Page 30 of Everyone Is Lying to You

“What the hell, Lizzie? Where have you been? What’s going on? Why didn’t you call me back? I’ve been worried sick.” My husband’s voice, even erratic like this, calms me slightly, and some of the tension melts out of my shoulders. He is real.

“The police station,” I say, like he should have known.

“Oh, honey. What happened? What do you need? How can I help?” I only just realize that I hadn’t texted him. I’d completely forgotten, or rather I had the thought to text him and then just didn’t do it, a thing that happens almost every day. I am constantly texting him only in my mind.

“Where should I start?” The tears come, fat and salty. I miss Peter. I miss life the way it was twenty-four hours ago. I want him here now to hold me and then drive back to the hotel and get me safely into bed. Nothing here feels safe. I spent last nightwith a potential murderer and I had no idea. I shouldn’t be so surprised by this sudden wave of emotions. I’m gutted. I was used as a pawn by someone I didn’t think had the ability to hurt me anymore.

I fill Peter in as best I can through my sobs.

“Do you think she did it?” My rational and highly analytical reporter husband will always get straight to the point. No bullshit.

“Yes.” I choke back another cry. “No. I have no idea. She was unhappy. I can tell you that. Deeply, deeply unhappy despite what she’s posted on social media all these years. It sounds like Grayson was awful to her. It was all a lie.”

“You need to come home.”

“The officers asked me to stay in case they had more questions.”

“I don’t think they can make you do that. Do you need a lawyer?”

“No. Why would I?”

“I actually have no idea. I’ve never gone through something like this.”

“Me neither. But no. I don’t think I do. I told the police the truth. This isn’t about me. I barely knew her.” That is the truth. I knew Bex. I barely knew Rebecca Sommers. In fact, I didn’t know her at all.

“I know. I know. Okay. Do you want me to fly out there?”

Yes. I want that desperately, but I’m also a grown woman who can take care of herself, and right now our kids need him more than I do.

“No. I can do this on my own. I’ll talk to them again tomorrow if I have to and then rest up and come back.”

“Do you think Alana will be okay with that?”

Alana is my boss, my editor. Ten years my junior and a rising star in tech, she took overModern Womanwhen the venture money poured in to save it.

“Alana? Why would she care if I stay here or not?”

“Shit, Liz.Modern Womanis all over this story. Have you not talked to Alana yet?”

“No, I called you first. What do you mean?”

“When I read about what happened and I couldn’t get in touch with you I went to theModern Womanwebsite, and they have a picture from Rebecca’s Instagram on their homepage. It’s of her feet. So strange. But the caption announces their editor is on the ground and covering this breaking story.”

“No. No.” I shake my head. And then I look at my stream of text messages from Alana and from David, our photo editor, sent hours ago. They’re desperate for information.

“I can’t.”

“Tell them that.”

“I don’t think I can do that either. My job is hanging on by a thread.” I haven’t said this out loud before. “All of our jobs are. The magazine is.”

“It’s late here. You don’t need to call her back right away.” But I know I do. Alana doesn’t sleep. She’s a machine and she’s singularly focused on the traffic we so desperately need to stay afloat. “Fuck,” I whisper.

“Don’t call her. Get some sleep.”

“Okay,” I say, though I know I’ll call. I’m a good soldier. But not until I get back to my room, not until I take a shower and scrub my body raw with the fancy hotel soap to get rid of thesmell of police station—a mix of stale coffee, cigarette smoke, and recycled air.

“I love you, darling. And I’ll get on a flight within the hour if you need me.”

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