Page 69 of Count My Lies

I can’t help but laugh, a short bark. “You think this is because I’m jealous?” I shake my head. “No, I’m not jealous. That’s not why.”

She sighs. Then, gently, “He told me everything, Violet. He told me he was leaving you and that you weren’t taking it well—”

“He’s lying,” I interrupt sharply. “You think you know him, but you don’t. He’s a liar. Just like you,Sloane.”

When I say her name—her real name—her face changes. She swallows hard, opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

I give her a small, rueful smile. “We’ve all been lying to each other, haven’t we?”

Finally, her voice strained, she asks, “How long have you known?”

“Since the beginning.”

She presses her lips together tightly. Her eyes fill with tears. She looks like a wounded puppy. I feel nauseous. I swallow the sour spit at the back of my throat.Think of Harper, I tell myself.This is for her.

“But—” Her voice shakes. “Why are you going to kill me? If you’re not jealous?”

“I’m not killing you,” I say. “Look in the mirror,Violet. I’m killingme.”

Sloane stares at me, not understanding, her face contorted in confusion. Then her eyes widen with the dawning realization. Slowly, she raises her hand to her mouth, covering it in horror.

“Well, technically, Jay is going to kill you,” I continue. “At least, that’s what I’ll tell the police.”

I feel a sharp pang in my gut. The truth is, I wish I didn’t have to kill her. I wish I could have aimed the pistol at Jay’s chest, blown a hole right where his heart should have been. I thought about it. And thought about it and thought about it. I wanted to kill him, wanted to with every fiber of my being, but it would be too risky. If I wascaught—I’d be the prime suspect, probably the only suspect—I’d lose everything. Everything Jay was already threatening to take.

Then I met Allison. And she told me about Sloane. It gave me an idea. What if, instead of me killing Jay, Jay killed me? What if people thought I was dead and he’d done it? Then when I took Harper, no one could question it; she’d be in the loving, legal care of our trusted nanny. And Jay would be in jail, where he belonged.

But for it to work, I needed a body. I needed Sloane. If I could get her to dress like me, look like me, act like me, then, well, when police arrived on the scene and I told them itwasme, there’d be no reason for them to believe it wasn’t. Violet Lockhart would be dead, and Jay Lockhart would be the one who had done it. At least that’s who I’d point my finger at.

It would be my picture on Sloane’s driver’s license. And then there are all the pictures I’ve taken of Harper and Sloane together, pictures I’ll show the police. If they take the photos to Anne-Marie, she’ll point to Sloane and say,Yes, that’s Violet Lockhart. It sounds simple, and it is. Because it’s always the husband, even when it’s not. What would there be to refute? There would be a body and a motive. They’d find out about the life insurance policy and how it is null and void in the event of a divorce, then find the divorce papers I set out on the dresser. Case open and shut.

Jay would go to jail, and I’d leave with Harper. Thanks to the updated will, Sloane Caraway is the named guardian. From Sloane’s phone, I’d text her mother, let her know what had happened to Violet Lockhart, that Sloane would be taking Harper back to the West Coast. Maybe I’d FaceTime her a few times—her mom’s vision and hearing are starting to go—just long enough for her to think Sloane is all right. She’s unlikely to pose any real threat, even if she suspects something.Sloane said she’s housebound; there’s not much she can do from an armchair. Then we’d go away, maybe back to California, maybe to the Pacific Northwest, a little town in Oregon.

“Please,” Sloane whimpers, voice muffled from behind her hand, breaking. She’s scared, so scared. “Please don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. And really, I am. I don’t want to, but I have to. The pain in my stomach is throbbing. “There isn’t any other way.”

My finger hooks around the trigger. I raise the gun.

Sloane begins to back up, legs quaking beneath her, arms outstretched as if to shield herself. There’s terror in her eyes.

I feel like I’m floating above myself. Blood rushes in my ears. I see her mouth moving, but I can’t hear anything but static.

She turns to run.Now. Now, Violet, now. For Harper.

I close my eyes and squeeze. The gunshot is deafening, sharp, like the crack of a whip, but louder, my ears ringing, aching.

When I open my eyes, Sloane’s body is on the floor.

The gun clatters to the tile. I fall to my knees.

JAY

30

She saidwhat?” I ask. I raise an eyebrow in surprise. In the distance, the faint wail of sirens.

Anne-Marie grins cheekily, then shrugs, brushing a strand of her blonde hair from her eyes. “She said you were coming on to her.”

---