Kate Carlisle - The Lies That Bind

“Really?” Her eyes gleamed with intent. “He left awhile ago.”

I frowned. Maybe she misunderstood. “Derek Stone? The British guy? He left?”

“I know who he is.” Thump-thump-thump went the eraser. “He left with the police.”

I froze, unsure if I’d heard her right. Her thumping eraser was getting on my nerves. “The police were here?”

“Yeah. Oh, you must’ve been in class.”

“Right. So he left at the same time the police did?”

She chuckled scornfully. “Not exactly.”

I had to hold myself back from strangling her as my voice rose. “Then what, exactly?”

She stared up at me and I could see how much she loathed me at that moment. I guess maybe I’d laid it on a little heavy earlier, when I accused her dearly departed aunt of lying.

“The police took him in for questioning,” she said.

In shock, I had to force the word out. “Why?”

She made an exasperated sound and waved the pencil around. “Oh, come on, Brooklyn. You know, about his thing with Layla.”

My ears were starting to buzz and I felt dizzy. “What thing with Layla?”

She pulled a face. “What rock have you been hiding under?”

“I’m not sure.” My knees were wobbling and I grabbed the doorjamb. “Spell it out for me.”

Her smile was gloating. “Derek and Layla?”

“What about them?”

“They were having an affair, Brooklyn. Layla broke up with him. He carries a gun. You do the math.”

Derek? Layla? Affair?

No, it wasn’t true. I staggered out of her office, then stopped and stared at the wall, trying to focus. But I couldn’t. I felt nauseous and my throat was so dry I couldn’t swallow.

I swung around and stepped back into Naomi’s office. She looked up and I caught a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. And in that moment, I knew she was fabricating the entire story. Evidently, the bitch strain ran deep in Layla’s family. I braced myself, sucked in a few deep breaths, and struggled to gain back some of the strength that had drained away a minute ago.

“You’re lying,” I said, taking another step into her office.

Naomi’s lips curved into a smirk. “Uh-oh, looks like Brooklyn’s jealous. So you didn’t know about the two of them?”

“No,” I said, more easily now. “Because there’s no such thing as the ‘two of them.’ ”

She licked her lips, an obvious clue that she was making it up as she went along. “Yes, there is.”

“I’m not sure why you’re lying to me, Naomi. Maybe because I threatened you earlier about the book. But right now I don’t care about that. I just want you to know that if you lied to the police about Derek, that book will be the least of your worries.”

“I’m not lying and it has nothing to do with the book.” She stood and walked around the desk, then sat on the edge. It was an imitation of her aunt, and even knowing she was lying, I wanted to smack that fake sympathetic smile off her face. “I’m sorry, hon. I guess you didn’t know. But it shouldn’t be such a big surprise. You know Layla would screw anything that moved. Of course, in Derek’s case, I couldn’t really blame her. He’s totally cute.”

“Cute,” I murmured, and wanted more than anything else to throttle her. All of a sudden, pictures flashed in my head of Layla gripping Derek’s arm that first night. Of Layla rubbing her leg up against Derek’s. Of Layla patting his backside.

And right then, I was immensely glad she was dead. I hated her. There, I’d said it. To myself, anyway.

Meanwhile, Naomi sighed dreamily. “Actually, cute doesn’t really describe Derek, does it? He’s more hot and sexy than just cute. And dangerous, you know? Wouldn’t mind getting some of that myself.”

The crass words were so incongruous coming from her mousy little mouth, I just shook my head. “You know, hon , I have no idea why Layla thought so little of you, because you’re so much like her.”

She gasped and her cheeks began to blotch. Guess I had struck a nerve.

I continued. “I’m sure if we call the police right now and tell them that you made a mistake, they’ll understand.”

“It’s no mistake,” she cried, and her lower lip popped out in a pout.

“Okay, you stick with that story, but I suggest you start looking over your shoulder, because something’s going to come back and bite you on the ass.”

With that, I walked out, grabbed my coat from the gallery rail where I’d draped it earlier, and ran all the way to my car.

The drive home was touch and go, emotionally speaking. I knew Naomi was full of crap, but my mind kept drifting into possible scenarios that could very well be true.

I thought back to the first night I’d met Derek at the Covington Library, the night Abraham died. Derek had been stalking the crowded main hall, an outsider observing the goings-on of the wealthy and influential people who filled the space. More than once I’d caught him frowning at me from across the wide room. Later, in Abraham’s workroom, he’d found me covered in blood and accused me of murder. It was a strange beginning to what had become a lovely friendship-and more.

But now I recalled that Layla Fontaine had been there that night. Had she and Derek met there? Maybe they’d attended Abraham’s show as a couple.

“Oh, shut up,” I muttered. Then something else occurred to me and I pounded the steering wheel in disgust.

Layla had been in Edinburgh for the book fair. Now I recalled several nights when Derek had been unable to see me. I hadn’t given it a second thought at the time. Why would I? I thought he had obligations at Holyroodhouse Palace. Now, I couldn’t be sure. Maybe he and Layla had been frolicking all over Edinburgh while I…

Oh, God, at this rate I would be insane before I got home. So I didn’t go home. Instead, I drove through the city, to Pacific Heights. I was feeling just perverse enough that driving up and down astoundingly steep hills might actually soothe my jumbled brain. Or at least give me something else to obsess over.

When I first moved to San Francisco, I considered it my civic duty to practice my hill driving. I realized after doing it a few times that it was actually fun in a strange and crazy way, and always provided a nice distraction.

Tonight, I had a breathless moment going up a treacherous hill on Filbert Street where I stalled out and had to alternate between the emergency brake and my fancy foot-pedal work. And prayer. It wasn’t pretty, but it was exhilarating and I made it to the top of the grade.

Because of all the one-way streets, I had to circle around, taking Leavenworth to Chestnut to Larkin before I was able to drive down beautiful, touristy Lombard Street with its absurdly winding turns, vivid pink hydrangea bushes, neat green hedges, and incongruous palm trees. The night was clear, and as I took the first turn, a carpet of city lights undulated toward the shining pillar that was Coit Tower standing sentinel at the top of Telegraph Hill.

With the next turn, I could make out the ebony surface of the bay. Many miles beyond the water, the vague outline of the Berkeley hills was silhouetted against the night sky.

At this time of night, there were only a few other cars making the descent, so I eased off the brake pedal and drove briskly around the two remaining sharp, twisting curves for which the redbrick-paved street was justifiably famous.

Years ago, when my parents had first brought us kids here, we piled out of the car and clambered down the stairs that lined both sides of Lombard. I’m sure we were shouting and pushing and laughing all the way. When we got to the bottom, we crossed and climbed up the other side of the street, stopping every few steps to turn and gaze out at the incredible view of the city, with the blue waters of the bay and Alcatraz Island beyond. I remembered thinking how cool it would have been to live in one of the houses that lined the crookedest street in the world. Now, as I drove down, I thought how awful it had to be to deal with the daily onslaught of tourists and the constant line of cars, the photographers, the screaming kids.