The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh
Fifty-Eight
Frankie
NOW
I’m so worried about Walter that I can’t sit around waiting for the police to call. I’m going out of my mind, envisaging worst-case scenarios, and I need to do something proactive. It’s crazy to even contemplate going back to the beach house but it’s the one place Walt would go if something was wrong and the last place he’d been seen.
I wait until Andre gets home from work mid-afternoon to give him a heads up about my plans and explain why I’m compelled to visit the one place I think Walt may be, but as he walks in on me packing, he overreacts.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I need to leave—”
“You’re leaving me?” He swears under his breath and drags a hand through his hair, tugging so hard the strands stand up. “I can’t believe this. After all we’ve been through, you’re giving up so bloody easily.”
He storms out, leaving me stunned as I hear his boots clomping down the stairs.
I can’t believe he actually thinks I’m leaving him. It’s bizarre and doesn’t make sense. Unless he’s done something to give me reason to, but I can’t contemplate that now. I won’t let my latent insecurities interfere with the task at hand: discovering if Walt is okay.
I zip my suitcase, pick it up and head downstairs to try and reason with my crazy husband.
I find him standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking so devastated I don’t know whether to hug him or chastise him for doubting me and thinking the worst, that I’d ever walk out on him and Luna.
“If you’d let me finish up there, I was saying I need to leave to check in on Walter at the cottage, you big jerk.” I whack him softly on his chest. “Where we first met, remember?”
He winces, before enveloping me in his arms and squeezing so tight I can barely breathe. “Sorry for overreacting. It really freaked me out seeing you packing, then hearing you were leaving.”
“Glad to know you care.”
He squeezes tighter and I yelp, so he releases me. “I love you, Frankie. You’re my world and I’d be nothing without you.”
I have no idea why he’s so panicked, but I don’t have time to delve now. “Maybe I should pack a suitcase more often?” I try to lighten the tone.
“Don’t you dare.” He kisses me, a hard, possessive kiss branding me as his. “You’re not going anywhere. Apart from chasing after your ex apparently,” he says, still somewhat rattled.
“I know it’s odd, but an employee at his bank called me because I’m his person to contact in an emergency and they’re worried.”
“This is nuts.” Andre starts pacing the living room before stopping in front of me, confusion furrowing his brow. “Why the hell are you the emergency contact person for your ex-husband? And why are you compelled to go looking for him?”
“I can’t answer your first question because I wondered that too. And I’m not looking for him—”
“The hell you aren’t. You’re running off to that beach house in New Haven.” Anger turns his eyes flinty. “I don’t get this. Why would you go chasing after some guy you haven’t spoken to in years?”
I want to tell him the truth and I will, but now isn’t the time. I’m seriously worried about Walter and I can’t ignore a sliver of guilt I may be responsible for this. I didn’t sleep last night and have been mulling over it all morning, wondering if Walter has been unstable and that’s what his rambling phone call had been about. And worse, if my subsequent letter and the paternity test result drove him over the edge.
“Honey, you know I love you and I’ve told you about my past.” I take hold of his hands, hoping to convey my sincerity. “Walter helped me escape all that and I owe him.”
“You owe him nothing,” Andre mutters, but I glimpse a softening in his eyes. “Besides, if he’s a missing person, who knows what he might be involved in? It could be dangerous for you to go traipsing down there.”
Considering Walter only tried alcohol for the first time recently, I seriously doubt he’s involved in anything untoward. But I can’t tell Andre, not yet. If he learns about my yearly conversations with Walter, and our more recent phone calls, he’ll freak and leaving will be impossible.
So I reach for a little white lie. “The police want to interview me at the cottage. That’s why I’m going.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You didn’t mention anything about the police?”
“He’s listed as a missing person. Of course the police are involved.”
“I don’t like this.” He shakes his head and slips his hands out of mine. “I should come with you.”
“And drag Luna along with us? She’ll ask a million questions and I don’t want to put her through it. I’ll drive up now and be back tonight. I only packed a few things in case the police questioning takes longer than expected.”
“This is crazy. It’s a four-hour round trip.” He glowers at me for a moment, before enveloping me in his arms and squeezing tight. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise,” I murmur, against his chest.
I know I’m probably on a fool’s errand but I need to do this.
As for my ulterior motive—finding my letter—Walter isn’t the kind of guy to leave something like that lying around. He’s too orderly for that, but I can’t take the risk. The police will search the beach house at some stage and I want to make a preemptive strike, because if they find that letter and its contents, my interrogation will be lengthy and Andre will learn the truth the hard way.
I will tell him, all of it, but I need to get ahead of this.
I need to leave ASAP.
I choose a playlist from the 2000s for my drive to New Haven but I barely hear a word of the lyrics filtering through my car. Despite my bravado in front of Andre, I’m unsure what I’ll find when I get to the cottage. What if my outlandish supposition is right and Walter has done something silly to harm himself? No way do I want to walk in on that.
Turns out, I needn’t have lied to Andre about the police wanting to interview me. Betty at the bank must’ve given them my information because they call about half an hour after I leave Hambridge Heights and want to talk to me. They’ve thoroughly searched Walter’s home in Hartford and are moving onto the cottage, so I say I’ll meet them there early evening. Which means it’s imperative I get there before them, regardless of what I may find.
Ninety minutes later I park under a makeshift carport on the left of the cottage. Memories swamp me: Walter bringing me here for the first time and carrying me over the threshold, barbecuing steaks on a small grill out the back, long walks on the beach when we didn’t have to talk because we were so comfortable together.
I blink back tears as I get out of the car and inhale, allowing the familiar briny tang to comfort me. There has to be a logical explanation for this. I hate to contemplate anything else.
I’m counting on Walter’s predictability as I lift the third conch from the left in a bed of shells near the front door. I turn it over and press the spring-loaded flap. It reveals a key. Not that I need it. I still have mine from years ago but I want to make sure it’s there because I know the police will ask how I got in and I don’t want to raise any suspicion about why I’m still holding onto mine.
If I can find that letter, they’ll never know about the paternity test and what happened between us. But if they do… I’ll become further embroiled in this when it’s the last thing I want.
I’d wondered if he ever told Julia about what happened. Highly doubtful, considering he’d already dumped her once to marry me, and if those accidents before we got hitched had been linked to her… no, he wouldn’t have revealed he’d cheated on her again because they’d been in a relationship at the time.
So many mistakes in the past… I shake my head as I jiggle the key in the lock, lifting the handle as I turn, knowing its intricacies. It finally gives and the door swings open. I’m holding my breath as I step inside, forcing myself to move forward.
I sneeze and relief filters through me as I acknowledge there’s no horrid smell that could indicate the worst possible outcome I’d been envisaging. I move through the living room, casting an eye around, but everything seems in order. The remote controls are lined up on the coffee table, the cushions perfectly plumped and in place. I enter the kitchen and head to the fridge. If Walter has been here, it will be well stocked. It always was. But apart from several jars containing pickles, pesto and olives, and a few bottles of sparkling water, it’s empty, which means he hasn’t been here for a while.
It doesn’t make sense. When I called the bank initially after he hadn’t returned my calls, I’d been told he was on vacation. And Walter is such a creature of habit he never vacations anywhere but here. He’d told me many times why spend money to fly to some resort destination when we have our own better beach here. And when he’d drunk-dialed me, he’d mentioned being here.
Increasingly worried that he may be genuinely missing, I head for the main bedroom. The moment I open the door, memories assail me of the last time I was here, the two of us entwined on the bed, knowing it was wrong but filled with rage against my cheating husband and desperate to lose myself for a few hours in the comforting arms of my ex.
I blink rapidly to erase those traitorous memories as I move toward the closet. Walter didn’t have a safe at the cottage, but he’d made a special hiding place for any valuables whenever we came here. Mostly the jewelry he’d given me. I open the doors and squat down, feeling for the panel he’d cut out of the wood. I rely on muscle memory, my fingers finding the groove quickly and the tiny knob at the top. I pull on it and the panel falls to the floor.
Holding my breath, I feel around the tiny space, encountering nothing but the crackle of paper. I exhale in relief when I bring out the envelope and see my handwriting.
I’d been right. If Walter had hidden this away, he hasn’t told Julia or anyone about it.
I carefully replace the panel, wriggle backwards and stand, before closing the closet doors. I fold the letter and slide it into the back pocket of my jeans. At least now I can answer the police questions without having the complication of Luna’s paternity dragged into it and muddying everything.
It’ll be easier if I wait in the car for their arrival so I head toward the front door. To do so, I pass the spare room. The door is open and I’m about to walk past the room when something on the bed snags my attention. A stuffed pony.
Maybe Julia likes stuffed animals but it’s not displayed proudly against a pillow, it’s thrown haphazardly at the foot of the bed, like a child in a hurry would do. Curious, I enter the room. I’m not sure where to look first. At the pile of neatly folded laundry on a chair, girl’s dresses and tops and socks, or the children’s books on a shelf. At the board games for children under eight or the solar system night light exactly like Luna’s.
Confusion makes my head ache. Not once during our conversations over the years has Walter mentioned Julia having a child. Then again, he never discussed anything to do with Julia until recently and I’d never asked. I’d been glad he’d found happiness with her again after our divorce. It alleviated some of my guilt at ending our marriage because he’d never been enough for me.
But surely this child warranted a mention? Something in passing? Especially when he knew I had Luna. What possible motivation could he have for keeping her hidden?
Perhaps Julia’s daughter isn’t his but considering the size of the clothes and the age range of those books and games, the girl would have to be between four and six, so he’d been back with Julia then.
Yet another mystery for the police to solve. On impulse, I pop into the room Walter had laughingly labeled his den. Considering how tiny it is, the space is barely bigger than a mudroom and I assumed that’s what it had been built for, to take off sandy shoes and clothes after returning from the beach and before entering the house. But being the manager at the bank meant Walter had to work at times, even when we were relaxing down here, so he’d set up the world’s smallest office; a chair tucked into the existing bench, where he’d place his laptop or documents. It had a penholder filled with black, blue and red pens, and a plastic holdall with a stapler, scissors, glue stick, stuff he never used because he did most of his work online.
There’s a photo frame near the penholder, a white plastic frame embedded with seashells, like it had been bought from a local souvenir shop. I might get to see the reclusive Julia at last.
But as I move closer and pick up the frame, I realize two things at once.
It’s not a woman in the frame, it’s a child.
The child is Violette.