Page 24 of The Liar I Married
“That can’t happen, not yet.” John drops my hands. “Not until I’m sure you’re fully recovered. I can’t care for you while I’m working. It’s best that you’re here with Dolly.”
I want to get angry and slap his face but he looks so tragic. He just doesn’t understand. “I don’t want to be here with Dolly.She won’t tell me anything. She doesn’t discuss anything with me apart from what I like to eat. Every time I bring up the girls, she changes the subject just like you do. Why won’t you tell me about the girls?”
“It’s complicated.” John stares at the thick plush carpet as if unable to meet my scrutiny. “Your exact memory of what happened that night right up until the wreck is crucial to what happens next.” He lifts his gaze slowly. “It’s not just me and the doctors who need to know what happened. The cops are involved and it’s taken moving you here in secrecy to keep them off your back. The doctor is protecting you to some degree but it won’t last forever. Once they know you’ve regained consciousness, they’ll be here on the doorstep, demanding details, which you obviously can’t give them.”
I stare at him. “The cops are involved? I hadn’t been drinking. It was just an accident.” I grip his arm and squeeze hard, my nails pressing into the skin beneath his shirt. “Why is that? Did I kill someone?”
My head spins at the implications. Did I kill my girls? Is that why nobody will talk about them? A pain stabs at my head like a strike of lightning as a flashback penetrates my mind. I’m suddenly there inside my shiny bright red SUV. I’m trembling with anger and the vehicle is weaving across the road. Someone is shouting at me and I’m screaming back at them. A hand closes around the steering wheel and aims me at a tree. I’m fighting to gain control but it’s useless. I’m living my nightmare.
“Jessie.” John is shaking me. “Jessie, what’s wrong? Do you remember something?”
I taste blood in my mouth as I open my eyes. My lip is sore from biting it. Someone was in the car with me and caused the accident. Who was it? I look into John’s expression of concern and shake my head. I don’t trust him. Is he worried about me remembering who was in the vehicle? What if it was him? Whythe big cover-up? Did he try to kill me? The reason he flicked the switch on my ventilator suddenly made sense: His affair with Ms. Lawson, and my massive inheritance. He is unaware that I changed my will, and he’d assume the old wills we made together still stand and as my husband my estate would go to him. Everything points to him wanting to get his hands on my money.
I massage my temple willing the scene in my head to return. I need to concentrate on the hand clamped on the wheel but the memory fades as fast as it arrived. I look at John. He claims he wasn’t with me that night. Is he lying? “I’m sorry. I get sharp pains in my head but they pass quickly. I’m fine. Now tell me why the cops are involved.”
“I’m not allowed to discuss anything about that night, Jessie. Including what the cops want to speak to you about.” John blows out a breath in frustration and runs a hand down his face. “I blame myself for the accident. I did something stupid—I know that now.” A sound like a wounded animal escapes his lips. “When the doctors couldn’t discover any reason why you were in a coma and said it was as if you’d given up the will to live, I went ballistic.”
I reach for my coffee and sip the lukewarm brew. “I’m not surprised. Everything that was going on in the months before the wreck was traumatic. I remember most of it. You not coming home for days on end, and flaunting Ms. Lawson in my face.”
“How could you say such a thing?” John leans back in his chair and his expression hardens. “Rebecca is my lawyer. I need her at the meetings when I make deals with clients. Taking responsibility for people’s investments in the market has legal ramifications.” He shakes his head. “You’ve always had it in for her, haven’t you? Maybe if you tried to get to know her, you will see she is no threat to you.”
I shake my head and tears sting my eyes. “I’ve seen the way you look at her and the way you talk to her, I’m not stupid or blind.”
“Jessie, please, you need to believe me; there’s nothing going on between us.” John grabs my hands. “I’ve never been unfaithful to you.”
Lies pour from his mouth and I drag my hands away from him and wrap my arms around my chest. My cheeks are wet with tears and I try desperately to hold back the sobs threatening to break free. “So many things have happened between us. How do you expect me to believe you anymore? Everything that comes from your lips sounds like a lie.”
“I know things have been difficult, Jessie, but I’m here now and I want to make things right.” Desperation creeps into his voice and he gives me his best hangdog expression.
Right now nothing he says will work. I’m angry for the hell he put me through. I was never worthy of his love until I inherited the estate. “What do you mean by ‘make things right’? You turned off my life support and now you want to control my inheritance. How can I ever trust you again?”
“Let me stay here tonight, Jessie.” Determination flashes in his eyes. “I want to be here for you to prove that you can trust me.”
I’ve wanted him to say that for so long. My resolve wavers but the doubts and fears are too strong. “Not yet, I need time to figure things but I do want you to visit me more often. Seeing you is unlocking my memories and, good or bad, we should face them together.”
“I’ll come by as often as possible.” John stood and then bent to brush a kiss over my cheek, like he would his mother. “Just don’t shut me out. Don’t forget I was there that night and I’ll be able to help you sort through the memories once they start emerging.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him. I sink back into the armchair, despair and exhaustion washing over me. As his footsteps disappear along the passageway, the empty room fills with the ghosts of doubts and unanswered questions. I can’t trust John yet. Not until my mind unlocks all the answers I need. Our conversation spins around in my head. It’s been twelve months since the wreck and the cops still want to speak to me. Why? I lost control and hit a tree. I search my mind. Someone was in the car with me—or is that just part of my nightmare? If I was alone, apart from my girls, in the car that night, who did I kill? I push my knuckles into my mouth to stop the scream. The reason no one will mention the twins slams into me. I killed my girls.
TWENTY-SIX
3 MONTHS BEFORE THE ACCIDENT
The feeling of being followed refuses to leave me. I’m constantly on my guard, doing what comes close to rituals before I leave the house. I walk through each room and peer through the windows to check no one is outside. My neck prickles as the garage door slides open. He’s out there, I can feel eyes on me. I hide behind my sunglasses to scan the blacktop both ways before driving out of my garage. I know I’m not imagining things when the same truck pulls away from the curb and follows, keeping a few vehicles behind. Who is this person and why are they following me?
Acutely aware of my tail, I park outside the local bookstore. I’m enjoying reading Alex’s series and head inside to browse the shelves. I love the shop, it has the scent of aged paper and coffee. The owner has a little coffee corner and sells sweet buns and barista coffee. Most people in the store are like I am, scanning the shelves or making purchases, but then I feel eyes on me. The intuition is so strong it’s almost like a touch. I don’t want to look over my shoulder, so I peer into the reflection in the store window. A man is standing a few aisles away, pretending to flip through a magazine, but his attention is fixed on me. Men look at me from time to time and I want to brush it off but, as Imove to the counter, I see him readying himself to follow me. I’m trembling as I take my credit card from my purse. The bell above the door chimes and I glance up to see the man leaving the shop, taking in every detail of his appearance. Should I report him to the cops—no, I have no proof that he is actually following me. I haven’t even got his license plate.
Maybe I’m just imagining it? They say stress does strange things and with all that’s going on in my life right now, it’s not surprising part of me would break sooner or later. I wish I could discuss my fears with John that some time ago I heard something or someone moving in the house. It always seemed to happen when John was away. He’d come home and I’d tell him. He’d walk around and check the windows and doors and tell me I was imagining things. When I insisted, he looked me straight in the eye and told me if I didn’t pull myself together, he’d hire someone to care for the children, because he didn’t trust me alone with them. The noises continued and it wasn’t until I mentioned it to a friend at the tennis club and she recommended a pest control guy, that I discovered I had a racoon living in my roof.
I wasn’t imagining the noises then and the feeling of being watched is still there. It’s like a rash crawling over me. As I pull out from the curb, I check the rearview mirror. The truck is back. My heart misses a beat and I’m hyperventilating. I need to know, one way or another, and go through my usual routine. I drive erratically, turning left and right, and racing through red lights. I check my mirror and he’s not behind me. I turn back onto Main and head home. I take another look in the mirror. Fear grips my belly, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel.
He’s back.
Dare I tell John? Will he figure I’m delusional or will he believe me this time? I shake my head. He won’t believe me, I know it. I have nothing, no proof this is happening to me. Thething is, the man following me is a different type of pest. This one I can see.
I’m now dashing from place to place and making sure I’m never alone. My nerves are in shreds and I only feel safe in the art studio. I join a morning session, glad to see Alex at his easel. “You’re almost finished. Will you start another?”
“Yeah, this place is a goldmine for my mental brainstorming.” Alex flicks his brush over the canvas. “My book is with my publisher and I’m researching the next one. Being here a few times a week is beneficial in more ways than one. I’m actually selling my paintings.” He gives me a wide grin. “I feel like celebrating, how about lunch at the new bistro?” He pulled out his phone. “I’ll book a table. Around one okay for you?”
