Page 39 of Everyone Is Lying to You

“Of course you do. I just finished reading your piece. You have an agenda there, but I see what you’re doing, Drew.” It’s his old nickname for me. As in Nancy Drew. He first encountered the series of books on a hiking trip we took in Scotland of all places. We made our way up and down the hills of the Highlands all day and then settled in for the night in a small stone cottage called a bothy that was outfitted with two sleeping platforms, a human-sized fireplace, and three yellow hardcover Nancy Drews that some other American tourist had left, probably one with a teenage daughter. Peter was so spooked about sleeping in the bothy, which he insisted was haunted with the ghost of a dead prince, that he made his way through all three young adult novels. Ever since then he’s called me Drew when he sees me get deep into a story. It’s been years since he called me that. It’s been years since I did actual reporting.

When I switched over to the mommy track atModern Womanfrom the news magazine, I went from political hush-money stories to listicles about “Skin-Softening Shower Lotions That Will Change Your Life!”

I miss the chase. I want more of it.

“Yeah, I want to, but what about the kids?”

“What about them? I’m unemployed. Let’s not forget it. Put me to work. And besides. We’re supposed to head to the Outer Banks to meet your mom and Robbie on Saturday. I can go early with them. They can help with the kids. I know you didn’t want to go anyway.”

“She ismymother.”

“She does like me better.”

Score another one for Peter. Mom and her girlfriend have a beach house in North Carolina and always invite all of us to come for a couple of weeks. I am not a beach person. I much prefer mountains or lakes that won’t leave sand in all my cracks and crevices, which are only getting deeper and deeper every year. I like vacationing at the ocean for the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours. By then I’m sunburnt and itchy and completely over trying to save a child from drowning themselves in the ocean or swallowing all of the sand.

“Really?”

“Yes. Take your time. The Sandy Bottoms will miss you.”

Everyone in North Carolina has chosen the most inappropriate names for their second homes, my mother included. My own backside itches every time I arrive.

“Can I talk to the kids?”

“Nora is very busy covering the baby in Nutella. I don’t want to disrupt their bonhomie. I know it’s past their bedtime but I’m hoping they’ll sleep in tomorrow.”

“Fair. But they won’t. I love you.”

“I love you, Drew. Go do your thing.”

Marriage can be a wonderful thing and also a terrible thing. Much like parenting small children. Terrible and great. Terrible and great. You have no idea which it will be on any given day.

Except when you do, I suppose. Except when a marriage is toxic, and you feel trapped. My mind returns to Bex. As much as I can’t stand my own spouse sometimes, I have never once feared him, and even though I shouldn’t have to count myself lucky, I do. Plenty of women live in terror of the man who sleeps in their bed.

That reminds me…Marsden’s statement? I pop in my earbuds again.

It’s a video taken in his home. He’s sitting next to Veronica, his large pitching hand enveloping the top of her thigh over yet another retro dress, this one covered in fat ripe lemons. Her expression doesn’t change. Her eyes stare vacantly into the camera as he speaks. She’s like a robot that has been powered down.

“I’m devastated,” Marsden begins. “I loved Grayson Sommers like a brother. We met on the ball field in Little League and we’ve been inseparable ever since. My entire family has been deep in prayer since yesterday and we will continue to beg the Lord Almighty for justice to be served. May we all remember Grayson as a man of noble character, honor, and bravery.”

That was laying it on a bit thick. The man had run a hobby ranch, not led an army into battle.

“He was my friend, and he will be sorely missed. For now, we will do everything in our power to find his killer, to bring them to justice. We will not let this stand.” He bows his head in prayer. Veronica misses a beat, but then she does the same. My eyesmove to his hand on her thigh. No one would notice unless they were looking for it, but his knuckles are white. They’re squeezing. Hard.

I go back inside, sit down, order a drink and an appetizer. I’m not paying attention when the waiter refills my glass of wine. I’m too engrossed in the screen, but when I finally turn my attention to the beverage, I see it. A pink sachet, the same pale pink as the envelope that was given to me at the front desk. My skin prickles with cold sweat as I glance around, vision blurring slightly at the edges. Which waiter brought the wine? Did they drop off the little pouch or was it one of the women shuffling in and out of the room, their eyes locked on the screens of their phones? I can’t tell. My eyes scan the crowd for her, for Bex. The thought of her being so near fills me with both alarm and hope.

I slip the pouch in my pocket and walk back outside. I want to be alone when I see what has been left for me.

When I open it, a folded slip of paper falls into my hand along with two keys. On the paper is an address, a gate code, and the hastily scrawled wordsnext to the bed. I know without any more explanation that someone is helping me get into the Sommers ranch.

Chapter Eleven

Rebecca

When Gray and I first got together we’d play a game before we went to bed. We’d lay there in a tangle of limbs, giddy with the newness of being with each other, and ask questions until we fell asleep. Big and small. What’s your favorite color? Do you like mushrooms? What sport are you best at? What does forgiveness mean to you? Do you believe in God? Do you think God believes in you?

Grayson was a true believer in God. That was clear from the very beginning. His relationship with Jesus and the church was intense, but for some reason it didn’t freak me out. He was introspective when it came to religion and spirituality. He questioned things and was genuinely curious. He talked about Jesus as a friend, a confidant. It felt so intimate and loving. I wanted some of what he had—the conviction, a place to turn when I needed hope—and wanted it to be contagious.

His childhood running around the ranch with his sevensiblings sounded so idyllic and he positively worshipped his mother. When we talked about my childhood, I inevitably clammed up. Our lives were hard, but Mom and I tried to make the best of it. I didn’t want to just come out and tell him that she worked until she died, literally dropped dead of a heart attack right in the feminine products section of Walmart.

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