The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh

Sixty-One

Frankie

Reeling, I pick up the photo and study it. I’m sure it’s Violette when she was younger. Maybe as a toddler of about two. And there’s a woman in the background that vaguely resembles Celeste. Different hair color and style, with bangs that cover half her face, but I think it’s her.

It doesn’t make sense.

Is Celeste Walter’s Julia? And is Violette Walter’s child?

My mind is spinning out of control with too many outlandish scenarios, so I call Andre. It goes to voicemail so I leave a brief message asking him to call me ASAP. Not that he’ll be able to shine any light on what I’ve found here but I want to let him know I arrived safely and as soon as I’m done with the police I’ll be on my way home.

I replace the photo and go back into the spare room. The closet has a few jackets on hangers, with some jeans and sweaters. Winter clothes for the beach, which means Celeste and Violette are regular visitors here in all seasons.

None of this makes sense. From what Celeste has told me, it sounds like she fled a toxic relationship and is hiding out in Hambridge Heights. She had to leave her ex to protect herself and her daughter. And there’s no way in hell Walter can be that ex. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.

As for Violette’s father being lousy as Celeste implied on many occasions, that’s not Walt either. He wanted kids more than anything. Heck, that was a catalyst for our marriage ending, so if Violette was his daughter he’d dote on her. Besides, why would Julia change her name to Celeste and turn up as my neighbor? What game is she playing?

I feel like I’m missing something, like trying to figure out one of Luna’s puzzles and discovering a piece has vanished.

That’s when I remember Walter’s call.

If Julia and Celeste are the same person, my husband and daughter are next door to a madwoman right now.

I call Andre again and it still diverts to voicemail. Damn it. I could call Celeste but what would I say? “Hey, I think you may be my ex-husband’s girlfriend so why didn’t you tell me? Oh, and are you crazy for perpetuating this sham? And do you know what’s happened to Walter?”

In that moment, an awful, insidious thought slithers into my subconscious.

Did Walter try to break up with Julia, and she did something to harm him?

I try to rack my brain for snippets of conversation about her partner who she called Roland. How she’d left him because he was a threat. How Violette missed her dad and how she wished she could take her for a visit. How Roland had been a deadbeat dad.

None of that sounds like Walter. Maybe I’ve got this all wrong and Walter has been seeing Celeste recently, after she broke up with Roland? Maybe Roland was abusive as Celeste intimated and she’s been in hiding with Walter? Heck, for all I know they could be colleagues from work. Celeste is an accountant, Walter has worked in the bank for ages. Maybe they’ve been holed up here away from Roland? That fits Walt to a tee, rescuing a damsel in distress, being a protector.

I know I’m clutching at anything to excuse her lying. But if she is Walter’s friend and was sheltering here, she hasn’t been lying at all. She’d have no idea Walt is my ex-husband so why would she feel compelled to tell me anything? She’s protective of her child and I understand that. If she has been in hiding with Walt, she’d want to protect his identity from Roland too. And if that’s the case, she just hasn’t shared much of her past and we’re all guilty of that.

But my logic doesn’t calm me and increasingly agitated, I call Andre a third time, and he finally picks up.

“Frankie, thank God. I just got off the phone from Saylor and was going to call you.”

“I’ve been trying to get through.”

“Sorry about that. Listen, have you been in touch with Celeste?”

I’m instantly on guard. How could he know anything when I’m still trying to piece it all together myself? “No, why? How’s Luna? Is everything okay?”

“Shit…” Andre makes a weird choking sound that chills my blood.

“Andre, what’s going on?”

“I’m so sorry, Frankie—”

“What have you done?”

“I got an emergency callout to that last job I did, some problem with the graphics for the Times Square billboard, so I—”

“Where’s Luna?” My hands are shaking because deep down, in a place I don’t want to acknowledge, I know what he’s going to say and it’s going to kill me.

“I asked Celeste to mind her.”

The ache in my chest expands, filling me so I can barely breathe. Spots speckle my vision and I sway, light-headed. “You need to go and get her right now and take her home.”

He’s silent and I can’t take much more of this.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Saylor called me a few minutes ago. She was concerned because she saw Celeste bundle the girls into her car and take off, with overnight bags in the trunk.”

A piercing keening fills the air, a hair-raising scream I belatedly realize is coming from me.

“Frankie, I’m sorry. I’m sure she’s fine—”

I hang up on him, the stupid, irresponsible man who left our precious daughter in the care of a lying manipulator.

I can’t breathe and I tear at the neck hole of my T-shirt, gasping for air. I want to bawl. I want to smash something.

As I scream again, two police officers rush into the bedroom with their guns drawn.