Page 31 of Everyone Is Lying to You

We can’t afford that, but I like that he pretends we can. “I know you will. And I love you too,” I say, grateful for this man who has never once told me I couldn’t do something or pressured me to be anything other than myself. I’m lucky. I know that.

There are several shiny black town cars in front of the hotel with black-clad security guards at the ready waiting outside them, as well as a number of television news vans with satellites on the tops of them. A scrum of reporters is roped off about twenty feet from the main entrance, a pen of wolves. I know those pens well. I’ve spent days inside of them. I have to hand it to this hotel and probably the conference. They’ve mobilized quickly to lock this place down and keep the reporters on the outside. Which means I might be the only press on the inside. I try to ignore that familiar tingle of excitement at being the first to crack a story because this time I’m part of the story. It’s a feeling that I’ve missed desperately without even knowing it.

I can’t put on my sunglasses as a disguise since it’s so dark, but I’ve got the tattered Phillies hat I wore on the plane ride out here to cover my greasy head and I can pull the brim low over my face. I’m still wearing the ridiculous dress I put on this morning, and the lace has given me a rash on my neck and wrists.

The journalists bombard me with questions as I approach the property. “Were you at MomBomb? Do you know Rebecca Sommers?” I am certain that all these people know Lizzie Matthews was with Rebecca last night since Bex tagged me in that lastInstagram post, but I don’t think they know it’s me right now. I’m mostly a ghost online. I don’t have a bunch of pictures of myself on Instagram. My headshot on the magazine’s website is probably five years old. I keep moving as quickly as I can. The lobby is more of a safe space, at least from the press. But plenty of women from the conference are still here. They probably flew in from all over the country and aren’t scheduled to fly home for days. Perhaps, like me, they long to be safe from the questions of the outside world, or more likely, they’re seduced by the proximity to drama.

“It’s her,” I hear one of them whisper loudly, but I don’t break my stride as I shuffle toward the elevators.

Once inside I realize I need the room key to get up to my floor. I rustle around in my purse, but it’s not in there. Shit. It must have fallen out in the car when I grabbed my phone. I’ll have to go back out and get one from the front desk. My hunched shoulders and quick shuffle clearly convey I don’t want to talk to anyone and thankfully everyone keeps their distance. When I get to the front desk, I request a new key and the clerk behind the counter types something into the computer and then takes a beat to read whatever is written there. Maybe they want me out of here. Maybe they don’t want such a close witness in this case in their hotel.

Or who knows, maybe they want the attention. All press can be good press.

I look up and the expression on the woman’s face is nothing but kind and accommodating and I hate that I now suspect everyone of something nefarious.

“Here’s your key, Ms. Matthews.” She slides the glossy blackcard my way. “And according to our system it looks like we have a message for you.”

“Oh?” I’m genuinely surprised.

“Hold on one second. I’ll run into the office and grab it.”

My breath hitches with anticipation, though I know it’s probably from Alana. When I didn’t respond to emails, calls, or texts, she got old-fashioned and likely faxed over a list of questions she wants me to answer ASAP. If I don’t call soon, she’ll be on the next plane here and then I’ll really be in a dumpster fire.

The clerk returns with a small envelope, the paper the palest shade of pink possible. The stationery is expensive and heavy in my hands. “Thank you,” I say, knowing I’m being watched by everyone in the room.

I make it to the elevator and use my new card to get to my floor. I somehow manage to make it all the way into my suite before I rip open the envelope and yank out the note card inside.

The paper is the same color and weight as the envelope. It smells vaguely of lemons and basil. There are only two lines written on it, but I read them over and over again until the words blur.

I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.

Chapter Ten

Lizzie

Alana wants everything. She wants photos and first-person interviews with MomBomb attendees. She wants all the details about the last night I spent with Bex. She wants to know our entire history together. She wants me to live stream everything from theModern Womanaccounts if possible. I tried to tell her that I’m a witness, or something. That I’m whatever you call it when the police bring you in for questioning, that I don’t know if I can share anything.

Alana was undeterred. She got on the phone to the magazine’s general counsel, who confirmed that if I haven’t signed anything, I can share whatever I want with whomever I want whenever I want.

Legal advice aside, it feels wrong.

Alana is a lot of things, but she didn’t get to be as successful as she is today by not knowing how to read people. She turned on the empathy when we spoke, said she couldn’t imagine whatI was going through, asked what I needed, how she could support me. And only then did she ask for all the reporting.

The most successful hunters are always the ones who make sure their prey are comfortable and unaware before going in for the kill. Alana and Bex might have that in common. I promised my boss two stories. The first is due in an hour.

I sit down at the computer as the sun comes up and decide I have to lie in this piece, or at the very least bend the truth. I will do most of what Alana asks because we need my salary and my generous benefits. But this is different than being a fly on the wall at the Golden Globes or sitting in the audience during a murder trial. This is my life and our shared history. Only yesterday I was bemoaning how I could possibly create content out of my own life. And now someone is begging me to.

The note that Bex left me is on my bedside table and it was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes after a fitful couple of hours of sleep. I’ve brewed myself a cup of coffee from the very complicated Nespresso machine. There should be a German word for the intense confusion one feels in the face of new hotel appliances and lighting options.

Despite what the note says, I don’t believe Bex. I don’t know who or what to believe. I don’t know when she’ll be in touch again, but I think I have a plan tomakeher get in touch with me faster and it involves writing this article and getting it up onModern Womanas quickly as possible.

Adrenaline has kicked in. I’ll write just enough about reuniting with Bex to make Alana happy. I’ll write the things that will hopefully make Bex reach out.

Her note feels like a desperate plea, but she’s also morecalculated than I ever took her for. And let’s not forget she may also be a murderer. I can’t stop thinking about her kids. Where are they? Grayson’s parents have finally talked to the press. They’re pleading for information about their grandchildren. How do six kids disappear without a trace? One of them is a toddler who is still breastfeeding. It seems impossible in this day and age that anyone could disappear. And more important, are the children safe if Bex is with them and she’s unhinged and dangerous?

I keep thinking of this terrible story we reported at the magazine about two years ago that was so popular it was also turned into a podcast. A Hollywood producer bought the television rights too. I think Emma Stone is slated to star in it next year. At first I was excited to be assigned as the lead editor on such a big project, but it quickly overwhelmed me and put me into a dark place.

The story was about a mom who killed her seven children by driving them all off a hundred-foot cliff into the Pacific Ocean. All of the kids had been given near fatal doses of Valium and Benadryl and were most likely sound asleep at the time of the crash, which was the smallest of consolations.

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