Everyone Here Is Lying
Shari Lapena
To Julia
Acknowledgments
It’s so nice when a book is finally finished and I get to thank all the people—and they are legion—who believe in an idea, who help shape the book into its final form, outfit it in dazzling covers, and get it to market so that it’s noticed and sitting proudly on shelves everywhere. It takes a lot of talented and dedicated people, in different geographic areas, and as I’ve said before, I’m extremely fortunate to work with the best people in publishing. Now we are at book seven, and once again I give my heartfelt thanks to all the people who believe in me and make my books the best they can be, every single time. Thank you to Brian Tart, Pamela Dorman, Jeramie Orton, Ben Petrone, and the rest of the team at Viking Penguin in the U.S.; to Larry Finlay, Bill Scott-Kerr, Sarah Adams, Tom Hill, and the rest of the team at Transworld in the U.K.; and to Kristin Cochrane, Amy Black, Bhavna Chauhan, Emma Ingram, and the team at Doubleday in Canada. Thank you each and every one.
Editing is hard work, and I owe huge thanks to Sarah Adams and Jeramie Orton for their insight and expertise in editing Everyone Here Is Lying. And kudos to Sarah for coming up with such a great title!
Thanks, again, to Jane Cavolina, my favorite copy editor. It’s a pleasure to have you work on my books.
Thanks once again to my faithful agent, Helen Heller—you celebrate my successes and lift my spirits when I need a boost. Thanks also to Camilla and Jemma and everyone at the Marsh Agency for representing me worldwide and selling my books into so many foreign territories.
As always, any mistakes are all mine.
Thanks, always, to my readers. I appreciate you more than I can say. I have you in mind every time I sit down to write—I want you to have that wonderful feeling of being totally caught up in a book!
And finally, thanks to my family, even Poppy the cat, who seems to have retired and doesn’t join me in the office anymore. Julia especially deserves a mention for some brilliant ideas. And Manuel—thank you, as ever, for all the technical and other support. I’d be lost without you.
One
They don’t speak as William walks her to her car parked behind the motel; they never leave their cars out front, where they might be recognized. No one will ever know they were here. At least, this is what they tell themselves, what they have told themselves every time over the last few months as their affair kindled, burned brightly. But now it has been abruptly snuffed out. By her. He didn’t see it coming.
They’d met at their usual motel on the outskirts of town, where no one knows them. It’s on the main highway. They had to be discreet. They couldn’t meet in their own homes because they’re both married, and she, apparently, wants to stay that way. Until half an hour ago, he hadn’t really had to think about it. He feels like he’s had a rug pulled out from beneath his feet, and he still hasn’t regained his balance.
They stop at her vehicle, and he leans in to kiss her. She averts her face. Despair and desperation take hold, the realization that she really means it. He turns quickly and walks away, leaving her standing there, keys in her hand. When he gets to his car, he looks across to her, but she is already starting the engine and driving away in a burst of speed, as if making a point.
He stands there, bereft, watching her go. Something had seemed different about her today. He always arrived at the motel first, checked in, paid in cash, got the key, and texted her the unit number. Today, when she knocked and stepped inside, she’d pulled him close and kissed him more hungrily than usual. There were no words. They tore off each other’s clothes the same as always, made love the same as always. Afterward, she usually lay with her head on his chest, listening to his heart, she’d say. But today she sat up against the headboard and stared straight ahead, looking at the two of them in the bureau mirror. She’d pulled the white sheets up to cover her breasts. Also unlike her.
She wasn’t listening to his heart anymore.
“We have to end this,” she said.
“What?” He looked up at her, startled, then pulled himself up to sit beside her. “What are you talking about?” He studied her—such a beautiful woman. The bone structure, smooth blond hair, and natural glamour reminiscent of an old-fashioned film star. He felt a surge of alarm.
She turned her head and looked at him then. “William, I can’t do this anymore. I have a family, kids to think of.”
“I have kids too.”
“You’re not a mother. It’s not the same.”
“It didn’t stop you before,” he pointed out. “It didn’t stop you today.”
She looked angry then. “You don’t have to throw it in my face,” she answered.
He softened, reached for her, but she shrugged him away. “Nora, you know I love you.” He added, “And I know you love me.”
“It doesn’t matter.” There were tears in her lovely blue eyes.
“Of course it matters!” He was panicking. “It’s all that matters! I’ll divorce Erin. You can leave Al. We’ll get married. The kids will adjust. It will be fine. People do it all the time.”
She looked at him for a moment, as if surprised he suggested it. They’d never spoken about the future; they’d been living in the moment. In their pleasure and unexpected happiness. Finally, she shook her head and brushed the tears from her face. “No, I can’t. I can’t be that selfish. It would destroy Al, and I can’t do that to my kids. They’d hate me. I’m sorry.”
Then she’d risen from the bed and quickly started putting her clothes back on, while he watched her in disbelief. That things could change so quickly, so fundamentally, without warning—it was disorienting. She was reaching for the door when he cried, “Wait,” and hurriedly began to dress. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
And that was it.
Now he gets into his car to drive down the highway back to Stanhope. It’s 3:45 in the afternoon. He’s too upset to go back to his medical practice offices or to the hospital. He has no patients scheduled. It’s Tuesday; he always reserves the afternoon for her. At loose ends, he decides to go home for a bit instead. The house will be empty. Michael will be at basketball practice, and Avery has choir after school. His wife will be at work. He’ll have the house to himself, pour a much-needed drink. Then he’ll leave again before anyone gets home.
Their house is at the top of Connaught, a long, pleasant residential street that ends in a cul-de-sac. He’s still thinking about Nora as he uses the button on the car’s visor to open the garage door. He drives in and presses another button to close the door behind him. She’ll be home by now, in her own house farther down the same street, maybe already regretting her decision. But she hadn’t looked as if she would change her mind. He wonders now if she has had other affairs. He’d never asked. He’d assumed he was the only one. He realizes he doesn’t really know her at all, even though he thought he did—even though he loves her—because he’d been taken completely off guard.
He puts the key in the lock of the side door leading from the garage into the kitchen. He thinks he hears a sound and pauses. There’s someone in the kitchen. He opens the door and finds himself looking at his nine-year-old daughter, Avery, who is supposed to be at choir practice.