Page 73 of Count My Lies

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It’s two days before Javier comes back. Two more sleepless nights in the dank cell. It feels like my mind is unraveling. I can’t make sense of how or why I’m here.

The hours tick by. To pass the time, I replay my fight with Violet over and over again as sweat beads along my brow, gathers under my arms, the cell humid and hot.

When I first walked into the bedroom, she’d been packing. Quickly, by the look of things—clothes strewn about, dresser drawers open. She didn’t seem mad, at least, not at first. She bustled around, stuffing things into a bag. It took me a minute to realize they were my things, my bag.

Then she saw me in the doorway. There was a twitch at the corners of her mouth. “I want you out,” she said. “I saw you with Caitlin.” Her voice was as emotionless as if she were telling me we were out of milk.

It was so different from last time, from that night she’d thrown her wineglass at me, her eyes wild, face contorted into a furious snarl. No, this time, it was almost as if she was enjoying it.

What else did she say? Right.It’s exactly what I hoped for.Then the twitch at the corners of her mouth blinked into the briefest of smiles that, when it was gone, I thought I might have imagined it.

It’s exactly what I hoped for.

Why?Why?

I don’t know. The only thing I do know is that when I walked out of the house, Violet was alive. What had happened after I’d left? How had she ended up dead? The question pounds inside my skull like a drum.

Finally, when I’m on the brink of losing it altogether, a guard unlocks my cell door and takes me back to the interrogation room. Javier is waiting inside, his hands folded on the table.

I sit down in the chair across from him. He smiles at me expectantly. “Have you—?” he starts.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” I interrupt. “After I left. I swear, when I walked out, Violet was alive! Did someone come into the beach house? Is that where she was shot?”

Javier stares at me as if trying to determine whether he should answer me, as if he thinks I might be fucking with him. Then he says, “Your nanny said she heard you and Mrs. Lockhart arguing. A few minutes later, a gunshot. When she felt safe enough to come out of her room, she found Mrs. Lockhart bleeding in the master bathroom. When the police arrived, Mrs. Lockhart confirmed she had been shot by you.”

I shake my head. “There was a gunshot after we argued?”

Javier looks down at his papers. “According to Ms. Caraway. It says she told the police that—”

“Wait.” I hold up my hand. That’s the second time he’s said that name. “Who is Ms. Caraway?”

“Sloane Caraway. Your nanny.”

What the fuck?“No,” I say. “Our nanny is named Caitlin. I don’t know anyone named Sloane.”

Javier takes a photograph from his folder, slides it to me. It’s a picture of Violet and Harper on the beach with Caitlin.

“Yeah, that’s Caitlin,” I say, looking back up at him.

“She told the police her name is Sloane Caraway,” Javier says, shrugging. “I’m sure they asked for identification.”

I stare back at the photo. Sloane Caraway? Why had she told us her name was Caitlin?

“Look,” Javier says. “It’s a pretty airtight case against you. The prosecutor emailed me this morning. They found the gun that was used to shoot Mrs. Lockhart. There were no prints, but they ran the tags. It was registered in your name. I understand you don’t want to plead guilty, but that, along with Ms. Caraway’s testimony—”

“Violet’s mom gave her that gun! I’ve never touched it!” My voice is strained. “I won’t plead guilty. I can’t. I didn’t do it.”

Javier’s face tightens, his mouth puckering. He sighs. “I think that’s a mistake. Like I said in our last meeting, this might be your best chance at a reduced sentence. I know it’s not ideal, but you have to consider the alternative. If this goes to trial and you’re convicted, it could be decades before you’re released. And what about your daughter, Jay?”

My shoulders sag. Harper. My beautiful brown-eyed girl.

“Where is she?” I ask. I drop my head into my hands. “Is she okay? I need to call my sister. She’ll come out. She can stay with her.”

I haven’t spoken to Denise in months, despite the fact that she calls me every few weeks. I ignore her calls, don’t call back. I plan to, but I don’t get around to it, never quite in the mood to rebuff her requests for money. She lives in Ohio with her three kids, two stepkids,and her second husband, and is always short on funds, for rent, for groceries, for clothes for the kids. “I wish I could enroll Penny in ballet,” she’d said irritably, last time we spoke, like somehow it was my fault she couldn’t afford it.

Javier opens his manila folder, flips through it, and pulls out a typed sheet. “She’s in the custody of Ms. Caraway.”

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