Page 45 of Everyone Is Lying to You

Have the police been back here? Did they also obtain a key to this shadow house? I imagine they’ve already searched the entire property. Yet, I see no signs of police activity, or that anything has been disturbed since Bex left to go to the conference.

Where the fuck are her kids?I wonder over and over again. It doesn’t look like they took off in a hurry and I can’t see any signs of a struggle. It’s everyday normal-person cluttered in here, but not someone-just-kidnapped-six-people messy. I make my wayup a set of stairs into another part of the house that I’ve never seen on Bex’s Instagram. I peek behind every door. Mostly kids’ rooms, one with cribs, one with a bunk bed. The shadow house must have other kid rooms that aren’t actually slept in. Toys and books have been left out in these rooms. Inside one is a Casio keyboard and a double bed perfect for a twelve-year-old. This one must be Alice’s room. That’s the only one I walk into. There are unicorn stuffies on the bed, American Girl dolls primly lined up on the shelves, and framed pictures on the dresser. Alice holding one of her baby siblings, Alice and Bex in matching dresses. Alice on a stage at a piano recital. Gray isn’t in any of these pictures. I had long wondered if he was the one taking them, all of the Bex photos and videos and all of the home-birth shots.

Now I know that was probably relegated to a professional photographer or videographer whose job was to make it look like everything was shot in the moment. I pick up the image of Bex and Alice. Their arms are wrapped around each other, and their smiles are wide. Nothing about it looks or feels staged. There’s a genuine love there. I know it.

Bex would not put her kids in danger. Maybe that’s one of the things she wants me to see here, to feel here. I put the photo down and move on. At the end of this hallway is Bex and Grayson’s bedroom. It’s neater than the kids’ rooms, but still not perfect. The bed is made, which doesn’t surprise me. Bex has always been a religious bed maker, even in college, when no one made their loft beds for an entire semester.

There’s a fancy Peloton even though I know there’s a complete home gym elsewhere on the property. I’ve seen videos of Gray and Bex working out together in there. At one point shesold a course on couples’ core tightening. A chair in the corner has clothes thrown on top of it just like every other chair in every other bedroom all over the world.

I look at it all carefully, the wide-plank oak floors, the overabundance of throw pillows on the bed.

This is probably her most personal space in the house. But I also have no idea what I’m searching for. I open the top drawer of her dresser and find your standard lingerie drawer. Everything in here is nude colored and exactly the same. Same flesh-colored bras and briefs. All of them utilitarian looking, which makes sense for life on a farm, but also reminds me that Bex was the person who first introduced me to what she referred to as “butt floss” in college. She once bought me a variety pack of thongs in every color of the rainbow. I still had one left until I had Ollie. The floss snapped unceremoniously the last time I tried to put it on. I don’t want to rummage through her underwear. That seems a step beyond. In the back of the drawer, I see a small pearly pink case that I recognize from a similar one inside my own underwear drawer. A teeny-tiny discreet vibrator that I was convinced to buy on Instagram with an ad that gussied up masturbation as self-care. I wonder if Bex was influenced by the same one. Can an influencer still be influenced? I shut the drawer and turn to face the bed.

Those were my instructions.Next to the bed.

As I drift toward it, I hear a door creak open downstairs. Shit. I pause and listen hard because maybe I was mistaken about the sound, but no, there’s a loud slam and heavy footsteps. Could be the cops, could be a farmworker. Could be anyone, really. Am I the only one Bex has left notes and keys for? Is this all some kind of sick scavenger hunt?

I glance one more time at the bedside table as I try to figure out where to go. The book on it. It’s so familiar. Damn it! It’s mine. It’s the book I gave her! I know it is.

She kept it all these years. But why? And why is she reading it now? I grab it and the second book beneath it. I don’t know why I want these things, but I do. They called to me somehow. Knowing what she’s reading feels like a way to get into her head. We used to trade books back and forth every single week, devouring them the way most of the other students devoured movies and dumb TV shows. We had our own private book club of two and it felt like a special secret thing just for us. I put the books in my bag and duck into the en suite bathroom in case I need to hide from whoever is in the house. I lock the door behind me. The countertop is littered with skincare products, pill bottles, and even toothpaste stains. There’s a massive claw-foot tub in the corner with a white linen shower curtain surrounding it. I climb inside and pull the curtain closed, my heart beating in the back of my throat. But as hard as I listen, I can’t hear anything outside of this room. There’s a window behind the tub. Having a beautiful view from the bath and shower has always felt like the epitome of luxury to me. I once stayed at a hotel in Paris on an assignment and the bathroom had a view of the Eiffel Tower that I still dream about. We have a window in the shower of our suburban house, but it looks out over the trash cans in our driveway and part of Marvin’s backyard, which is more sad than luxurious.

This window looks out on the wide expanse of the ranch. I squint into the sun to see if there are any more vehicles on the property. A massive pickup truck is now in the main driveway, one of those trucks that is almost too big to be functional, the kind youhear about running over kids because the tires are literally taller than a six-year-old. I hear another door slam downstairs. The truck’s owner is in the house banging around. I pull out my phone and think about who I should text because right now no one knows I’m here and if I went missing no one would know where to look for me. There’s only one person any of this would make sense to.

I’m in your house and I’m not alone.

Bex’s phone has been going straight to voicemail and for all I know it’s on the bottom of a lake somewhere, but I need there to be proof that I was here. I can’t text Peter. The way I ended up in this bathtub on a ranch in the middle of nowhere is too confusing and he’ll call me and freak out when I don’t answer and then call the police because that’s exactly what a rational husband would do. Who else can I text?

There is one other person.

I open my email app and scroll through to Olivia’s last message, containing the information about Bex’s deal. In her signature is a cell number. I have no idea if it will go to her or to a stable of assistants, but I have to try.

I’m in Rebecca’s house and someone just came in.

I see the three dots. I see them deciding to write back.

Is it Rebecca?

It’s a man, I think.

Is it Gray? lol

Olivia has a dark-ass sense of humor.

They’re driving a massive white pickup truck. Sound familiar?

No

More dots.

Where are you in the house?

In her bedroom, hiding in the bathtub.

Do you want me to call the police? Because they may also arrest you for trespassing

She gave me the keys.

My phone rings and I quickly push it to voicemail.

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