The Truth We Bury: A Novel Read online

  PRAISE FOR BARBARA TAYLOR SISSEL

  “Faultlines is an in-depth portrayal of how one moment—and one mystery—can crack a family open. These compelling characters will stay with you long after the final reveal. Sissel’s fans will not be disappointed.”

  —Catherine McKenzie, bestselling author of Hidden and Fractured

  “This is that rare sort of book that grabs you from the very first line and refuses to let go. Beautifully written, intricately plotted, and perfectly executed, Faultlines is an intimate look at the unraveling of a family after a tragic accident. Sissel weaves a clever web of emotional fallout as she alternates seamlessly between two storylines that converge in a devastating way. An atmospheric, emotional, suspenseful journey that will stay with you for a long time after you’ve finished the last page.”

  —Kristin Harmel, international bestselling author of The Sweetness of Forgetting

  “In Faultlines, Barbara Taylor Sissel brilliantly weaves a compelling, suspenseful, and emotional family drama. Through a multitude of twists and turns, each character is faced with difficult decisions that fracture family bonds while wondering who they can trust, let alone whether or not they can recover from the tragedy. As the parent of a teenager, I immediately connected with the story and the characters, and was hooked from page one. Ms. Sissel is a masterful storyteller when it comes to suspense and an exceptional writer. It’s a definite page-turner!”

  —Kerry Lonsdale, bestselling author of Everything We Keep

  “Faultlines is a gripping tale of secrets and obsessions in which nothing is quite as it seems. After tragedy and accusations of blame rip a family apart, Barbara Sissel masterfully unravels the shocking truth.”

  —Barbara Claypole White, bestselling author of The Perfect Son

  “I was completely sucked into Faultlines. Told with great skill and compassion, Faultlines had me feeling for so many of its flawed but very human characters, each of them struggling toward the grace that can only come of forgiveness. My favorite of Sissel’s many fine books, Faultlines kept me reading long past midnight . . . and the powerful, yet hopeful, resolution will stay with me for a long time.”

  —Colleen Thompson, author of The Off Season and Fatal Error

  “Past secrets contribute to present-day angst in this solid suspense novel, and the even pacing keeps the reader’s interest until the captivating conclusion.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Safe Keeping

  “Impressive writing and affecting subject matter.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on Safe Keeping

  “A gripping read . . . perfect for a book club.”

  —Library Journal on Safe Keeping

  “The slow pace of Sissel’s novel allows readers to savor the language and the well-drawn characters. Exploring love, marriage, deception and trust against the backdrop of a gut-wrenching mystery leaves little time for the hinted-at romance. This quiet story is enjoyable and insightful.”

  —Romantic Times on Evidence of Life

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477823989

  ISBN-10: 1477823980

  Cover design by Rex Bonomelli

  For B2, Barbara Poelle, agent extraordinaire, in celebration of five books and five great years.

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  Lily saw the gray sedan the moment she turned the corner. It was parked across the street from her condo, but instinct warned her that the occupants, a couple of beefy-looking men, were cops, and they were waiting for her. Lily drove past them as if she lived elsewhere, in a different life. As if the street she lived on didn’t loop through a series of lush, artfully planned medians that would eventually lead straight back to her own driveway near the entrance to her gated community, where the men—detectives, if her experience was any teacher—waited. She backed her foot off the accelerator, glancing in the rearview mirror. Would they follow her, force her to the curb, demand she exit her vehicle? She remembered, although it was long ago now, how the road grit bit into her knees. Eyes front, she circled the cul-de-sac. She needed a moment to gather her composure.

  She wouldn’t tell them anything, she decided. Whatever they asked, she’d play dumb. They’d fall for it, in all likelihood. She was blonde after all. Steeling herself, she headed back in the direction she’d come from, hitting the remote for the garage door, watching it rise, knowing the men saw it, too. They exited their car on cue, as if a trigger had been pulled, waiting in her driveway while she parked in the garage. She thought of lowering the door, barricading herself in the house. But such tactics would only delay the inevitable. She got out of her BMW and joined them in the driveway.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, sounding far more certain than she felt.

  “Lily Isley?” The taller of the two men addressed her.

  She was in the process of confirming her identity, but he talked over her.

  “I’m Detective Hatchett, and this is my partner, Detective Lawlor. We’re from the Dallas Police Department.”

  The two produced their identification, their movements efficient and precise.

  Lily caught a glimpse of their shoulder-holstered weapons. Her pulse tapped lightly in her ears.

  “Axel Jebediah Isley—that’s your son, right?” Hatchett asked. “Goes by AJ?”

  There it was. AJ’s name, his full legal name. She had anticipated hearing it, but still her knees weakened, and a dark, long-held sense of the inevitable collapsed inside her. This was it, the other shoe. Dropping with the weight of a stone, an anvil, cleaving her chest.

  “Yes,” she said. “AJ is my son. What is this about?”

  “Is he here?” asked Lawlor. He was shorter than Lily, and round, with a belligerent jut to his chin.

  “No.” Don’t answer more than the question, instructed a voice in her brain. Was it Edward’s advice she was remembering, his caution from before?

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Last week. He came for dinner. What is this about?” Lily asked again.

  “Have you talked to him recently?” Hatchett asked.

  “Do I have to answer your questions? Don’t you have to have a warrant—” Lily broke off. What if AJ was already sitting in a cell, and these men—these cops—were playing mind games with her? “I’m not saying another word until you tell me what this is about.”


  Glancing around, Hatchett said maybe she wanted to go inside. “You could sit down,” he suggested.

  Was the news that bad? Lily turned without asking and led the detectives through the condo’s front door rather than through the garage. These men were not casual visitors. They wouldn’t be settling themselves on the bar stools at her granite-topped island while indulging in lattes and idle chatter. She ushered them across the vaulted foyer and into her formal living room, where a pair of white leather–upholstered sofas with a matching ottoman flanked a marble fireplace. Her white baby-grand piano, a gift from her husband, Paul, on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary three years ago, sat in front of tall bay windows, overlooking a carefully manicured landscape.

  This time of year, ahead of the baking Texas heat, the lawn was as lush as velvet and meandered through an arrangement of perennial beds filled with globe-shaped boxwoods, the freer forms of azaleas, and clumps of agapanthus, irises, and daylilies. A crew came twice a week to tend the grounds. It was one in the package of perks that came with living in a condominium development. Paul had neither the time nor the inclination to do his own yard work. Besides, as he would point out, he owned the place. How would it look if he were to be seen out there in his shirtsleeves pushing a mower? It was a joke. His joke. Lily smiled for every new audience to whom he posed the question. She always smiled.

  But not now. Not for these cops. She saw how they looked around. The one named Lawlor had his petulant rosebud of a mouth quirked into a kind of sneer. It was the sort of expression people wore when they were envious and didn’t want it to show. She set her purse, a tiny pocket of finely stitched blue, yellow, and hot-pink suede, on the ottoman. The bohemian pop of color looked somehow wrong against the white leather upholstery. Who had chosen it—the white leather, the creamy linen accent pillows, the silk drapery, the lovely impressionistic art on the walls, all of it done in such good taste? The room might have been found in a magazine spread from Southern Living. Who lived here? Lately, she was unable to imagine the couple, the family—

  “Mrs. Isley? Can you tell us where your son is?” Lawlor was studying her and not his surroundings now.

  “He’s twenty-five, for God’s sake, and he lives across town. I can’t possibly know where he is every minute.” Alarm made her shrill. If Paul could hear her . . . Lily caught her torso in her arms. “Have you contacted my husband?”

  “Do you think he knows where your son is?” Lawlor asked.

  “What is this about?”

  “When did you last speak to AJ?” Hatchett’s voice, sounding more reasonable, drew Lily’s attention.

  “Yesterday afternoon. He wanted me to remind his father they were to meet this morning for the final fittings of their tuxedos. AJ’s getting married on the twenty-first.” Lily named the date two and a half weeks away.

  “Where were they meeting?”

  “Manheim’s in the Village.” It was an upscale gentleman’s boutique near Turtle Creek.

  “Not AJ’s apartment?”

  “No, they were going to have lunch after—where is Paul?”

  “Mrs. Isley, according to your husband, he waited for AJ at Manheim’s for half an hour this morning, and when your son didn’t show up, he went to his apartment. After no one answered the door, your husband let himself in. He has a key?”

  “Yes.” Frightened now, Lily lowered herself to the sofa’s edge, feeling the air-conditioned chill from the leather bleed through her slacks.

  “Your husband found a young woman in your son’s apartment, Mrs. Isley. She was dead. Apparently, she was strangled and stabbed numerous times.”

  Lily stared at Detective Lawlor, head empty and silent.

  “AJ wasn’t there,” Lawlor went on. “He’s not answering his cell phone, and when we called his boss at Café Blue, he said AJ didn’t show for his shift last night.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Lawlor started to answer.

  She cut him off. “Where is Paul?”

  “At AJ’s apartment with the police, unless they’ve already taken him downtown. He called 911 when he found her body.”

  Lily dropped her gaze. Paul had called 911, but he hadn’t called her. He’d let her be blindsided. But it was possible he hadn’t thought how it might affect her, being accosted by law enforcement with such horrible news. In fact, he might not have thought of her at all.

  “Do you know who the woman is? It’s not Shea Gallagher, is it? She’s AJ’s fiancée.” Lily wondered how she would bear it. But AJ adored Shea; he wouldn’t hurt her.

  “Becca Westin is the victim’s name.” Detective Hatchett looked up from his notepad. “Do you know her?”

  “No.” Lily heard herself answer through the watery rush of her relief. “I mean, I don’t know her personally.”

  “But you recognize the name,” Hatchett said.

  “Yes. She’s one of Shea’s bridesmaids.” Lily thought for a moment. “I met her at Shea’s bridal shower—”

  “But your son, Axel—AJ—was a friend of Becca’s? Were they close?” Hatchett asked.

  “No, I don’t think so.” Lily looked away, pained anew at how little she knew of her son’s life. It wasn’t deliberate, nor was it out of anger or resentment. She could blame Paul, and sometimes she did, but he couldn’t have assigned her to a back room in AJ’s life if she hadn’t allowed it.

  “Would you know of a grudge between them? Could they have had a fight?” Hatchett asked.

  “I don’t remember AJ ever mentioning her.” Lily pulled her cell phone from her purse. “I want to call him now.” She switched her gaze between the detectives, and when neither of them objected, she dialed AJ’s number and waited, heart clamoring. The detectives watched her; she felt unnerved by their stares. She felt under suspicion. She willed AJ to answer, but he didn’t, and she was forced to leave a message. “Please call me when you get this,” she said, and no more.

  Ending the connection, she glanced at Hatchett. “He’s not answering.”

  “Yeah, like I said, we’ve been trying him, too.” Hatchett’s glance on Lily’s lingered, becoming pointed, intent.

  She felt dazed. “You can’t think he’s—” She paused, holding the word involved in her mouth. Of course he was involved. A young woman was dead in his apartment.

  “Can you think of anyplace he might be, Mrs. Isley?” Detective Lawlor asked, not unkindly.

  The ranch, Lily thought, the xL. It was the one place AJ might go if he felt threatened. She debated whether to tell them. Anything you say may be used against you. The warning surfaced from some half-forgotten history in her mind along with brief impressions—metal bracelets cinched around her wrists, a sheriff’s hand on her head ducking her through the squad-car door. Inside, the reek of sweat and old vomit mixed with an underscore of fear had made her gag.

  “Your father has a ranch south of here in the Hill Country, doesn’t he? The xL? Outside Wyatt?” Lawlor’s voice got Lily’s attention.

  Of course they would already know, she thought. She didn’t bother answering. Lawlor allowed no time anyway.

  “We’ve been trying to get in touch with your dad, Jeb Axel, down there. He’s not picking up, either.”

  “Well, if you’re asking me where he is, again, he’s a grown man—”

  “What about his housekeeper, Winona Ayala? Or her son, Erik? Erik Ayala is a close friend of AJ’s, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but what do either Winona or Erik have to do—”

  Lawlor didn’t let her finish. “What do you know about Erik Ayala, Mrs. Isley?”

  “What do you mean, what do I know about him?” Everything. I changed his diapers right along with AJ’s, she might have said. Erik was older; his diapers had been toddler size to AJ’s infant size. She and Winona had mothered both boys. And before that, Winona had mothered Lily from the time Lily’s own mother was diagnosed with end-stage ovarian cancer when Lily was ten. Win was home to Lily; Winona was her safe place, although they hadn�
�t been as close in recent years.

  Hatchett took over, peppering her with more questions. “Would Erik know where AJ is?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “His mother has her own house down there, on xL property, doesn’t she? Erik lived there with her until recently, but now he’s moved into Wyatt, isn’t that right?”

  “Why are you asking when it’s so obvious you have the answers?”

  “We’re just trying to gather as much information as we can, Mrs. Isley, to help us find your son.”

  Hatchett said, “AJ and Shea Gallagher met at the Art Institute, the culinary school, here in Dallas, where they’re both enrolled.”

  “Yes,” Lily agreed, when truthfully she wasn’t sure where they’d met. “They finished up their last semester a week ago.”

  “Is Shea still in town?”

  “No, she’s gone home to her mother’s in Wyatt to get things ready for the wedding. Shea and AJ are being married in her mother’s garden there.”

  “Lady we spoke to at the school said they’re going into the restaurant business?” Hatchett looked interested, but for all Lily knew, it was an act.

  “It’s more than that, really. They want to open a farm-to-fork here in the city.”

  Hatchett turned to Lawlor. “That’s where everything is locally grown and cooked fresh.”

  Lawlor said he knew that.

  AJ’s ambition to become a chef bewildered Paul. He characterized it as “playing around,” as in, “You can quit playing around now and do something real, something that’ll earn a decent living.” Lily might not have chosen that path for AJ, either, but it was a safer road than the one he’d been headed down before he enlisted.

  Lawlor read from his notepad. “Axel and Erik joined the marines back in 2011. Erik couldn’t hack basic and washed out, but your son went on to serve in Afghanistan.” He looked up at Lily. “That cause any problems between Ayala and your son that you know of?”

  “Hardly. It must be there in your notes, Detective. Erik is AJ’s best man. Does that sound as if there’s a problem?”

  Hatchett fired another question. “Your son’s had some legal trouble in the past, hasn’t he?”