Page 46 of Everyone Is Lying to You
I obviously can’t talk.
When did you see Rebecca to get keys to her house?
I didn’t. She left me keys at the hotel. Or at least I think it was her.
A door slams downstairs. There’s no more time for small talk with Olivia.
I press my back against the cool porcelain of the bathtub, my breath heaving in shallow gasps. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, echo down below. They move from room to room, methodically searching for something. Doors and drawers are opened and closed. The air chokes in my throat as the footsteps approach the staircase.
I’m coming out there. It will take me an hour, but I’m coming. Get the hell out of that house and meet me at the front gate
I can’t even make my fingers move to respond.
A creak on the stairs. They’re coming up. I drop the phone into my bag and clutch the edge of the bathtub to push myself to stand. This massive window opens outward and there’s no screen. We’re above the garage so I could theoretically climb out and then try to find a way down. It seems almost too easy, but then it always seems too easy when someone just climbs out a window in a horror movie right when the ax murderer walks into the room. What if I get out there and there’s no way off the garage roof? Also, I’m an uncoordinated, out-of-shape mother of two small children with no core muscles or pelvic floor. I’m not a ninja or a cat burglar.
I strain my ears to hear whether the footsteps are getting closer. Have they stopped? Are they listening to me? For me? Am I the reason they’re here searching this house?
The bedroom door opens. They’re just a wall away. I’m screwed. This is it. I hear the opening and closing of drawers. They’re doing exactly what I just did, maybe looking for the same things. Maybe looking for evidence.
I hear the rustle of sheets. Are they climbing into the bed? No. Something hits the floor, knees maybe. There’s a soft shuffling of someone crawling. They must be checking under the bed, a place I didn’t think to look. I hold my breath for all the good that will do. Moments later I hear the footsteps again. Closer and closer. They’re turning the knob, but it’s locked. They jiggle it harder and harder.
As I inspect the window, my bag slips from my shoulder, all the contents clattering onto the bottom of the tub.
The jiggling stops. They’re listening to me. Despair tugs at my gut and my limbs turn to liquid.
As I clumsily stuff everything back in, something flutters from inside the pages of one of the books. Two things. Polaroid pictures. They land close to the drain and I grab them and stuff them in my bag without pausing to see the images. I push open the window as slowly as I can, but it creaks anyway.
Someone bangs on the door, but they say nothing. What will it take to break it down?
Get the fuck out of the window, Lizzie. I push myself and go headfirst through the frame, sort of crawling, sort of scrambling. I get stuck midway through, trying to hoist the lower part of my body up. This is so much more difficult than it looks in movies and Ihate myself for even trying it, but there’s no turning back now. I’m committed. I finally make it onto the roof. My brain spins as I pull myself into a crouch and look out over the horizon. I stay in that position, slowly inching toward the edge, keeping all four limbs firmly attached to the slate at all times. I pretend I’m a praying mantis in one of those nature shows my kids love to watch.
Nearby, a sturdy-looking trellis leans against the side of the house, its wooden frame weathered but still intact. I carefully maneuver toward it, testing its strength with a firm tug. Satisfied, I grip the rungs tightly and begin to descend, using the crossbars and thick vines for support.
The trellis groans softly under my weight but holds steady as I descend step by step. I keep my movements slow and deliberate, ensuring my footing on each rung and avoiding any sudden shifts that could dislodge the structure.
I reach the ground with a soft thud and land relieved and grateful.
I glance at the front door. It’s slightly ajar, but I don’t see anyone. I stare at the pickup truck and have the briefest moment of clarity. I whip out my cell phone and take a picture of the license plate. There’s no reason to hesitate even a moment longer. I break out into a run for the car. I haven’t run in about ten years and even then I was a half-hearted jogger at best. Adrenaline and terror both help, but by the time I make it to the rental car my chest is heaving. There’s a fire in my lungs and a stitch in my side that feels like I’m being stabbed. I look up at the house in the distance and swear I see a face in the bathroom window I just climbed out of, but it has to be my mind playing tricks on me. It’s too far for me to see anything. I’m paranoid.
I get behind the wheel and peel out toward the back entrance to the ranch. This car doesn’t have four-wheel drive and it hates the speed I’m using. I hit something large and possibly sharp. I keep going, not worrying if it pierced the tire. With the gate in sight, I slam on the brakes and rush out, punching in the numbers. It beeps angrily back at me. Someone has changed the code. I’m trapped.
I try again. My fingers don’t work. They’re made of jelly. Maybe I’ve done it wrong. Do I hear an engine behind me?
The gate is once again pissed at me. I know my keypad at home locks you out for at least twenty minutes after three wrong tries. I can’t fuck this up. I pull in a deep breath and concentrate. Alice’s birthday. One number at a time, Lizzie.Go slow. Be deliberate.
The creak of the gate opening is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. I say a prayer to a god I haven’t thought about since childhood and get back into the car and check the rearview mirror. No one is behind me. I’ve made it out.
I drive like the intruder I am, like someone who has just done something very wrong. I don’t slow down until I’ve made it onto the properly paved road, and even then I go down to about five miles above the speed limit because the last thing I want is to get pulled over. My lungs still burn. I cough and can’t stop coughing from all the dust I swallowed while I was running. I desperately need water and pull into the first gas station I see.
My wallet is drowning in junk at the bottom of my tote bag, and I fumble around for it. I haven’t looked at my phone or responded to Olivia since I was in the house, and when I tap it, I see it’s dead, and of course I haven’t brought a charger.
My fingers brush the photographs next, and I pull them out to examine them. At first, I’m not sure exactly what I’m lookingat but I recoil anyway. It takes a few moments for my mind to make sense of the two pictures together and once I do I know without a doubt they were meant for me to find. There’s a reason they were in that particular book, my book.
I can’t believe she still has this book. But my inscription to her is right there.
I hope you love this adventure as much as I do. Love you like a sister. Lizzie
It’s a copy ofWest with the Night,which was one of my favorite books as a teenager. I happened on it at the library in high school. I loved it so much I never returned it and this is my copy from the Bucks County Free Library. The stamp is still right there in the back. I adored the biography of the first person to fly solo across the Atlantic from east to west because I loved the idea of a woman breaking all the rules of society and learning to fly a plane. I devoured Beryl Markham’s sense of adventure and the freedom she gained as a pilot. I wanted to be her, and I knew Bex would feel the same way. I gave it to Bex on her twenty-first birthday. She finished it in one night and tried to give it back to me but I made her keep it because I loved that she loved it. That seemed to prove something about our friendship to me, that I had chosen her wisely.
