Page 24 of Count My Lies

But my real fear—even though I know it’s impossible—is that she found out what happened at Rose & Honey the other afternoon. Or worse, about what happened before I got the job, about the restraining order.

At four thirty, I can no longer stand it. It feels like I might lose my mind. I tell my mom I’m going for a walk, shoving my feet into shoes, grabbing my bag. When I push out onto the sidewalk, I have to shield my eyes. The sun is still high in the sky, the days already getting longer and warmer as summer approaches. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I feel better outside. Violet’s probably just busy, I tell myself. I almost believe it.

I decide to walk to the park, do a few laps and head home, but I don’t stop when the playground comes into view. I keep walking. I already know where I’m going before I get there.

The brownstones get bigger as I turn down the Lockharts’ street, the elm trees taller, leaves fuller, the sidewalk wider. I walk on the side opposite their house. When it comes into view, I slow, ducking my head, then stop, half-hidden behind a parked car and tree trunk. I shouldn’t be here, of course, but I have to see if Violet is home. I won’t be long, just a quick look.

Their front curtains are pushed wide open. It gives me a direct view into their living room. The sun is still bright, the interior of their house well lit.

At first, I don’t see anyone. I can see the bookshelves, the couch, the painting above it, their coffee table. Is anyone home?

And then, as if to answer my question, Violet walks into the room. I breathe in sharply, ducking back behind the tree. When I lean forward, just slightly, peering out, she’s still there, standing at the bay window. She has a phone to her ear, talking animatedly. She looks upset. Even from here, I can see her brows knit together, forehead creased. She begins to pace, her free hand rubbing her temple.

Then Harper appears through the glass, running up and throwing her arms around Violet’s waist. Violet looks down and strokes the top of her head absent-mindedly. Harper looks up, smiling, and Violet holds up a finger.Give me a minute.Harper nods and wanders off, toward the stairs.

Now she’s listening, the phone pressed to her ear, lips pressed tightly together. Did they quiver? It’s hard to tell from here. Then she swipes at her cheek with her palm. She’s crying, I think, wiping tears from her face. She nods once, sharply, her eyes fluttering closed. She stands like that, still as marble, until finally, she nods again, her eyes reopening.

She takes the phone from her ear, closing it, two halves snappingshut. For a moment, she just stares at it, her shoulders sagging, face impassive.

Suddenly, without warning, she winds her arm back and hurls the phone at the couch like a pitcher, aiming at a catcher’s mitt. Her mouth is open in a soundless scream. The phone hits the back cushion, then bounces off, out of my view. From behind the tree, I flinch.

Violet’s shoulders rise and fall as if she’s breathing heavily. I know I should leave, but I’m rooted to the ground. Who had she been talking to? What had it been about? A fight with a friend? A family member?

Then she turns her head toward the stairs as if spoken to. She rearranges her face, anger disappearing. She goes to pick up the phone, slips it into her pocket. She starts toward the stairs, disappears from view.

I wait to see if anyone reappears, but they don’t. The living room stays empty. No Violet, no Harper, no Jay. I tell myself I should get going, but one minute turns into five, five into ten, until it’s been almost an hour. The whole time I keep my phone in my hand, hoping Violet will call, but it never rings.

It’s getting dark by the time I leave, the sky shifting from a gray to a deep blue as I walk the twelve blocks home, unnerved by what I’ve seen.

My mom and I don’t say much over dinner. I know she notices my mood but doesn’t ask. Instead, she reaches over as we watch TV, and squeezes my arm every so often, never taking her eyes off the screen. She’s there if I need her, she’s saying.

After we eat, I trade my flannel and jeans for pajamas and get into bed without washing my face or brushing my teeth. I know I should do both, but I can’t muster the energy.

I reach out and flip off my bedside lamp and lie, staring at the ceiling. What had made Violet so upset? And why hasn’t she called me? Are the two related? Dejectedly, I turn onto my side. Maybe my worst fear is true: she knows what I did. She’s angry, doesn’t know how to confront me.

The darkness of my bedroom is heavy and suffocating, shadows looming large on the walls. I listen to the traffic outside, the distant honking of horns, low hum of sirens, faint voices. Eventually, my eyelids grow heavy and I begin to drift off, gratefully succumbing to sleep.

Then my phone vibrates. My eyes fly open. I jolt upright and grab it off the nightstand, my heart beating. I squint at the screen, aglow in my darkened room. It’s Violet. I hold my breath as I open the message.Hi, sorry for the late text! The day totally got away from me. Are we still on for tomorrow?

The anxiety I felt all day lifts instantly. I am lighter, brighter. All that worry for nothing. Fingers flying, I type back,No worries! Yes, I’ll be there! One?

Instantly, I see her typing, then,Let’s say twelve thirty?

I smile at the screen.See you then!

I move to put the phone down, but I hesitate. An image flashes in my mind. The way she looked through her window today, face drawn, angrily wiping tears from her cheek. I want to ask her if everything is okay, but how, unless I tell her what I saw? And I can’t admit to having been at their house this afternoon. I know how that would look. Eventually, I set my phone on my nightstand. I’ll ask her tomorrow, I decide, if she still seems upset.

I pull the covers up to my chin and close my eyes. This time, I have no trouble falling asleep.

12

At 12:25 the next day, I climb the stairs to the Lockharts’ front door. My heart is beating quickly. Starting today, I’m the Lockharts’ nanny. No longer a nail tech, but a nanny. It feels right, like I am exactly where I’m meant to be.

The front door to their brownstone is cracked open, resting against the frame. There’s muffled music coming from inside. I knock lightly, but when no one answers, I push it open and step into the entryway.

The music is coming from the kitchen. It’s blaring loudly, the sound filling the whole house. I recognize the song. I walk toward the source. “Violet?” I call out.

I enter the kitchen to see Violet on the other side of the island, dancing wildly. She’s holding a tall pepper mill as if it were a microphone, singing into it with her eyes closed. If it was anyone else—if it was me—they’d (I’d) look ridiculous. Limbs flailing like one of those inflatable tube men, bending and flopping, Elaine inSeinfeld. But Violet isn’t anyone else. She’s magnetic. I could watch her dance all day.

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