Don't Trust Her Read online

  DON’T TRUST HER

  A Novel

  Elizabeth Boles

  LADYBUGBOOKS, LLC.

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Also by Elizabeth Boles

  About the Author

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  Chapter 1

  The house wants me dead.

  It is an angry red beast exploding with fire and brimstone.

  Thick smoke rolls into my lungs, coating it like cotton. My throat is charred. Every breath burns. Water sluices down my eyes, blurring my vision, but not enough that I can’t make out the burning cabin.

  I am standing in it, after all.

  The hairs on my forearms are gone, eaten by the blaze. My shoulder throbs, and a rivulet of blood runs from bicep to wrist, creating a crust that coats my skin like paint.

  It’s from where the knife sliced me open. The knife that she held, that she pointed at me.

  I race toward the front door as flames snap at my ankles, extending their red tongues at my clothing, licking at the fabric, wanting to gobble it up.

  I’m outside now, and the cold hits me hard, stealing the breath from me. I stumble on the ice, landing atop my knees. Pain lances up my spine, and I bite back a sob. Crystal chunks bite into my palms, shredding the already raw skin.

  I fall and slide forward, slamming into boots, dark boots. I blink. A red light winks at me. It’s on a car—a police car.

  Then I’m up, on my feet. A man pulls me to look at him. His face swims like I’m gazing through a window that rain is streaming down. Everything is wavy, off.

  “Please,” I cry. “Help me. I can’t go back. Get me away from there.”

  I scrabble at his clothes, willing him to take me as far away from the cabin as he can.

  He gently pushes me back. His eyes are kind, soft—familiar, even. He’s here to save me. Hope buoys in my chest.

  Then he asks, “Is there anyone else in there?”

  I just want to be gone, as far from here as possible, but I can’t. There’s something unfinished, a deed that needs to be set right.

  “Yes,” I croak. “There’s another person inside. But she’s already dead.”

  Chapter 2

  One Week Ago

  I don’t know what’s woken me, but my heart is skittering. Eyes open, I stare. My bedroom is painted in darkness, though soon the gray gloom of winter will bleed in from the windows. Sheets spool around my feet. I pause, letting my vision adjust.

  The room smells of sleep and dust that has burned off the heating unit during the night. Tal rests only a foot away. I feel the warmth wafting off him even with the distance between us.

  From my nightstand a faint halo of light glows.

  My phone—someone has texted me.

  I immediately think something has happened to my mother. She’s experiencing a heart attack but doesn’t want to bother me. So she texts instead of calls.

  This is something she would do. She says we help her too much. She doesn’t want to burden us. I always tell her not to worry. She’s not a bother. But her lips dip into a sour frown as if she thinks I’m lying when I say this.

  Since Mama is my only immediate relative outside of this house, of course my mind flies to her.

  I reach for the phone. My fingers grapple the slick surface and gain purchase just enough to slide it toward me. Then it slips and clatters to the floor.

  Just my luck.

  Tal’s lovely rumbling snores fall silent. He’s awake, though he’ll pretend to sleep for a few minutes more.

  I retrieve the cell. It is my mother who has texted.

  Court, are you picking me up at ten?

  I sigh with relief, and it’s like water rushing from a dam. She hasn’t suffered a heart attack.

  Then I remember what day it is—graveyard visiting day. Every three hundred and sixty-five days, this one moment comes around. For three hundred and sixty-four of those days, I pretend it does not exist.

  That’s how I cope.

  Because it should be me buried under a ton of earth and not my sister. She would have remembered what day it is. She would have reminded me that I had a date with our mother.

  If she was alive, that is.

  My sister was always better at recalling this sort of thing. When I wanted to let something slip from memory, I couldn’t. She would gently prod and poke, never letting a loose thought fade from my mind. I was the forgetful one. She had her p’s and q’s in a row. Isn’t that how it is with siblings? One tends to be more forgetful and the other a bit more mindful—especially when they’re twins.

  My gut tightens even as I recall her beautiful face with its dewy skin and bright brown eyes.

  The memory disappears as an arm hooks to my waist. I smile.

  Tal’s Southern drawl is muffled. “Your mom?”

  “We have to visit the graveyard.”

  He stretches, his grip loosening before belting me again. “I meant to remind you yesterday. I’m sorry, darling.”

  I swear, Tal has a planner hardwired inside that brain of his. He remembers all the dates I never do—anniversaries, birthdays. It’s almost shameful, really—me, being the one who is ashamed, not my husband.

  But Tal knows how I feel about this day, the guilt that gnaws at me because of it. He has enough on his mind. It’s not his job to remind me. “It’s okay. I should have remembered.”

  He’ll ask to come. He always does. He lifts his face from the pillow, and a slash of cheekbone glints in the paling room. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Maybe next time.” It’s what I say every year. I’ll be fine on my own. “You’re busy at work.”

  He grunts, suggesting he’s not that busy. “It’s cold out there. Why don’t you come here?”

  I let him drag me back onto the cotton-candy silk of the sheets, wind his arm completely around my belly, and pull me into the hollow of him. He is warm and smells spicy, residue from yesterday’s cologne. I press my nose into the cup of his neck and exhale.

  “You’re cold,” he murmurs. “Let me heat you up.” His fingers slip up my thigh.

  I rub my nose down the knot at his throat. “Kids’ll be up any minute. You want them t
o see what they shouldn’t?”

  His fingers entwine in mine. “It’s only nature.”

  I laugh despite myself. “You sure are going for parent of the year.”

  “Darlin’, I’m not showing them anything they haven’t seen on National Geographic.”

  “And when they shut the doors on us at First Baptist because they’ve heard what our son has witnessed?”

  “Then they should not be calling themselves Baptists.”

  “They’re not—they’re Southern Baptists.”

  “Even more reason for them not to judge.”

  Though I don’t think it’s possible, Tal pulls me even closer, the heat from his arms leaving imprints on my flesh.

  “It’s going to be cold today,” he says.

  “But a hot sun.” The sun is always hot in the winter.

  “So you should warm up now.”

  The door opens with a bang, and Jonas, his dark hair a cloud on his head, yells, “Ah! You’re in bed! I’m blind! At the age of eleven, my parents have blinded me.”

  Haley Ray follows, Bear-Bear in her arms. Poor Bear-Bear. His pancake body thumps limply against her leg. He got a hole some years back. I don’t know what caused the cavity. Did Haley Ray play with him too much? Did he get a snag? Did she dig out a small rip until it became a mouth?

  No telling, but all his stuffing dropped like snow. Haley refused to let me sew him back, declaring that surgery (in the form of needle and thread) would hurt Bear-Bear.

  So would losing all his innards, but I didn’t say that. So now flat Bear-Bear swings to and fro as she repeats, “I’m bwind!”

  I exhale a shot of air and smile at Tal. “Time to get up.”

  He rolls over. “Five more minutes.”

  I throw myself together, knowing that after school drop-offs, I’ll return to get ready. For now I pad over our linoleum-floored kitchen in leggings and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

  Our house is old—well, thirty years. No, it’s not European old, but it’s certainly not new construction. When we moved in, we had the carpet ripped out and replaced with hardwoods. There wasn’t money in the budget to renovate the kitchen—fruit-themed backsplash tile and all.

  Tal has his own graphic design business. He does well, but we’re not rich by any means. We’re constantly putting money aside for our nest egg. Yes, we’re nest eggers! When there is some money left over at the end of the month, it goes into our kitchen fund. We’ve got just over ten grand in there. I’m a finger-pinch away from updating this room.

  I have the magazine clippings to prove it.

  I suppose I’m telling you this to distract myself from what’s to come, to focus on the now instead of the later. Luckily my youngest offers an even better distraction.

  “More yogurt!”

  I fluff Haley Ray’s honey-colored ringlets. “Little girl, if you keep eating pots of yogurt, you are gonna turn into one, my curly-haired princess. What’s the magic word?”

  “Pwwease,” she begs.

  In the fridge, behind the container of feta sits four snap-off pots of blueberry yogurt. I tug one off and cross to where she sits at the table, peeling back the lid for her.

  “Last one.”

  She grins at me, a bluish smear above her top lip. “Thank you.”

  My heart expands. “I love you.”

  She licks her spoon. “Wuv you too, Mama.”

  I tousle her hair, wishing I had ringlets like hers, and toss the empty yogurt in the trash as Jonas’s voice lashes from behind me.

  “Maaaaamaaa!”

  He stands in the doorway holding a box housing a bloody-looking papier-mâché volcano.

  “What is it?”

  “One part of the volcano fell off. It’s ruined!” He places the box on the table beside Haley, who lifts her nose to get a better look.

  A good chunk of the volcano (not the bloody lava part) has, sure enough, cracked off from the chicken wire body and toppled onto the villagers below, who have now been crushed from a landslide instead of being fried to a crisp by lava.

  Water fills Jonas’s eyes. I place my hands on his shoulders. “I will fix this. Go get dressed and I’ll have it looking perfect by the time we leave for school.”

  Jonas howls. “You can’t fix it!”

  I give him a stern look. “Yes, I can. Now get dressed. It’ll look amazing by the time you return.”

  Jonas stalks off, throwing his arms in the air. “I’m losing my mind!” But before he disappears into his bedroom, he turns and shoots me a wide smile. “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

  My heart is a mess of mush for his big doe-brown eyes and sweet smile. “You’re welcome.”

  When he’s gone, Tal enters and winks. “Are you making our child lose his mind again?”

  “Don’t you know it,” I tease.

  “Wose his mind,” Haley chants.

  I find grayish-brown clay in the cupboard. It’s the best substitute I’ve got for the painted papier-mâché. Good thing I’m the type who never throws away a craft supply.

  “What is wrong with Jonas?” Tal asks, brewing a cup of coffee in the Keurig.

  I brandish the stick of clay. “Want to help me repair a volcano?”

  Tal stops making coffee and rolls up his sleeves. “I never thought you’d ask.”

  When Jonas inspects the volcano ten minutes later, even he can barely tell that we fixed it. Time to head to school.

  My life is a series of drop-offs and pickups. Between those are when the actual living occurs. I don’t think anyone wakes up one day and says, I want my life to exist between 7:45 and 2:45, and from 2:45 to 9pm.

  But that’s what happens. Life is fit into these spaces of time, with each frame holding different duties.

  My normal day would consist of hitting Target after Jonas is dropped off at middle school and Haley Ray to preschool. There is one near the house. It’s a perk of living so close to Huntsville.

  Huntsville as in the one in Alabama, not Texas.

  Contrary to what (I’m sure) you’ve heard, north Alabama is progressive. The economy is booming. There’s always a need for engineers, rocket scientists (literally), and IT people.

  We live just south of the city, in a small town. It’s the sort of place where downtown stores are closed on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sundays. Where artificial magnolia boughs spiral the lampposts, and where there is a parade for every major holiday. Here, farmhouse chic is not just a decorating style everyone embraces—it is true to life.

  In my town, people keep the same friends they’ve had since high school, even if they don’t have much in common anymore except history.

  Just like me.

  As I was saying, on a normal day I would enter Target and inhale the scent of fresh merchandise stocked just that morning. I’d buy a skinny mocha and stroll the aisles, silently toasting all the other housewives on drop-offs well done. Then I would careen past the Joanna Gaines section because, let’s face it, with two kids I do not need more clutter in my house. There is enough already, thank you very much.

  I’d pick up some frozen items, a few fresh vegetables that are overpriced, buy a new tube of lip gloss, and amble past twenty other women dressed exactly like me—lululemon joggers, white T-shirt under a Patagonia jacket, sneakers.

  After Target I’d head to the gym. The food would be fine in the back of my 4Runner because it’s winter.

  Out of habit I’d pick a cycling bike beside Monogrammed Monica. She would smile brightly. No, I don’t know if her name is actually Monica (even though this is a small town, I don’t know everyone).

  A lot of new people have moved here thanks to the economy boom. Paige Varnell is one of those. I remember the first time I heard her name—Paige. Paige is as Southern a moniker as they come. Not many are lucky enough to claim that name. There is something very classy in that title, as there is in Paige.

  But we will get to her.

  Back to Monogrammed Monica. She must have one of those vinyl cutting machines at hom
e, because everything from her gym bag to her keys to her T-shirts are monogrammed with a large scrolling M—hence why I call her Monica.

  Sometimes I wonder if she monograms her panties. There are mornings when I’ve considered asking, but that would be rude. So instead I just smile.

  Next Jackie, our spinning instructor, would enter the room, her legs vacuum-sealed in metallic leggings. She’d give us a big, “Hey, y’all,” before climbing onto her bike and leading us through forty-five minutes of hell.

  But as I said, today is different. After school I return home and ready myself, running a brush through my hair. It’s the color of a dark walnut stain. A few grays sprout from my crown. Instead of plucking them, I decide to leave them. I’ll color my head later.

  Fatigue lines have started forming under my eyes. The tiny fissures that run along my forehead are now here to stay. In my youth they would appear after a night of drinking and would disappear after an hour of rehydrating myself—but not anymore.

  It’s been my face for thirty-five years, and for eleven of those I haven’t shared it with anyone.

  It’s ten o’clock when my 4Runner (the Mom-mobile of all vehicles, next to the minivan) pulls up to Mama’s front door.

  She lives forty-five minutes away and refuses to move any closer. It’s okay. I don’t mind the drive. It gives me time to be alone and think.