Page 74 of Count My Lies

I jerk back up to look at him, frowning in confusion. “Caitlin? Why is Harper with her? She should be with family.”

“Well, it looks like Ms. Caraway”—Javier says her name slowly, emphatically, to correct me—“is listed as Harper’s guardian. In your will. Should you and Mrs. Lockhart become incapacitated.”

“What?” This doesn’t make sense. “No, no, there’s been a mistake. My sister is the designated guardian.”

It was a point of contention when Harper was born, a hard sell to both Denise and Violet. Unsurprisingly, the two didn’t like each other. Denise thought Violet was a snob; Violet thought Denise was a freeloader. Neither was wrong, exactly. But I couldn’t stomach the idea of Harper going to live with Violet’s parents, or my own, for that matter. “She should be with her cousins,” I argued to Violet, “other kids, family. And anyway, what is the likelihood of something happening to both of us?” Violet relented eventually, as did Denise, when she realized custody would come with a check. Had Violet updated our will without telling me? Why?

“Your signature is on the paperwork. Right next to Mrs. Lockhart’s.” He takes another document from his file, hands it to me, taps a finger near the bottom of the page. “It was forwarded to us by your lawyer in New York. He said you sent it to him.”

I stare at it, speechless, my name—next to Violet’s—in blue ink.

Finally, I look up, shaking my head. “I didn’t sign this! And I definitely didn’t send it to him. I don’t want her with Caitlin—or Sloane—whatever her name is! Please, let me call Denise.”

“Look,” Javier sighs. “Apparently, Ms. Caraway has a lawyer. A good one. If you want to dispute the will, we’ll have to send it through the proper channels. It could take months.” He closes the folder. “I’m happy to start that paperwork if you want.”

My head is spinning.What is happening?“Yes! Harper doesn’t belong with her!”

Javier nods. “Okay, I’ll work on that. But the plea—you’re sure?”

“How many times can I say it? I’m not going to spend fifteen years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit!” Spittle flies from my mouth, lands on the table.

Javier nods. “I understand. Let me talk to the prosecutor again. I’ll see if there’s room for negotiation.” Then he stands up. The chair legs squeal against the concrete floor. “In the meantime, try and get some rest, okay?” His voice is gentler now.

I nod dumbly, still breathing heavily. Rest, sure. I wonder if I’ll ever feel rested again.

“And Jay?” Javier puts a hand on my shoulder. When I look up at him, I can see the pity in his eyes. He thinks I’m a sad sack of shit. “I saw Harper with Ms. Caraway, leaving the station. She looked like she was in good hands. She was smiling, going to town on a big bag of M&M’S.”

In my cell, I sit with my back against the wall. It feels like I’m on the brink of a black pit, about to be swallowed whole.

I run my fingers through my hair, yanking, pulling. Why would Violet have signed over parental rights to Caitlin? Why has Caitlin been lying about her real name?

For the hundredth time, my last fight with Violet snags in my head, a broken record. Her voice echoes loudly, reverberates throughout the cell, off its concrete walls.

It’s exactly what I hoped for.

What had she meant? That shewantedme to have an affair with Caitlin? Why would she have signed custody over to a woman she’d wanted me to have an affair with?

But what had happened between Caitlin—Sloane?—and I had hardly been an affair. It was innocent, mostly—a handful of flirtatious looks, a few kisses. It was a distraction, nothing more. We both knew it. It was just that Violet had been so hot and cold the last few months, then frigid since we’d arrived at the beach, with her tight smiles, pretending to be asleep every night when I came to bed, that I’d been restless, wound tight. And Caitlin was there, waiting.

Who could blame me? I barely recognized Violet anymore. And not because she looked different, although she did. I think of the picture Javier showed me today of her and Caitlin on the beach, Harper between them. She’s gained weight in the last few weeks—heavier than I’ve ever seen her, outside of pregnancy—and her skin has worsened—zits around her chin, on her forehead. The Violet I knew, the one I’ve gone to bed with, the one I’ve brushed my teeth next to for more than ten years, was fastidious about her weight, went to painstaking lengths to keep her skin clear—nighttime serums and creams, scrubs and facials. But other things were different, too: the way she’d dressed, for one, in clothes that didn’t fit, that were ugly and worn-out. And, maybe, the biggest change of all: the way she carriedherself, like she was untouchable, like if you reached out, your fingers would pass right through her.

On the island, Violet retreated, and when she did, Caitlin took a step forward. Caitlin, with her bedroom eyes and throaty laugh. She looked at me the way Violet used to.

In some ways, actually, Caitlin reminded me of Violet. The old Violet, at least. It’s funny, now that I think of it: on the morning we left for the island, when Caitlin showed up on our doorstep, for the briefest of instances, I thought itwasViolet on the stoop. Caitlin’s hair was darker than it was the last time I saw her, and shorter, the same cut and color as Violet’s, in clothes that looked so much like what Violet would wear. She blushed when I complimented her, told me Violet had given her the shirt—the whole outfit, actually. I didn’t think much of it at the time; isn’t that what women do, share clothes, swap style tips?

But now it needles at me. Had Caitlin been jealous of Violet? Had she been dressing in Violet’s clothes, acting like her, because she wanted tobeher? I feel a thick wave of nausea roll through me. Could she have been jealous enough to murder her?

I rub my temples.No.If it was Caitlin who shot Violet, why would Violet have told the police it was me? It doesn’t make sense. I’m missing something. But what? I lie on my back, my bones jutting into the cement floor beneath me, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. I feel like the answer is just out of reach.

Eventually, I fall asleep, my eyes burning, head pounding. I toss and turn, body aching. I sleep dreamlessly.

Then, in the middle of the night, I sit up. My eyes fly open, a cold sweat drenching my shirt.

Javier said that Caitlin had overheard us arguing. But she hadn’t been home. I brushed by her on my way out; she was coming in.

So how would Caitlin have known we’d been fighting? Unless the person who told the cops about the argument wasn’t Caitlin. The truth slams into me like a freight train.

Caitlin didn’t shoot Violet. Violet shot Caitlin. She shot Caitlin and told everyone that Caitlin was her, that it was Violet Lockhart lying on that floor. And that I was the one who killed her.

---