Connor’s face crinkles in confusion and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. “That doesn’t make sense. Ian couldn’t have killed her.”
“I know!” I say, relieved that Connor is so quick to dismiss the accusations. “I don’t know what kind of evidence they have, but it can’t hold up.” I rub my hands up and down my arms in an effort to stay warm.
“How’s your mom?” Connor remembers when my mother fell apart. He remembers how she couldn’t get out of bed, just crying and crying all the time, until his mom stepped in and saved us both.
“She’s freaking out. She just got him a lawyer.” The cold seeps through the weight of my coat.
Connor pulls me into a tight hug. I breathe in the ripe smell of kitchen on his skin and clothes, grateful that we’re not arguing or accusing. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” I say when he releases me.
He shakes his head and waves away my words. “You’re not the only one who thinks I could have done this.” His face has gone dark and he looks over his shoulder like someone might be listening, even though it’s only us in the narrow space of the alley.
“I don’t think that,” I say quickly, then wonder who else he’s referring to. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“Nothing.” I wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. “I should get back.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Why, coz it’s so busy?”
He gives a half-smile. “No, because I don’t have a coat. I’m freezing my ass off out here.” The cold is bitter and unforgiving. I hate February.
“I have to get to work anyway,” I say.
“It will be okay,” Connor says. But his face is blank and I don’t believe him. “It will.”
Driving to Petunia’s kitchen, I feel disappointed for some reason. I don’t know what I expected from Connor, but I’m no more at ease than before I saw him. I’m not sure what I’m most worried about—that Ian is guilty, how my mother will handle this, or that the whole thing is a giant mistake. I’m pulling into the parking lot of Petunia’s when I realize I turned to the wrong Doherty for help. I should have gone to Caroline.
When I was younger, there were times I wished Caroline was my mother. I think she sometimes wished it too. Their house was so normal. So calm. I was still reeling from Serena’s death when I arrived, but after the first few weeks of letting me lie in bed and watch TV, Caroline forced me out the door and to school each morning. She cooked dinner every night, and we all sat around the table and talked. Nothing big. Just boring stuff about the day. At my house, by the time I was in middle school, dinner was a do-it-yourself affair. Occasionally we’d huddle around a pizza, but usually I ended up eating a bowl of cereal or a peanut butter sandwich in front of the TV. My mom was never big on rules and routines, so Serena and I had no real bedtime—when I was bored of TV or when my dad kicked me off to watch the game, I’d go to bed. When my dad was home, things were easier, and he’d impose some order, but he worked a lot and often it was just me, my mom and Serena. In Connor’s house, we needed to be upstairs by nine, lights out by ten. Even with the nightmares that would wake me in the early hours of morning, I slept better at the Dohertys’ house those few months than I ever slept at home, a black and dreamless sleep.
Connor had chores, and while I was there, I did too. It wasn’t that we weren’t expected to help out at home, but there was no order to it. Sometimes my room would go uncleaned for weeks, then my mother would explode in a fit of frustration and threaten to throw out all my clothes unless I cleaned up. She didn’t mean to, but back then she communicated mostly through yelling. At my dad, at me, at Serena. She was always exasperated with one of us. Her unhappiness was like a force field around her, keeping the rest of us out. If it had been up to me, I would never have gone home. I could have happily lived as Caroline and Jack’s daughter till I graduated from high school.
My mother’s different now, and I know Ian’s part of the reason why. Even though I wish she was still with my dad, Ian brings out something in her that we never could. Without Ian, I don’t know what will happen to her.
In the kitchen of Petunia’s, I chop vegetables and herbs. Somehow in her work life, my mother has become incredibly organized. It’s spilled over into the rest of her life too, and these days the house is mostly tidy, the toilet usually clean, laundry folded and put away each week. My mother’s left out recipes and instructions for everything that needs to be done to get ready for tonight’s dinner. Even with Ian in jail, I know she’ll still come in to finish the cooking and serve the meal herself. When it comes to Petunia’s, she’s nothing but professional, nurturing the business like it’s a baby, her chance at getting parenthood right.
It takes me four hours to prep, and on the way home, I stop by Caroline’s. I usually drop in once a week for a chat, but I haven’t been over in a few weeks—partly because I’m busy, but mostly because I don’t want her to ask about Connor. Caroline’s always been able to root out the truth in me.
I knock on the front door and wait. It’s a long time before she answers, and when she finally comes to the door, I worry I might have woken her from a nap. Her eyes are puffy and her cheeks flushed. The fine lines on her face are more pronounced; the little curves around her mouth and forehead appear deeper today. She looks older.
“Daisy.” She wraps me into a hug. “How are you, sweetheart? I just got off the phone with your mom. You’ve heard about Ian?” I nod, and she pulls me into the house. She takes the kettle off the stove and fills it with water. “Tea?”
I nod, and Caroline pulls out the boxes and places a selection before me. I reach for a peppermint and tear the sachet from its protective packet, dropping it into the cup. It’s a beautiful handmade mug, sturdy in my palm, smooth and shiny in a deep blue glaze. It looks like the type of mug that Todd’s mother would own.
“What did she say?” I ask.
“He’s been booked and he’ll be arraigned tomorrow. That’s when they’ll find out if he’s made bail.”
“How much will that be?”
She sighs. “If they give him bail, it will be a lot. Probably at least a hundred thousand.”
“She can’t pay that.” I don’t know what I was expecting but the amount is like a kick in the stomach. My mother has no money. What she makes from Petunia’s barely covers our bills. She can’t even help me pay for classes.
“She’s going to put up the house.”
It hits me then how much this could devastate us. Caroline must see something in my face because she puts an arm around my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”
I give a bitter laugh, uncharacteristic of the way I act around Caroline, and she pulls back and frowns at me with concern. “Connor said exactly the same thing. But it doesn’t feel like everything’s going to be okay.”
“When did you see Connor?” she asks as the kettle starts to whistle.
“This morning.” Caroline pours water in the mugs. I lower my face to breathe in the minty smell of the steam.
“How did he seem?”
I hesitate. I hate ratting him out to his mom. It feels like such a betrayal. Then I think of his mottled arms and gray skin, the guitar that’s sat propped in the corner of his room for God only knows how long, and I realize it’s why I’ve come. Connor needs someone to rat him out.
“Not great.” I pause for Caroline’s reaction. She takes a sip of tea, waiting for me to say more. “He’s doing drugs, Caroline.”
In the movie version, these words would be followed by dramatic music and a close-up on one of our faces. In the real-life version, Caroline doesn’t say anything. I expected some response—denial or shock or disbelief—but Caroline’s expression is as placid as it was a moment ago. She sips her tea without speaking.
“But you already know that, don’t you?” My voice is flat, monotone. Somewhere in the back of my mind, Caroline was the one who could fix Connor, prop him up and put him back together, just like she did for me and my mom all those years ago. I want to put
my head down on the table and cry.
But it’s Caroline who starts to cry, her features pinching into an unfamiliar expression of emotion. Caroline, who’s always so composed and predictable, is suddenly weeping, her shoulders shaking up and down. She reaches for my hand and it’s warm from the tea.
“I don’t know what to do. I’m so afraid for him. I just don’t know what to do. What should I do, Daisy? How do I help him?” She grabs me tightly in an uncomfortable hug, her face wet against my cheek. “What do I do?” she whispers in my ear over and over. I don’t say anything. I let her cling to me; my second mother, who I hoped would hold the answers.
Connor is alone. He’s out on a sinking raft in the middle of the ocean and not one of us can reach him. It’s only a matter of time before he runs out of air and disappears below the black surface of the sea.
I hold Caroline as she continues to cry.
23
Caroline
I still have to work. Despite what I’ve finally forced myself to admit about Connor. Despite Ian being in jail. Despite my crumbling marriage and the young woman who was murdered on the beach, and the increasing likelihood that someone close to me is responsible for it, I still need to be at the library by two.
When I get there it’s a relief to have the normalcy of checking in books and sifting through orders to take my mind off everything else. It’s the quiet part of the day, after the moms with kids but before the after-school rush, though that will be slow this week too since school’s out. There’s hardly anyone in the room with me, just a few regulars and one of the volunteers quietly shelving DVDs. I sink into the hush of the fiction section, focusing on taking down last week’s Valentine’s Day display. Standing on a small stepladder, I remove paper hearts from the corkboard, each one cut and folded to look like an open book. Soon it will be time to set up the Easter display, though it’s so dreary this time of year it’s hard to believe spring will ever come.
I’m so focused on the simple task of unpinning the red hearts that I don’t see Jack until he’s right beside me. He’s in plain-clothes, a pair of faded jeans and a wool sweater I bought him a few years ago. The sweater is the same green as his eyes, which was why I bought it. He looks handsome, and I realize how rarely I noticed his looks during all those years when I saw him every day. It’s taken him moving out for me to see him clearly again.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Nice to see you too.”
“Sorry. You just surprised me. Is everything okay?”
“Can you take a break?” He reaches out a hand and helps me down from the ladder. His palm is rough against mine.
After I’ve called Marina at the upstairs extension, I get my coat from the office and we head outside. There are rocking chairs at the front of the building, and on summer days people sit out here and use the free wifi. It’s not even five and the sun is already slipping behind the stretch of trees that line the perimeter of the cemetery across the street, the same cemetery where generations of Jack’s family are buried. There’s a whole plot for the Dohertys, though last I heard, the graveyard had reached full capacity. We sit in our rockers, and I adjust my scarf to keep the wind at bay.
“You heard about Ian?” Jack asks.
“Yeah. Evvy’s hired Mark Keene.”
“He’s good.” Jack gives a nod of approval.
“The arraignment’s tomorrow morning?”
Jack nods and taps his fingers along the smooth wood of the armrest. Years ago, Jack smoked cigarettes, a pack-a-day habit that he quit cold turkey after Connor was born. Though he hasn’t smoked for years, his twitchy fingers are the tell when he’s craving one. I rest my hand upon his to still its movement, before realizing such a wifely privilege has been revoked. I drop my hand back into my lap.
“I didn’t actually come to talk about Ian,” Jack says.
“Okay.” I wait.
“Cyrus saw Connor the night of the festival. We both did.” We’re sitting side by side, and Jack stares ahead of him as he speaks so I can only see his profile. I wonder if it’s easier for him to talk when he doesn’t have to look at me directly.
“So? Half the island was there.” An elderly couple nod hello at us as they make their way into the library. We both smile politely and Jack waits till the door has closed behind them to continue speaking.
“Cyrus saw him talking to Layla Dresser. They were only talking for a minute, and he didn’t leave when she did. Cyrus didn’t want to drag Connor into anything.”
Something clutches at the back of my throat, a hand squeezing out the air. It’s nearly dark now, and I can just make out a faint row of headstones across the road, the even stone rectangles disappearing in the dusk. The old wood of Jack’s chair sighs beneath him as he rocks slowly beside me.
“So, what now?” My voice is just above a whisper.
“Ian’s being charged with her murder,” Jack says evenly. “Cyrus isn’t going to mention anything about Connor talking to her.” Cyrus is a good cop, but he’s a better friend. Still, it’s so unlike either of them to go against police procedure. I don’t know if I should be grateful or worried.
“So why are you telling me now?” I ask.
“She was bringing drugs to the island. That’s why she was over,” Jack says. This must be common knowledge by now, otherwise Jack would never tell me. “She worked at Moby Dick’s for a few weeks at the end of last summer. Connor must have known her.”
I can barely see Jack in the fading light, but his face is unreadable, even to me. I have never trusted Ian, not after the time he hit Evvy, but I still have difficulty imagining him as a murderer. Ian is loud and charming and funny. It’s hard to reconcile this image of him with the idea that he killed a woman. Then again, it is still difficult for me to imagine him hurting Evvy, despite the truth of it. The question remains: if Ian didn’t do it, who did? If Connor’s connection to Layla and his conversation at the bar with her points the finger in his direction, I have no choice but to hope that Ian did kill her.
“Do you really think Ian killed her?” I ask.
“Yes. Absolutely.” His certainty is a relief, but already I fear what this will mean for Evvy.
“So, what does any of this have to do with Connor?” I ask.
It takes him a moment to speak. “I know he’s having a hard time. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks. He doesn’t answer his phone and doesn’t call me back.” He rubs his temples, fingers pressing hard against the skin. “I’m worried about someone coming forward and saying they saw Connor talking to her. He didn’t have anything to do with this. I know that… I want to keep him out of this, but there are drugs involved. I’m losing perspective here, Carrie. I thought you could help me think straight.” Jack’s the only one who calls me Carrie and the casual intimacy of the nickname is like rubbing a healing wound.
The last thing I can do is help Jack think straight, especially when it comes to Connor. I’m certain now that Connor knows something about what happened to Layla or is somehow connected to the drugs that she was bringing over. Yet I can’t tell Jack, not when there’s a chance he’ll use what I know about Connor against him. Even if he wants to keep Connor out of this, if he suspects that Connor is dealing drugs, I don’t know that he’ll continue to protect him. Because even though he should be a father first, so often being a cop supersedes that.
“He had nothing to do with any drugs. There’s no reason to drag him into any of this.” I wish my heart matched the certainty in my voice, but I have no choice but to fake it.
Jack nods and even in the darkness I see the relief on his face. “Have you seen him lately?”
“He’s come by a few times recently. He stayed over the other night.” I don’t mention the circumstances, the middle-of-the-night visit or his ransacked bedroom.
“How did he seem?”
“Fine.”
“Really?” he presses.
More than anything I want to tell Jack everything. For a moment I consi
der it. The bulging bag of pills, the way Connor screamed and swore at me, then broke down crying like a child. The broken man our baby has become. Jack’s seen this before in his line of work, he knows people who could help. But I don’t trust that he won’t make things worse, his belief in the law overriding what could happen to Connor. I can see how conflicted he is, wanting to be a good father while also being a good cop, looking out for Connor while also doing what he thinks is right for the island. So what if Connor was at the bar that night? Jack will turn over this scrap of inconsequential information and it will land Connor in criminal trouble on top of everything else. What will happen to him if the police find out about the drugs? How long would he go to prison? A future where he goes to college, pursues his music, meets a nice girl or finally settles down with Daisy, any chance he has of escaping a dead-end job and the emptiness of life on Great Rock would be gone. It would disappear in my own selfish need to unburden my secrets.
“He seemed great. He’s going to come for dinner soon.” I force a smile.
“Good. That’s good.” Jack nods, seeming satisfied. It takes so little to convince him that I want to shake him for his stupidity. How blind we’ve become, unwilling to see what’s right in front of us. “Did you say anything about us?”
“No.”
“We should talk to him. Before he finds out some other way.”
“What are we telling him?” When he doesn’t answer, I ask the question I’ve been wondering since he left. “Are you coming home?” When Jack turns to me, his expression is gentle.
“Do you want me to?”
I think of the empty house that awaits me at the end of my shift. The can of soup I’ll have for dinner followed by mindless television, Champ keeping Jack’s side of the bed warm. Then I think about how free I am without Jack, how for the first time in as long as I can remember, I have to figure out who I am without him. And while this is terrifying, I’m also interested in what I’ll discover. I want him to come home, but not like this. Not when there’s still an impenetrable wall between us that neither of us is willing to acknowledge. Since he left, the distance has only gotten wider. There’s so much that we haven’t found the words to say.
Everybody Lies Page 16
