Everyone Here Is Lying(74)
Erin stares speechlessly at her daughter; she can’t yet bring herself to look at her husband. This all began with him, with his lover, Nora, and Marion, the scorned woman. None of it had anything to do with her, Erin thinks numbly, or her innocent daughter. Then she turns to regard William with hostility, as he begins to understand what he has brought upon them all. He won’t meet her eyes.
Erin blames her husband for all of it—his good looks, charm, and philandering ways are to blame for everything. Marion Cooke fell in love with her husband, while he was in love with another, and that nasty little love triangle led to this. She can never forgive him. She fears Avery will be scarred by this trauma forever.
* * *
? ? ?
William feels the hatred coming off his wife in waves. He knows that he deserves it, some of it at least. But he’s not to blame for what Marion did. No reasonable person would think so.
At least Avery’s back safe and the nightmare is over. No one thinks he’s a murderer anymore. But the truth sickens him. He’d never done anything to encourage Marion. He’d had no idea. Who could imagine Marion—a competent, professional nurse—was capable of something like this? She was going to kill his daughter! She essentially accused an innocent boy of murder, out of malice. This is a woman who tried to destroy lives, out of jealousy. It’s truly frightening. It was a diabolical plan, perfectly calibrated to make each of them suffer and to keep him and Nora apart in mutual suspicion. She didn’t care that his daughter would have to die to make it all work.
It troubles him to learn that she and Avery were friends. That Avery went over there that day, of her own volition. He tries to ignore his doubts, shake them away.
But Marion failed. Avery is fine, she’s safe. They know the truth. Nora’s son had nothing to do with Avery’s disappearance. And now they know that William didn’t either. He feels like he can start to breathe again.
Bledsoe says, as they pack up to leave, “There will be an autopsy on Marion Cooke. All pretty straightforward.”
* * *
? ? ?
Avery has gone up to her room to rest, exhausted after everything that’s happened, especially the interview with the detectives. It went fine. The main thing is, Marion’s dead; she can’t contradict her.
She listens intently and hears the detectives leave the house. Her father hasn’t left with them. Her parents are still in the living room, talking in low voices. Michael is in his room, the door closed. She creeps quietly out onto the landing, where they can’t see her, and tries to overhear what they’re saying.
At first she can’t make it out, but then, as always, they forget to keep their voices down.
Her father says, “Aren’t you worried about her?”
“Of course I’m worried about her!” her mother replies.
“I—I don’t mean that,” her father says.
“What do you mean, then?”
She hears her dad walking toward the foot of the stairs and ducks out of sight. He’s probably checking to see if she’s there. She hears him go back into the living room, and creeps back out.
“I mean”—her father lowers his voice, but Avery can still hear it—“do you believe her, that it happened the way she said it did?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” her mother asks, aghast.
“Oh, you always believe everything she says,” her father says, sounding irritable. “You always have.”
“I believe you knocked her to the floor!”
“Yes, I did,” he admits heatedly. “I don’t know what came over me, Erin. It was like she was goading me, on purpose—but I know that’s no excuse. I was instantly sorry. I’ve never felt so much shame and remorse in my life. I hated myself for it; I still do. I begged her to forgive me. I told her I loved her, that I didn’t mean to hurt her. That I should behave better. For Christ’s sake!” His voice sounds frustrated. “She left that bit out of her account.” Now he sounds bitter. “But she didn’t forget about how I asked her not to tell you.” There’s a silence, and then he says, sounding uneasy, “Don’t you think she’s—manipulative?”
“Children are always manipulative,” her mother says dismissively. “They try to get their own way.”
“Not like her though,” he says. “Michael’s not like that.”
Avery feels a familiar spurt of anger at her father.
Her mother speaks. “I know Avery is difficult, I’m not denying that. God knows. She’s willful, and oppositional, and not very good with people, but I don’t like what you seem to be implying.” She pauses. “You seem to be suggesting that—that things didn’t happen the way she says.”
“What if they didn’t?”
Avery has to strain to hear him now.
“How can you say that?” her mother replies angrily. “After everything she’s been through! Talk about blaming the victim! She’s only nine years old!” There’s a moment where neither of them speaks. Then her mother says, “I think you should leave.”
“I’m going.”
Avery can hear him moving downstairs; she’ll have to retreat, so that he doesn’t see her from the door.