Deadly Little Lies Read online

  30

  March 27, 1984

  Dear Diary,

  My sister announced tonight that she’s becoming a vegetarian. Our mother wasn’t happy, especially since she made bacon and eggs for supper. At first she told Jilly to just skip the bacon (she’d use it in sandwiches tomorrow), but then Jilly said that she was anti-eggs too, which basically caused our mother to flip out. She threw the frying pan on the floor, told Jilly how ungrateful she is, and then stormed away, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

  Jilly gave me her plate full of food so I wouldn’t have to pick mine off the floor. She fixed herself a bowl of dry cereal.

  And then she smiled at me.

  It was a knowing smile, as if maybe this was her way of helping me out, causing problems to get our mother off my back for a change, and onto hers.

  I smiled back, desperate to ask her if that was the case, but instead I just stayed quiet, afraid that I might have been wrong. If I was wrong, I didn’t want to know it.

  Love,

  Alexia

  31

  I wake up early the following morning with an insatiable need to sculpt. It’s what I dreamed about all night—until the sun finally peeped in through the cracks of my window shades, nudging me to get up, to go down into the basement studio, and to feel the sticky wet earth against my fingertips.

  Barely 9 a.m., my parents have already been up for hours. My mom usually does her sun salutations at 5 o’clock every morning. And Dad hits his NordicTrack around 7. Neither of them is home now, though. They’ve left a note on the fridge for me, saying they went to Raw for breakfast. And so I grab a quick bowl of sugarcoated cereal from Dad’s secret stash and head downstairs.

  It’s freezing in the basement. It seems my dad left the corner window open a crack to diminish the pottery fumes he insists are real. I close it up, surprised by the strength of the wind; it blows my hair back and makes my eyes water. Still, despite the cold, the sun pours in through the glass, illuminating my worktable. I light one of my mom’s aromatherapy candles—one with bits of rose petals embedded into the wax—and inhale the tealike scent.

  The clay is cool and moist in my grip. I wedge it out against my board while images of all sorts rush through my brain. I breathe through the sensation, and through the spinning feeling inside my head, trying my best to concentrate on the one image that seems to stand out against all the others. And then I begin to sculpt.

  Keeping my clay thoroughly saturated with a sopping-wet sponge, I smooth my fingers over the mound, sealing up cracks and creating arches where I feel they belong. After well over an hour, the clay still doesn’t look anything like the picture inside my head. Still, I keep working, trying not to focus so much on the end product, but on the muscles of my hands as they form curves along the base.

  I close my eyes again, concentrating on the image I see: a horse, its legs kicked upward as if in a jump. After several more minutes I begin to feel the head appear as I sculpt the mane. I open my eyes, feeling a flood of excitement wash over my skin, just knowing I’m getting things right.

  A second later, I hear something behind me. A high-pitched whispering sound.

  I stop. I peer around the basement, wondering if it was just my imagination because I know I’m alone. I listen for several more seconds, but between the wind howling outside, causing the house to settle in a series of cracks and hisses, and the perpetual pop and hum of the heating furnace, I can’t really tell.

  I turn back around to resume my work. A few moments later, I hear it again—only it’s clearer this time: “Camelia,” a female voice whispers. It’s followed by a giggling sound, sending chills straight down my spine.

  I blow out the candle and move toward the staircase. “Mom?” I call, wondering if my parents are home from breakfast. But the door that leads upstairs is still closed.

  I start up the staircase, noticing the creaking sound beneath my feet. I edge the door open and enter the kitchen. Everything appears normal, just as I left it. But then I hear something else. The windows in the living room rattle from the whipping of the wind outside. I check to make sure the panes are locked, and then continue around the house. The front and back doors are closed and dead bolted. The driveway’s empty. And my bedroom looks exactly as I left it.

  I reluctantly head back downstairs and switch on the overhead lights. Everything appears just as it should: Dad’s tool bench to the left, my sculpture studio just behind it, and all our storage to the right.

  So why do I feel like I’m being watched?

  I pull my sweatshirt sleeves down over my fingers in an effort to stifle the chill. Then I look back over my shoulder toward the upstairs door, wondering if I should call someone.

  Instead I count to ten, reminding myself that I’m alone, that the house is locked, and that Matt is far, far away. Still, I gaze over at the basement windows, wondering if maybe the voice wasn’t part of my imagination at all—if maybe it was coming from outside somehow.

  I move across the concrete floor, peeking behind old furniture and picking through boxes, until I reach the basement door—the one that leads to the bulkhead that opens to outside. I press my back against it, fighting the urge not to scream.

  I mean, am I really hearing voices? Or is it all just in my head?

  The image of the horse still alive in my mind, I move toward my studio, hoping my piece didn’t get too dry, that I’ll still be able to continue my work.

  But then I hear more whispering: “Be careful,” a voice says, in a piercing tone that vibrates through the center of my gut. It’s followed by more giggling.

  I reach for my cell phone, realizing it isn’t in my pocket. It’s upstairs. I survey the room, but I don’t see anyone. And everything remains still.

  “Who’s there?” I call. There’s an icy sensation inside my veins.

  When no one answers, I take a deep breath and try not to cry, wondering if maybe the answer lies in my sculpture. Maybe I need to complete the piece to understand what the voice is warning me about.

  I place my hands over the clay mound. At the same moment, a foreboding feeling settles on my shoulders, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  “Be careful,” the voice whispers again.

  I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to cover my ears, even though I end up doing it anyway. My clay-stained hands slide against the sides of my face, over my ears, and I shake my head. “No!” I shout, when the whispering doesn’t stop.

  I look back over my shoulder, toward the basement door that leads outside. It sounds like the giggling is coming from just behind it. I grab an X-Acto knife from my tray of tools and move back in that direction. My legs quiver with each step. The closer I get to the door, the louder the giggling sound becomes. My heart stomps. Tears soak my cheeks.

  The basement door’s only inches away; I reach for the knob. In one quick motion, I whisk the door open, the knife held high above my head.

  No one’s there. There’s only a set of steps leading up to the bulkhead door. Still the whispering continues. It’s just a faint, faraway voice now, too distant to make out the words.

  I climb the steps and unlatch the lever that opens the bulkhead. I swing the doors open wide. Cobwebs fall, brushing against my face, landing on my lips. I wipe them away as best I can and climb outside.

  My yard appears absolutely normal with its small brick patio and large grassy area. A tall wooden fence surrounds it. I pace the length, looking for footsteps in the patches of snow, but I don’t see anything. And I no longer hear the voice.

  I sit down on the edge of a bench and bury my face in my hands, almost wishing someone were out here. At least it would explain the voices.

  I wipe my eyes, gearing myself up to go back inside. I’m just about to climb through the doors, when I notice a streak of red down the side of the bulkhead. It looks like paint.

  I grab the edge of the door on the right and flip it closed. Someone’s written on it. The letters RE are stacked ato
p the letters AD in a dark red color.

  For just a moment I think it’s a message directing me to read something. But then I flip the opposite door closed and the message becomes clear: YOU’RE DEAD.

  32

  Tears fill my eyes. I reach out to touch the lettering, wondering if it’s still wet, but it’s dry— except where droplets of snow have landed over some of the letters, making them look like dripping blood. I dip my finger into the snow and press down against more of the paint. A smear of red bleeds against my thumb.

  I take a step back, slightly startled when I hear a car door slam. I rush to the gate and look out toward the street. It’s my parents.

  I hurry back inside the house, lock the basement door, and scramble up the stairs before they even make it in.

  “Hey, there,” Mom says, coming into the kitchen. “Did you find the banana soufflé for breakfast? I should have mentioned it on the note. I just made it this morning, but your dad had a hankering for rawaffles.”

  “Pronounced rawfuls, taste more like awfuls; translation: raw waffles, made with dehydrated fruit and nuts.”

  Dad peels off his coat and tosses it on the island. “I had a hankering for fat-laden French toast sopping with maple syrup and melted butter. I mean, who are they kidding with those tasteless disks?”

  “Well, excuse me for looking out for your health,” Mom says. “Why don’t you just go ingest a tub of lard mixed with sugar and chewing tobacco?”

  “It’d probably taste better than those rawaffles.”

  “We need to talk,” I say, still trying to catch my breath.

  “You bet we do,” he says. “I’m so tired of eating chicken feed and bird food.”

  “Oh, God,” Mom says, checking her cell phone messages. Her hand clasps over her mouth.

  “What now?” Dad asks.

  “It’s Alexia,” she says. “Her psychiatrist wants to schedule a meeting with the three of us.”

  “The three of us? As in you, me, and Dad?”

  “No.” She closes up her phone. “A meeting with Aunt Alexia, the psychiatrist, and me.”

  “So, that’s a good thing, right?” I ask.

  “Right,” she says, staring off into space.

  Dad goes and wraps his arms around her from behind, telling her everything will be fine. “It’ll be therapeutic for the both of you,” he says.

  But my mother appears less than convinced and ends up swatting him away. She absentmindedly opens the fridge, takes out a jar of almond butter, and begins to feed her funk. Meanwhile, I wipe a clay smear from the side of my face, not really knowing what to say. Or what to do.

  I end up sneaking off downstairs to cover my horse-in-progress with a giant piece of plastic. Then I dress in layers and head out on the longest walk I can manage, considering the frigid temperature outside.

  After a good hour-and-ten minute hike, I find myself at Kimmie’s house. She pulls me inside and leads me upstairs while her parents continue to fight in the living room.

  “Don’t mind the drama,” she says, closing her bedroom door behind us. “They’ve been going at it since last night. Something about him feeling suffocated and my mom’s obsessive need to control. I don’t know. I sort of lost track around the time he called her a puppeteer and himself a Raggedy Andy doll.”

  “Kimmie, I’m sorry. What can I do?”

  “Turn the music up, will you?” She nods toward her iPod.

  I do, and then plop down opposite her on the bed. She’s wearing a V-neck sweater that exposes a couple of grape-size hickeys on her neck.

  “So, I’m assuming you didn’t come here to listen to my parents fighting,” she says.

  “Who cares why I came? I mean, this can’t be easy for you.”

  Kimmie shrugs and avoids my gaze, but I can see that the fighting clearly affects her. Her eyes fill slightly and a stray tear falls over the black-lined rim. “My dad finally noticed my neck, by the way. But instead of calling for one of our sit-down family powwows, he told my mother she raised a slut. I think that’s what spurred the fighting.”

  “You can’t blame yourself.”

  “Whatever,” she says, trying to be tough, even though more tears slide down her cheeks.

  I reach out to hug her, allowing her to fall into my embrace, and almost forgetting the reason why I came here in the first place. Almost.

  A second later there’s a knock on her bedroom door. “Who is it?” she shouts in an angry tone that, like the hickeys, I barely recognize on her.

  “It’s Nate,” her brother says. “Can I come in there with you guys? I won’t bother you or make any noise.”

  She doesn’t tell him to bug off—something I’d normally expect from her. Instead she invites him in.

  “Maybe we should all go someplace,” I suggest, able to hear her parents arguing just as soon as the door cracks open.

  Nate perks right up, suggesting the ice-cream shop, the movies, or the arcade at the mall.

  “I vote we go to Brain Freeze,” Kimmie says, checking her vintage Gucci change purse for money. “Therapy in the form of ice-cream sundaes and banana floats.”

  “I second it!” Nate roars.

  “Even though it’s fifty below?”

  “Suck it up, Chameleon. It’s barely a five-minute walk. Plus, who couldn’t use a little ice-cream therapy right about now?”

  “I could,” I admit.

  “Exactly,” she says, flipping her cell phone open. And before I can even say peanut butter barrel with extra whipped cream, Kimmie calls Wes and invites him to come along too.

  33

  Wes is already waiting for us at Brain Freeze when we arrive. “I didn’t know it was ‘kids eat free’ day,” Wes jokes.

  “Don’t worry about Nate,” Kimmie says. “He’s already agreed not to make direct eye contact with anyone, and not to do or say anything embarrassing.”

  “Leave the embarrassing stuff to me,” Wes says, snagging a can of whipped cream from the counter and spraying nipples onto his ski vest. “Yummy, Mommy. Come to Papa.” He charges at Kimmie, chest-first.

  Kimmie lets out a laugh, dodging his creamy nipples. Meanwhile, I step up to the counter and order Nate and me mini peanut butter barrels with extra fudge sauce.

  “This is so much more pleasant than listening to my parents try to off each other,” Kimmie says as we all slide into a booth at the far corner.

  “Details, please,” Wes says, digging into what appears to be a strawberry blitz.

  “Later.” She motions toward the top of Nate’s head.

  “I’ve got details,” I offer.

  “Thank goodness,” Kimmie says, tightening the scarf around her neck, the print of which is oddly apropos— lipstick kisses—to camouflage all her hickeys. “Let’s talk about something other than my dysfunctional life.”

  “Like my dysfunctional life,” I continue.

  “Here,” Kimmie says to Nate, emptying out her change purse. “Go play a few rounds of pinball on me.”

  Nate happily complies, and finally we can get down to business. I proceed to tell them about what happened this morning with the bulkhead message.

  “And you waited until now to tell me this?” Kimmie asks.

  “There’s more to it.” I tell them about the voice I heard, followed by the giggling.

  Wes perks up. “A female voice?”

  “Wait,” Kimmie says. “If the whispering was coming from outside, how could you possibly have heard it? Sound travels, but not like that. I mean, through a basement door and a bulkhead?”

  “Unless this person’s a ventriloquist,” Wes says, tapping his chin in thought.

  “Be serious,” she sighs.

  “I am serious. Didn’t you guys see that movie . . . When a Stranger Calls Back? The babysitter thought the psycho-in-question was outside, talking to her through the front door, but in fact he was already in the house. Turned out he could throw his voice on cue.”

  “Okay, getting back to reality,” Kimmie s
ays, rolling her eyes. “If someone had only recently painted that message on the bulkhead, don’t you think the writing would still have been wet?”

  “Exactly,” I say, thinking how droplets of snow had dripped down over the letters. “But it also could have been marker. It was really hard to tell.”

  “Yeah, but even marker would still be wet, right?” she asks. “I mean, considering it was done on metal. . . .”

  “Not if it was permanent marker,” Wes says. “Like a Sharpie. Trust me; that stuff dries instantly. But if the writing was streaky in places, as you say, then they probably used something else. Your best bet is to have a pro take a peek at it.”

  “Or she could simply have you look at it,” Kimmie says to him.

  “For all I know, that writing could have been there for weeks,” I say.

  “Or at least since the last time your parents were in the backyard,” Kimmie corrects.

  “Which was probably over a month ago for my mom.” I gaze at my thumb, where there’s still a smear of red. “When it’s as cold as ice out, she only ventures as far as the driveway to get into her preheated car.”

  “Don’t you mean as cold as ass?” Wes says. “Or at least as cold as my ass? This place obviously doesn’t believe in turning on the heat. I’m starting to get frostbite.” He zips his vest all the way up and peers over his shoulder to give the guy working behind the counter a dirty look.

  “You are eating ice cream in January,” Kimmie reminds him.

  “Anyway,” I say, getting us back on track. “Let’s just say for the sake of argument that the writing was done days, weeks, or even months ago; how do you explain the whole mysterious voice issue?”

  “No one was upstairs or in the basement—” Wes begins.

  “The TV was off, and so was the radio,” Kimmie finishes.

  “I know,” I repeat. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “So you’re hearing voices,” Wes says, sloughing it off with a wave of his spoon. “It could be a whole lot worse.”

  “Right,” Kimmie says. “Your parents could be trying to rip each other’s heads off on a regular basis.”