This Is How I Lied Page 5

  “I give you a hard time because I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.” Her mother’s voice rose.

  Anger sizzled in Eve’s chest. Her mother always made everything about herself. “Don’t worry, Mom,” Eve said indignantly. “I will never, ever, make the same mistakes you did. I will not get pregnant and married at sixteen. I won’t have another baby and a divorce before I turn nineteen. I won’t make one kid be the grown-up in the family and I won’t let the other one, no matter how smart she is, turn into a freak and a bitch, which in case you didn’t know, is the worst kind of combination there is. Yeah, don’t worry, Mom, it’s not going to happen.”

  “I’ve given up everything for you,” her mother whispered, holding her hand tight against her chest as if she couldn’t trust it not to strike out at Eve.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have,” Eve mumbled, trying to brush past her mother and up the stairs. The slap came like a slingshot. Fast and hard against her cheek. The cheap green stone in her mother’s ring nicked Eve’s skin.

  “How dare you,” her mother cried. “Ungrateful brat! Make it three weeks!”

  Pressing her fingers against her cheek, Eve stormed up the stairs and into her bedroom. She slammed the door, the thunderous vibration echoing through the house. Tears pricked at her eyes. Eve looked in the mirror on the back of her door. A bright red handprint covered her cheek and a small trickle of blood trailed from the cut.

  Eve pulled off her sweater and threw it on the floor and began rifling through her dresser in search of her pajamas. She knew she should have stayed quiet but she couldn’t stop the words from spewing forth. Her mother had no idea what her life was like.

  She was pulling out an oversize tee when she heard a noise behind her. She turned to find Nola standing in the doorway, staring at her. Eve pressed the T-shirt to her chest.

  “So she smacked you, huh?” Nola said. She was dressed in a pair of shabby sweatpants and a thermal shirt. Her yellow curls were pulled up into a messy topknot.

  “Yeah, well, she didn’t mean it,” Eve said turning back to the bureau and retrieving a pair of flannel pajama bottoms.

  “She’s been crying all night. I wasn’t able to get any reading done,” Nola said. “All I could hear was her annoying sniffing and then she kept coming into my room to talk.”

  “Wow,” Eve deadpanned. “Such a big heart you have, Nola.”

  Nola shrugged. “I had stuff to do.”

  Eve shook her head. “I’m going to bed,” she said turning away from Nola to pull the T-shirt over her head.

  “Where’d you get the bruises?” Nola asked, her head tilted to the side as if daring Eve to lie. Eve didn’t answer. “The ones on your neck, those are obvious. Gross but obvious. But what about the ones there and there?” Nola stepped into the room and reached out for Eve’s arm.

  Eve shook her off. “They’re nothing. Go to bed.”

  “That’s what they all say.” Nola lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you like it? When he hits you?”

  Eve’s breath caught in her throat. She felt sick. “He doesn’t hit me. I wouldn’t let that happen. Get out of my room,” Eve ordered.

  “Uh-huh,” Nola said, nodding knowingly. “I wonder what Charlotte would say if she knew?”

  Eve tried to keep her face blank, untroubled. But what if her mother found out about the bruises? What would she do? Would she call Nick’s parents? The police? Knowing her mother, she would probably say a mean boyfriend was better than no boyfriend at all. Part of Eve wanted Nola to tell. Then maybe it would be out of her hands for good. It would end things with Nick. But what would her friends say? Would they believe her? Most wouldn’t but Maggie would believe her. She didn’t like Nick.

  No. Nola wouldn’t tell. Maybe it would be different if her sister actually seemed to care about the way Nick treated her, but she didn’t. Everything was a game to Nola to see who was smarter, who could get the upper hand.

  “You tell Mom, I’ll tell her about your box. Go to bed, Nola,” Eve said quietly, not letting the panic reach her voice.

  Eve held Nola’s gaze. This was an old game for them—who would blink first? Usually Nola won, hands down, but this time Eve would not flinch.

  Her eyes began to water but still she didn’t look away.

  “If a guy did that to me, I’d kill him,” Nola finally said. “But that’s just me.”

  She turned and left Eve’s room, gently closing the door behind her.

  Therapy Transcript

  Client Name: Nola Knox, 13 years

  Therapist Name: Linda Gonzalez, LMHC, NCC

  Date of Service: Tuesday, Jan. 30, 1996

  LG: Good morning, Nola. I’m Linda Gonzalez. Please make yourself at home. Take a seat.

  NK: I’d rather stand.

  LG: If that will make you more comfortable.

  NK: It does.

  LG: Have you ever seen a counselor before?

  LG: Why don’t you tell me about why you think you are here today.

  LG: I know this is hard, Nola. I know you are going through a difficult time. Your sister was murdered. You found...

  Loud crash

  Notes:

  Nola was mandated by the juvenile court to attend no less than 12 counseling sessions after pushing a sixteen-year-old boy into a glass trophy case causing significant injuries to the boy and to herself.

  Nola refused to answer any of my questions and did not make eye contact in this initial session. When asked about her sister who had been murdered just before Christmas, Nola knocked a lamp off my desk and left my office. I followed her but she left the premises before I could talk more with her.

  MAGGIE KENNEDY-O’KEEFE

  Monday, June 15, 2020

  I’m still processing what Nick Brady told me about Eve and Cam Harper holding hands the day she died. I know that Nick is not the most reliable of sources but if it’s true, this could change the course of the investigation. For a long time, I thought I was the only one. That Cam loved me. But as time passed I realized that this most likely wasn’t the case. If Cam Harper preyed on me, chances are there were others. The thought that Eve could have been one of them makes me want to punch a wall.

  I slow the car as I come up on Bates Avenue, named after a decorated Civil War soldier from Iowa named Norman Bates. I kid you not. We learned all about him in middle school—awarded the Medal of Honor by President Johnson in 1865. Great soldier. Unfortunate name.

  Bates is a narrow street that winds sinuously upward with homes appearing to lean at painful angles like crooked teeth. The street evens out at the top and comes to an abrupt dead end. There are five homes atop the bluff. Two on each side, and the Harper house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Each seemingly built in a different era.

  I park in front of my childhood home and look across the street at the Knox house. Even though I visit my dad several times a week, I do my best not to stare too long at the Knoxes’ shabby two-story. It was a second home to me before Eve died and I haven’t been inside in twenty-five years.

  Not that I didn’t try. Charlotte didn’t let anyone come inside except for my dad so he could give her updates about the case. It must have been too painful for Charlotte to have Eve’s friends come around. I wanted desperately to be able to go inside, up the stairs to sit in Eve’s room even for just a minute.

  Decades later the siding of the house is pocked, the front lawn is overgrown and the walkway that leads to the front door is split. The cheeriest bits about the whole scene are the dandelions that sway with the weight of their furry yellow heads.

  I also avoid looking at the Harpers’ house. In the years after Eve died, I would look out my bedroom and see the sprawling rambler and my face would flush with shame and hurt and regret. That faded over time, but the anger stayed. Over the years, I lost my mom, my innocence and my best friend. This stre
et has been a graveyard to me.

  I inhale deeply and step from my car. My dad is sitting in his usual spot on his front porch, his affable home health aide, Leanne, sitting next to him. “I’ll stop over in a few minutes,” I call out to him. “I have official business,” I say, pointing at the Knox house. My father looks at me blankly and continues swinging. The minute I walk away he’ll forget I was even here.

  I walk up the cracked pathway and try to look through the front windows but the drapes are pulled tight. Though we are in the throes of summer, a Christmas wreath with a limp silver bow hangs on the front door. I knock. The receptionist didn’t give me many details when I called back after missing Nola out on her vet call. I’m hoping that I can catch her here.

  I shift from foot to foot. The baby is pressing on my bladder and I already have to go the bathroom again. I knock over and over until the door finally opens a crack revealing one green eye.

  “Nola,” I say.

  “Maggie Kennedy,” she responds, not opening the door any farther.

  “It’s O’Keefe now,” I say flatly. Could Nola really be that out of touch? I’ve been married for ten years. I’m guessing she knows my new name but is choosing not to use it. I’m not sure why it bugs me, but it does. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?” I ask.

  “About what?” Nola asks. She’s not budging. I look around the neighborhood. Mrs. Harper has come out to her mailbox and is staring at us curiously. My brother has appeared on the front porch, a welder’s helmet tipped back atop his head and he and my dad are leaning against the front porch rail watching us. Colin must be taking a break from his art, I think. “Come on, Mags,” Nola says, using Eve’s nickname for me, “just tell me.”

  “Can I come in?” I ask.

  “I’ll come outside,” Nola says. As she squeezes through the small opening in the door I catch a glimpse of the living room, a slew of plastic bins and a couch piled with clothes.

  “Are you moving?” I ask in surprise.

  “No,” Nola says and quickly closes the door behind her. In front of me stands Eve’s little sister, slim but strong looking, nearly six feet tall, now a grown woman. Though her oversize eyeglasses have been replaced with a more fashionable pair, her green eyes are still as intense as I remember. Curls spring from her head in a pale yellow halo. Her lips are thin, her nose long, but over time Nola has grown into her features. Not beautiful like Eve was, but certainly attractive. Too bad her insides don’t match the outside.

  “It’s been a long time,” I say. I can’t remember the last time I was standing this close to Nola. Maybe Eve’s funeral. While everyone else was crying over Eve’s casket, Nola stood by, dry-eyed. Through the years I’ve seen her from a distance but remarkably we never ran into each other at the bank or the grocery store. Not even at the vet clinic where Shaun and I take our cats, Skunky and Ponie.

  “Has it?” Nola asks as if she hasn’t given it a thought over the years.

  “Time marches on,” I say dumbly. The afternoon sun is beating down on my scalp and I’m feeling a bit light-headed.

  “Why are you here?” Nola asks. She was never one for mincing words.

  “Is your mom home?” I ask. “I’m here to talk to both of you.”

  “She’s in the hospital,” Nola says. “Fell and broke her hip. I would have thought your dad would have told you about all the commotion over here last week.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. It doesn’t shock me that my dad didn’t tell me about Charlotte’s fall, his short-term memory being what it is. Out of sight, out of mind. “I’ll get right to it then,” I say, hating that I already sound defensive. “A new piece of evidence has been found relating to Eve’s murder.” I watch Nola’s face for a reaction and get nothing.

  “How gallant of you to deliver the news,” Nola says with a barely perceptible smile. “But you’re a bit late. I already heard about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I wanted to tell you first. I started looking for you the minute I found out about it myself.”

  “A shoe, right?” Nola asks. Normally, we wouldn’t release this information but since the Specht kid has already shown the shoe to a third of Grotto’s teen population, I don’t see the harm in confirming.

  “It was one of the boots Eve was wearing that night. Some kids were messing around in Ransom Caves and found it wedged in a crevice between two rocks,” I explain.

  “I’m surprised you even bothered to come over here,” Nola says dismissively. “I thought the police gave up on finding Eve’s killer years ago.”

  “No one ever gave up, Nola,” I say gently. “My dad never did.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Nola shoots back. “Your dad had decades to solve it and he got nowhere. What makes you think it will be any different this time?”

  “Technology. The chief thinks there’s a chance we can get some usable DNA.”

  Nola gives a derisive snort. “Really?” she asks.

  “Really,” I assure her. “The evidence will be sent off to the lab this week.”

  “Interesting,” Nola says, eyebrows arched. “My mother tried to get you people to look for new DNA years ago and got nowhere.”

  “My dad never gave up on trying to find out who killed Eve,” I say, my voice rising. “He read through the files all the time.” I thought back to the many hours my dad would sit in our wood-paneled den with boxes and file folders strewn on the floor and across his desk. If I would come into the room while he was reviewing the files, he’d quickly close the folder or cover up a photograph, but I knew it was Eve. I’m working here, he’d snap and I’d quickly retreat. Later, he’d apologize for his sharp tone.

  “A lot of good that did,” Nola sniffs.

  “I thought you’d be happy about this,” I say in exasperation. “I thought you’d be glad that we’re focusing on the case again.”

  “And you’re leading the investigation?” Nola asks, looking down at me skeptically.

  “I am,” I confirm.

  “Like father, like daughter,” Nola says. “Though I must say, you are the last person I would have expected to go into law enforcement.”

  “Oh, why is that?” I ask, my hackles raised.

  Nola shrugs. “Just that you weren’t known as much of an upstanding citizen back in the day.”

  “You can talk,” I snap. “You grew up to be a vet. With your history, no one would have ever predicted that. A taxidermist maybe, but a vet?”

  “You’re going to have a baby,” Nola says suddenly, seemingly noticing my condition for the first time. She reaches out and lays both hands on my belly. Her fingers are cold even through my shirt. Her fingernails are chewed ragged, the skin around her cuticles raw and red. I take an involuntary step backward from her touch and her hands remain outstretched, hanging in midair as if giving the baby a blessing.

  “Yes, I’m due in August.” I cross my arms over my stomach.

  “Your first?” Nola asks and I nod. “You planning on giving it a sister?” she asks.

  “Let me have this baby and then I’ll let you know.” I give a forced laugh. If Nola only knew the journey that Shaun and I had to take to get here, she wouldn’t make such an offhand comment. Except, this is Nola, so of course she would.

  “Everyone should have a sister,” Nola says and moves to go back inside the house, then stops suddenly. “Do you ever think of the night we found her?” Nola asks.

  The switch in conversation is so abrupt that it takes me a second to catch up. “Of course I do. I still have nightmares about it.”

  “You were the one who wanted to look there. At the caves,” Nola says accusingly.

  “What’s your point?” I ask. Sister of the victim or not, I am losing patience with Nola. “We looked everywhere else. It made sense.”

  “I guess I should be thankful for that,” Nola said, soundin
g anything but grateful. “If you hadn’t suggested it, we might still be looking for Eve. But your dad wasn’t able to find who killed Eve so I don’t have a lot of faith in your investigative abilities either.”

  “Yeah, well, who do you think did it then?” I ask before I can stop myself. It does no good to engage with Nola.

  She shrugs. “Based on the beating that Eve took, I’m guessing it was someone pretty angry with her. Who do you think did it?”

  “I can’t make any judgments until I see the whole picture.”

  “Judgments.” Nola laughs.

  “I have to go where the evidence leads me,” I say diplomatically.

  “Me too,” Nola says before going back inside the house and shutting the door in my face, the limp Christmas wreath swinging precariously from its nail.

  Now what the hell did that mean? I wonder. Did Nola know more about what happened to Eve than she let on? Or was she trying to mete out some kind of homespun justice? She’s done that before, just ask Nick Brady.

  I move across the street to my dad’s house. He’s still sitting on the porch but alone now. Leanne must have left for the day. Eve’s was the only case I recall my father bringing home with him. It was also the only case I remember my dad obsessing over. My dad would come home from the station and then go directly to his den and shut the door.

  He spent decades poring over the few known details of Eve’s murder over and over again. Like an archaeologist he’d carefully hold the gruesome artifacts in his hands in search of a new detail, a new angle. He’d come home from the station or materialize from his den, pinched-faced and pale. I can’t help but wonder if his memory issues are his body’s way of saying, Enough. This is too hard. It’s too much. I don’t want to remember these sad, violent things anymore.

  It didn’t help that he was trying to parent Colin and me on his own. My mom died of an aneurysm when I was nine and Colin was twelve. One day she was making breakfast for us and taking us to school and the next she dropped dead at the grocery store.