The Darkest Lie (9 page)

Time slows. The swing arcs from one side to the other. One week passes. A fly buzzes across the porch. A month. Sam holds my gaze, without fidgeting or blinking. An entire year.

“How did you know?” I whisper.

He drops his eyes and studies the patches of dirt on the wooden slats. “It's not like I was snooping or anything. I was interviewing Mr. Willoughby in his office, and the call counselor schedule was sitting right there on the coffee table. I scanned it before I even knew what I was looking at.”

“That list is supposed to be confidential.” I wipe my palms across my jeans. “If the identities of the counselors ever got out, it would destroy the illusion of anonymity, and the hotline would no longer be a safe place to talk.”

That's only half of it. The anonymity also protects me from the Justin Blakes of the world cackling, “Is that call counselor or fuck counselor?” From being a source of amusement for the entire school.

“I'm not going to tell anyone, CeCe. It's irrelevant to the article, and like I said, I don't make a habit of hurting people just because I can.”

Everything about his mouth, his eyes, his posture radiates sincerity, but what do I know? I spent my whole life never understanding fully what kind of woman my mother was.

What's more? If he knows I volunteer at the hotline, he could've doctored the flyers. He could've sent me that text. As unlikely as it seems, Sam Davidson just became a suspect.

I might have just partnered with the boy who seeks to shoot me down.

“When is your appointment with Mr. Willoughby?” I ask, getting to my feet.

He checks his watch. “In half an hour. He promised to give me a tour of the hotline.”

I stiffen. “The hotline doesn't give tours. Especially not to newspaper interns. The location is kept as confidential as the identities.”

“He didn't want to at first, but I ... uh, convinced him.”

“Define ‘convinced.' ”

“I gave him a choice. He could either show me the premises, or I would release the names of the counselors.” The color fans across his cheeks like a bad sunburn. “I wouldn't have, of course. I just wanted to see the hotline.”

I shake my head. If he's willing to bribe a teacher, what else is he capable of? Would he resort to harassment to get a good story? “You'd do anything to get this scholarship, wouldn't you?”

“Nothing illegal. Nothing that compromises who I am or what I stand for. But other than that?” He stands from the swing and faces me. “I want this scholarship, CeCe. And I'm not going to let a few niceties get in my way.”

I take a deep breath. I'm not sure what I think of his methods, but maybe that's my entire problem. Maybe I've been way too timid.

Mind your own business,
the text said. Clearly, this is sound advice. If I had never volunteered at the hotline, my number wouldn't have appeared on the flyers. If I hadn't confronted Tommy, Justin might not have been so eager to tell everyone about my mom's photo. If I scrambled back into my shell, then surely I would be safe again.

And my dad would still be obsessed with washing my mom's grave. The town would still consider my mom a slut. I can't allow that, not when I'm beginning to suspect that there was more to her death. Much more.

This is my chance to prove it.

“Okay, partner,” I say. “Let's go talk to Mr. Willoughby.”

* * *

It takes twelve minutes to drive to the lake. Number of traffic lights? One. Words exchanged? Zero.

I've never been any good at small talk, and I really don't know what to say now.

So, Sam, I know you have the power to make my life even worse by blabbing to the school that I'm a call counselor. But no biggie. How do you like your classes? Have you started reading
Lolita
for Senior English yet? Boy, that Humbert Humbert is something else, isn't he? Oh no, I wouldn't know about that kind of thing. Not at all.

I sneak a glance at him, only to find he's looking at me. Is he wondering if I'm about to follow in my mother's footsteps? Or is he thinking about kissing me?

My cheeks burn, and I look back to the road before I get us into an accident. Of course he's not thinking about kissing me. He may have said something about it last night, but that was under the cover of a deep black sky, in the midst of a rowdy party, on the high of his confrontation with Justin. That was before we became partners. Before our relationship became . . . if not exactly business, then at least goal-oriented. We're spending time together in order to figure out what happened to my mother. I can't forget that.

I pull into a long, gravel driveway and park behind an orange vintage sports car with two racing stripes down the center.

Sam whistles. “Now that's what I call a nice ride.”

I wrench my door open as Liam steps out of the sports car. I stumble on the tiny rocks. Great. I haven't seen him since I took off in search of Tommy Farrow last night. Not since my mom's topless photo got passed around like a bowl of queso fundido. I'm not naive enough to hope that he somehow missed seeing the photo.

Sure enough, Liam hurries to me, his stride long and fluid. “CeCe, are you okay? I didn't expect to see you until tomorrow, during your shift. I've been so worried since I heard what happened.”

“You're not supposed to be here tomorrow,” I mumble, staring at his chest. It's a very nice chest—any girl would be happy to look at it—and I wish that were why I'm checking him out. But really, it's because I'm afraid of what I'll see in his eyes. “It's my first shift alone, remember? I don't need a babysitter.”

“I just wanted to check on you. I heard about that jerk harassing you.” He pauses. “But you don't have to worry about him. He'll think twice about picking on girls after spending the night in jail.”

My eyes fly to Liam's face. “What are you talking about? What happened?”

“Justin Blake may or may not have been picked up by the cops for a DUI last night. After an anonymous tip that may or may not have come from a certain hotline coordinator.”

I gape. If any doubts to his character remained, they're now erased. Liam may look like he could've played football with Tommy Farrow, but he's not one of those guys. Maybe he never was, and it was my own insecurities that made me see him that way. “You did that? For me?”

“I'd do a lot more than that for you.” He steps closer, those ice-blue eyes gleaming. I think of arctic waters and snow-covered mountains. And then Sam clears his throat.

Liam looks up, as if noticing him for the first time. “Who are you?” His tone is not quite hostile, but it's not friendly, either.

“Sam Davidson. I'm writing an article about the hotline, and I have an appointment with Mr. Willoughby. Nice car, by the way.”

“Thanks. What do you drive?”

“Me?” Sam laughs. “I don't drive anything. Unless you count my trusty three-wheeled scooter.”

“I don't.”

We look at each other, and an awkward silence descends. I hurry to my car and grab Liam's hoodie from the backseat. “Thanks for letting me borrow this last night,” I say, handing it to him.

Sam's mouth drops. “Wait a minute—that was his?”

I push down the foolish urge to explain:
I already told you. He's not my boyfriend.
But I can hardly say that in front of Liam. He might get the wrong idea about what's going on between me and Sam.

Which is what, exactly?
a voice inside me whispers.

The sun ducks behind the trees, casting us in long-fingered shadows. The remains of last night's bonfire drift by on the wind. We stand around like actors who've forgotten our lines. Can this get any more uncomfortable?

Finally, Sam gestures toward the top of the drive. “Should we go? I don't want to be late.”

We trudge up the loose gravel, not speaking. The tension is so thick I can feel it pushing into my lungs and expanding, slowly but surely, until I'm taking short, quick sips of the air. Finally, we round the corner, and the log cabin comes into view. An old pickup is parked in front, the bed of the truck filled with boxes. Stacks upon stacks of boxes. Tattered cardboard cartons, see-through filing crates, pretty storage parcels.

My throat works, trying to swallow something that isn't there. Because I've seen those boxes before. Three days ago, they were stacked in the storage closet of the crisis hotline.

“Why are all those boxes in the truck?” I ask.

Liam slows his pace, so that he can match his steps to mine. “Mr. Willoughby thought it was time for a spring cleaning.”

“But it's the fall.”

“These boxes have been around since before we moved locations. He wants to go through them, and either file away the papers or toss them.”

Sam lifts a lid, peering inside as if he might find a wild animal. “I can help.”

I know what he's thinking. There's a potential gold mine inside. Fodder for his article and information about my mom. All we have to do is find it.

“Not on your life.” Mr. Willoughby strides toward us, wearing a Green Lantern T-shirt. He has a box tucked snugly under his arm. A certain box wrapped with fruit-basket wallpaper. My mother's box.

My mouth goes dry.

“I agreed to a tour, Mr. Davidson,” the teacher says. “I didn't give you license to snoop into the hotline's confidential documents.”

Sam holds up his hands, and Mr. Willoughby stashes the box in the front cab of his truck. In another second, the door will close, and I may never see it again.

“Wait. That's my mother's box.” I lunge forward, but Mr. Willoughby turns, blocking my access to the open truck door.

He pushes the box further into the cab. “Why do you say that?”

“The wallpaper. It's the same as our kitchen's. My mom used the leftover paper to wrap our storage boxes.”

“Tabitha papered the kitchen walls herself?” His voice softens, as if I've given him a gift he didn't expect. I think, all of a sudden, about an arrangement of flowers from my mother's wake. All-white roses, lilies, and carnations clustered in a glass cube. The card was signed, “I will never forget you. ~W.”

Guess whose job it was to write the thank-you cards? Me. And guess who nearly ripped her hair out trying to figure out who “W.” was? Yep. Me again. It seemed like the entire town showed up at my mother's funeral. She was well-liked, sure, but I'll bet most people came not to pay their respects, but to catch a glimpse of Tabitha Brooks's poor widower and daughter. Hell, maybe even Mr. Willoughby and Liam were there.

Could the glass cube arrangement have come from Mr. Willoughby? If so, why didn't he sign his name?

“She wallpapered our living room and bedrooms, too,” I say. “In fact, she redecorated my room every few years, because she said a girl's room should reflect her mental state.”

“She would say something like that.” The sun reappears, highlighting the deep crevices around his eyes. “Your mother was one of my students, you know. When I started teaching twenty-odd years ago. And when she came back as staff, we reconnected.”

I stiffen. His tone is too hazy, too emotional for the reminiscence of a former student or colleague. Did they have another connection?

Whatever their relationship, he doesn't open the truck door. And the box stays out of my reach. “If I find anything that belonged to Tabitha, I'll pass it on, okay?”

“But—” I sputter. “Can't I look through it?”

“These boxes are the property of the hotline.” His tone shifts from hazy to authoritative. “The contents belong to the organization. As the executive director, I don't have to release them to anybody, much less a volunteer call counselor.”

“On the contrary,” Sam interjects, “if that box belonged to Tabitha Brooks, I would think the contents should revert to CeCe.”

“We have no proof of that. Just Cecilia's assertion that she has the same wallpaper at home. It's a common pattern. Anyone could've picked it up at the hardware store.”

Mr. Willoughby takes the keys out of his pocket and gets into the car. I rack my brain for something to say that will change his mind. But he reverses the truck a few feet on the gravel, and it's clear he's not in the mood to listen.

“Liam, would you give Mr. Davidson a tour?” he says through the open window. “Make it quick and make sure he doesn't touch anything.” He nods at us. “See you kids at school.”

Before we can respond, he continues reversing and drives away.

With my mother's box next to him.

The next day is Sunday and my first shift alone. I tried the basement door when I first arrived, but surprise, surprise, it was locked. Kinda hard to snoop when I have no access.

The tour provided frustratingly little information. I kept my eyes peeled for a keyhole that would fit my silver key, especially in the basement office. But true to Mr. Willoughby's orders, Liam kicked us out of the hotline five minutes after the tour began. The only thing I learned was he uses vanilla-scented air fresheners in the closets.

I sign in to the computer to log my latest call. As I type, my scalp tingles, and a cool, invisible breeze blows against my neck, under my ponytail. Someone's watching me. I can feel it. If not the computer, then the abstract art on the walls or the floor-standing lamps with their too-realistic limbs.

Cre-eak.

I bang my knees on the underside of the desk. Was that a footstep, or is the cabin just settling?

Stop it!
Buildings shift. That's what they do. I sit down and try to relax. Just this past Wednesday, I couldn't wait to have the place to myself. But now my mom's box is gone, and there's nothing to search. I long for Liam's company. He's friendly, warm. And, you know, alive. That counts for a lot right about now.

I could start sifting through my mom's call records, but there are so many of them, I don't even know where to start. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack—where the needle could be any shape and may or may not even exist.

Instead, I flip to the back of my spiral notebook and begin to sketch the places I visited yesterday, after our tour of the hotline. Maybe if I keep my hands busy, my skin won't feel like it's about to slough off and crawl away.

The safety deposit boxes at our local bank. The lockers at the YMCA. I struck out at both places. Where else would a key belong? Some cabinets in my mom's old classroom? I can check with the school secretary tomorrow. Where else?

I stare at the exposed wooden beams in the ceiling. Maybe Tommy Farrow has some ideas. If he was close with my mother, maybe she told him about a secret cabinet or locker. It's worth a try.

Impulsively, I look up his phone number in our online school directory, which includes alumni information, and dial it. He answers on the second ring.

“Tommy, this is CeCe Brooks—”

Click. Dial tone.

I can't believe it. That's
my
move.

I'm still trying to make sense of the long, monotonous beep when the phone rings. Not my cell this time, but the crisis line. I snarl at the black box, showing my teeth, and then remember I'm on duty.

“Hello, Crisis hotline.”

“Bea?” a girl's voice says incredulously. “Is that really you? I thought you'd left.”

“No, it's not Bea.” The prickles on my neck are back full force. Not because someone's watching me. But because Bea used to be my mother's nickname.

As the story goes, when I was six months old, we were having lunch outside when a bee landed on my arm. Without a second thought, my mother reached out and pinched the bee between her bare fingers, squeezing it to death. When her lunchtime companions gaped, my mother explained calmly, “It was about to sting my baby.”

Coincidence. It has to be.

“This is Annie,” I tell the caller. Each counselor picks a nickname to use with callers, to preserve our anonymity. Mine is in honor of Gram's favorite poker player, Annie Duke.

“Oh. Sorry about that.” Disappointment spreads through her voice like a grapevine. “I haven't talked to Bea for a while now, and you sound just like her.”

My stomach tightens, and I wind the old-fashioned phone cord around my finger. No, not a coincidence. The caller has to be talking about my mother. After I hang up, I can check the pseudonym chart to confirm.

“What would you like to talk about today?” I curl my fingers to keep from reaching for the resource binder. My first duty is to the caller. Freaking out over personal issues has to wait for my own time.

“It's too much to explain in one phone call,” she says. “I was hoping to talk to Bea. She helped me end my last relationship, see. Being with him . . . changed me. The only person who understood was Bea. My life was one big secret, and she knew all about secrets. But then she disappeared. I really want to talk to her again.”

“She's not here anymore.” My heart pounds. Secrets. This counselor named Bea knew all about secrets. “Like you said, she hasn't been here for a long time.”

“I know that. But I call the hotline every once in a while, hoping I'm wrong. Stupid, isn't it?”

“No. That doesn't sound stupid at all.” I swore I wouldn't put myself out there. Whatever happened, I promised I wouldn't let anyone infiltrate my shields. But she sounds so lost, so much like me, I can't help myself. “If there were a number I could call to get her back, I'd dial it, too. Ten times a day.”

She laughs, but it's not so much amused as it is sad. “Thanks for saying that. What was your name again?”

“Annie.”

“Maybe I'll call back and talk to you, Annie. Would that be okay?”

“Sure. What's your name?”

She pauses. “Bea used to call me Lil. I thought that was lovely. A bee and a flower. Like we were meant to have a connection.”

The call ends, and I leap for the resource binder. Near the beginning, there's a table of counselors and their nicknames.

The breath rattling in my lungs, I run my finger down the list. Sure enough, there's an entry for “Bea.” And the corresponding counselor is none other than Tabitha Brooks.

The blood sings in my ears, so loud I can't hear the whir of the computer, much less any footsteps, real or imagined. Lil referred to my mother's secrets. Maybe she knew something. Maybe my mother confided in her. This is the break I've been looking for. A way to sort out the irrelevant entries. To pinpoint a particular bale of hay where the needle might be hiding. And maybe—oh please, oh please, oh please—a message for me.

I log in as my mother. When prompted for a password, I put in my birthday—the same password my mom used for everything. Thousands of records pop up, and I add the keyword of “Lil.” Just as I thought, the field narrows to nine manageable entries.

I open the entry with the earliest date. My mom's tone is clinical, relaying the facts in short, declarative sentences. Yet, as I sink into her words, I can almost feel her presence beside me.

Lil was involved with an older man. Although the relationship started innocently enough, he soon talked her into posing for explicit photos. Pretty soon, that's all she was doing. Taking off her clothes and contorting her body into acrobatic poses to please the camera—and her so-called boyfriend. She was fourteen years old.

The tingles along my scalp sharpen. Sure, the report itself is disturbing, and I'm reading the words of a dead woman. But it's more than that. There's something disconcerting about this entry, something that strikes me as not quite right.

And then I get to the final sentence, and the prickles turn into a thousand needles stabbing my skull. I reread the final few paragraphs: