I have homework to do.” She extricates her hand from mine. “Tell Dad to leave my keys on the counter.”

  She goes upstairs and I hear the click of her door closing. I bring my wine back into the living room and lie down on the couch.

  I hate arguing with Daisy. It always leaves me feeling like a bad mother, no matter what it’s about. Part of it is the guilt I still have over how completely I fell apart when Serena died. I wailed and cried in Caroline’s arms. For some reason I turned to her instead of Cyrus, and I think that’s what finally did us in. I knew full well I wasn’t capable of taking care of Daisy, and Cyrus wasn’t doing much better. He threw himself into work, and I got in bed. Daisy stayed with Caroline and Jack. Daisy was eleven, at the start of sixth grade, and for six whole months she lived with them. Cyrus would stop by their house every day on his way home from work and stay for dinner, but I barely saw her, too consumed with emptiness and despair to rise from my bed.

  I stayed in bed for weeks, rising only to use the bathroom. I felt headachy and nauseous, some flu of my heart worming its way through my body. Caroline came by with chicken soup and buttery loaves of bread, endless cups of tea, and stacks of magazines and novels from the library. She nursed me like I really was sick, and slowly I began to get better. Not heal, because there’s no healing after your child dies. Functioning is really the best one can hope for. Finally, Caroline got me to go see a therapist who prescribed the antidepressants. They didn’t fix anything. Serena was still dead. But I could get out of bed.

  When I was well enough for Daisy to move back, she didn’t want to come home. Caroline agreed that Daisy could stay until she was ready. It was a slow process. Coaxing Daisy back, convincing her she was safe, was like trying to nurse a skittish dog back to health after it’s been abused. A slow winning over of her affection, baby steps forward as she learned to trust me again. In the afternoon I’d meet Caroline at the dog park. She’d bring Daisy and Champ, and the four of us would slowly walk the wooded trails that circle the perimeter of the park. Those walks took all the energy I had in me, but slowly Daisy returned.

  When she finally moved home six months after she’d left, she’d grown two inches and gotten her period. She wore unfamiliar clothes, jeans and shirts that Caroline must have bought for her when she outgrew the things she’d come with. Though I was grateful to Caroline for all she’d done, part of me couldn’t help but be jealous of the role she’d played in my daughter’s life when I couldn’t function enough to shower daily, much less make sure she was fed and clothed. It was almost like I’d lost not only Serena, but Daisy too.

  Serena was seven when she died. A beautiful child but tormented. Daisy had always been so easy, but Serena was like a tornado. At an age when Daisy had long outgrown tantrums, Serena was still having them, full-blown meltdowns in which she’d physically lash out at whoever was closest, usually me. She’d gone through a whole slew of appointments where she was tested for everything—autism, ADHD, nonverbal learning disorder, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, and every other label they could find—but so far, none of them had stuck. Her teachers didn’t know what to do with her and she’d been referred for special education services, though she was dead before the process had finished.

  She wasn’t always difficult. Some days she was cheerful and easygoing, coming to sit in my lap and reveal a picture she’d made for me. She loved to help me in the kitchen and we’d bake cookies together often, even though I knew the sugar probably wasn’t helping matters. But she looked so delighted to help, her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she focused on whisking the batter in the
bowl, sneaking chocolate chips as she poured them in.

  Then something would set her off and it was never anything predictable—a missing sock, trouble decoding a word, a stormy day when she wanted sun—there was no saying what might send her into a tailspin. When she got upset, she yelled, high-pitched screams at whoever was nearby, and I’d yell back even though I hated myself for it. I knew full well where she’d learned to act like that. If it was just yelling, it might not have been so bad, but Serena could upend a room when she was upset, scattering papers, knocking over cups, destroying her own toys in the process. It didn’t happen every day, but it happened often enough that I’d feel a sickening panic when she started up, knowing how it would likely end—with me having to restrain her and both of us in tears. Cyrus was often at work and would get the recap when he got home, and while he knew things were bad, sometimes I wondered if he knew the extent of it. There were days I wondered if he blamed me. There were days I was certain it was my fault.

  She was having one of those fits the day of the accident. Other parents had seen the start of it in the school parking lot, their mouths pinched in judgment. Daisy had gone home with a friend for the afternoon. In the back seat on the way home from school, Serena sobbed because I wouldn’t stop at the grocery store to buy potato chips. When Daisy was seven, she would have shrugged her shoulders and moved on, but Serena flailed in her booster seat, her face hot and red with tears.

  She kicked at my seat, her little feet digging into my back over and over with a surprising amount of strength for such a small child.

  I took my eyes off the road to yell at her. Just for a moment I turned and saw all that pain and sadness on her face, all that uncontrolled emotion spilling out of her. I didn’t know where all that anguish came from, and neither I nor Cyrus knew what to do with it. The rest of the afternoon and evening stretched before me, an endless tunnel of Serena’s disappointment.

  I didn’t see the car merging onto the road, a local teenager driving who didn’t know enough to yield at the intersection.