Twisted Lies Read online

  He turned when she hit the landing. "You find anything?"

  "Nope."

  His head tilted to the side. "You okay?"

  "I always thought..." She shook her head. "Did you find anything?"

  "Nothing really to see. Some photos on the bookshelves in the living room, more in the kitchen, but no guys. We're sure you sister was engaged to a man, right?"

  "Not a woman, if that's what you mean."

  He shrugged. "You never know."

  She told him about her discoveries upstairs, and he nodded. "Definitely a man, then." He walked to the photographs on the bookshelves in the living room. "She has a lot of pictures."

  "Yeah. She always liked to take pictures of herself with everybody she ever met. I think it makes her feel important or something. Like if she knows all these different people, it must mean she matters."

  Nate nodded slowly. "Okay, but where's the guy?"

  "I know, it's weird. If they're that close, I can't imagine it never occurred to her to get at least a snapshot with him."

  "Maybe he refused?"

  "Maybe he imagined this very scenario," Marisa said. "What does that tell us about him?"

  "If he thought we might start to suspect Leslie, it tells us he didn't care that much about her getting caught. That he was trying to save his own ass."

  "Sounds like a keeper." Marisa glanced at the photos again. Each had Leslie and at least one other person, if not many more. She recognized some as clients they'd served way back when Marisa had worked there. Her sister garnered loyalty, that was for sure. Leslie'd kept the photos with employees upstairs, the photos with clients down. Marisa'd like to think that was because she was closer to the employees and wanted their photos in a more intimate place. She'd like to think it, but she didn't. Leslie kept the client's pictures downstairs because they made her look good.

  "Do you recognize any of them?" Nate asked. "Might they be friends?"

  "A few. Clients."

  "No friends?"

  "She never had many friends." Marisa returned to the door. "This was a waste of time."

  He stepped to the window in the living room and pushed the heavy curtain aside. "I want to show you something." She joined him at the window and looked at the casing as he pointed. "These are really good windows. New, with excellent locks. See?" He showed her the double-locking system. "No reason why she'd have them open in March, and if you look around, you'll see they're all locked. There are none that look like they've been tampered with." He crossed to the back door and opened it. "No scuff marks on this lock."

  She looked. He was right.

  "And there are none on the front door, either," he said.

  "You're saying nobody broke in."

  He shrugged. "I don't see any signs of it."

  "Great. Just proves what we thought."

  He closed and locked the back door, then gestured toward the front. "Shall we?"

  She led the way, ready to leave.

  She climbed into the truck. When he joined her, he started the engine and drove a few blocks, glanced at her a few times. He pulled over and put it in park.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  She sighed. "It's my house, too."

  "Okay."

  "She changed everything. I mean... Everything. Every light fixture, every cabinet, everything."

  "That bothers you?"

  "She made my bedroom into a workout room. All my stuff is gone."

  "I looked in the basement. There were lots of dust-covered cardboard boxes. I didn't check, because they seemed to have been there a long time. Maybe your stuff is down there."

  "Maybe she didn't give it all to Goodwill."

  "It's something."

  She sighed and stared out the side window. "It's like she never believed I'd come home. Like she just wrote me out of her life. Like I never existed. There wasn't even a photograph of me." She turned to look at him, wanting him to understand. "No photographs of Mom, either."

  He nodded slowly, his brown eyes intent as he studied her. He reached across the seat for her hand. "It seems your sister is not who you thought she was."

  "I don't know if she was always like that and I never saw it, or if something changed her. Maybe I was wrong about her feelings all those years. I thought she loved me, but now...everything's wrong." She stared at nothing while she tried to imagine the girl her sister had once been. "I guess it doesn't matter. When I was a little girl, Leslie was kind to me. Despite everything, I still don't think she'll hurt Ana, and right now that's all I care about."

  "You're right. But at the same time, I think the questions you have about your sister do matter. She's your family, your history. Just remember, what your sister thinks about you—what anybody thinks about you—that doesn't define you."

  "What does define me?"

  He shrugged. "That's a good question. I don't know the answer. I do know that you're an amazing woman. I always thought you were beautiful—nobody could deny that."

  She'd heard that her whole life, as if it was something to be proud of. As if she'd sculpted her own face and spun her own hair. As if she was supposed to feel proud of her beauty instead of recognizing it as the accident of genes that it was.

  Nate continued. "But it's who you are on the inside that I find beautiful now."

  That was the sentiment she'd longed for, always. "You're a good man, Nate Boyle."

  He looked out the windshield and watched a passing car before turning back to her. "At least we can be sure of one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "Ana is with Leslie, so she's still safe. Your sister's a lot of bad things, but nobody is all bad. You saw her good qualities growing up, and those are still there. She'll take good care of Ana."

  But what about the man Leslie was working with? He was a wild card. Who knew what he'd do?

  MARISA WATCHED HER childhood neighborhood grow smaller and disappear in the rear window.

  Nate headed toward Pamela Gray's Upper West Side brownstone to wait for the woman to get home from her trip. Why wait for a call from a maid when they could watch the front door? They'd just turned onto Grand Central Parkway when his cell phone rang. He answered it, and Garrison's voice came through the speakers.

  "Where are you guys?"

  "Queens," Nate said. "We're on our way to Manhattan. What's up?"

  "Can you meet me? We need to talk."

  The solemn tone in his voice made Marisa's heart pound. "What happened?"

  "Nate," Garrison said, "what's your location."

  "Almost to the Triborough Bridge."

  "Okay. Hold on."

  Marisa glared at the dashboard as if that would make Garrison explain himself. She glanced at Nate. He kept his eyes on the traffic-heavy road.

  What was going on? Garrison sounded serious, and not happy. If it were good news, he'd just tell them. Which meant it was bad. What would be so bad that Garrison would get involved? He was no longer with the FBI. Whatever was going on, how did he find out? She was about to blurt out her questions when he spoke.

  "Can you meet me on Randall Island? You know where that is?"

  Nate nodded. "I've seen it."

  "There's a park right under the bridge. Meet me there."

  Marisa couldn't wait. "What happened?"

  "I gotta go," Garrison said. "I'll be there soon."

  The line went dead.

  She looked at Nate. "Ana's dead. He doesn't want to tell me over the phone, but—"

  "Let's not jump to conclusions."

  "Why wouldn't he just tell us?" Her voice was rising. "If Ana's fine, why wouldn't he—?"

  "Maybe it's not about Ana. We were working a lot of angles. Maybe he got a lead." Nate reached across the car for her hand, but she shifted away.

  "Don't. I need to know what's going on."

  "Garrison is working. He's in FBI mode. It doesn't necessarily mean good news or bad. Just news. News is good."

  "Not always." Not usually. She thought of the moment she'
d learned Vinnie was dead. His mother had barely been able to speak through her tears. A moment later, another woman's voice came on the phone. Vinnie's sister explained that his body had been found. He'd been beaten to death.

  That was the moment Marisa's life had shattered. She'd spent eight years trying to put it back together, and now it was about to shatter again.

  She wasn't sure if she'd survive this time.

  Nate followed the traffic onto the bridge. She'd been on this road a thousand times—happy moments with her mom and Leslie, commuting to college and work, going on dates with Vinnie. A thousand times she'd seen the New York skyline from here. A thousand times she'd ridden beneath the steel towers, passed between the thick cables that ferried millions of cars from one side of the East River to the other. Today, those cables seemed pretty thin. One snap, and it would all be over.

  They exited onto the Bronx Shore Road on Randall Island. A few minutes later, Nate parked, stepped out of the car, and opened her door.

  "Let's walk until Garrison gets here."

  She didn't get out of the truck. She felt nearly paralyzed with fear. "What is he going to tell us, Nate?"

  He took her hand and squeezed. "I have no idea. Let's try not to worry."

  "Easy for you to say."

  He met her eyes. "No. It's not."

  She blinked and looked down. Nate had done nothing but help her. Whatever was going on, it wasn't his fault. She looked back up. "Sorry."

  "No reason to be sorry. Come on."

  He helped her out of the truck and closed the door behind her. He kept her hand in his and led the way along the paved path toward the foot of the bridge they'd just crossed. A cold breeze blew up from the river, and she folded her arms and looked out over the water.

  "My dad played in a softball league when I was a kid," Marisa said. "I used to come down here for his games sometimes."

  "Must be good memories."

  "Long time ago."

  They walked in silence. Marisa couldn't make conversation, and it seemed Nate had no idea what to say. The world seemed in suspension, just like the bridge overhead.

  Finally, Nate's phone rang. He answered.

  "We're in the park." He told Garrison where they'd parked and slipped his phone back in his pocket. "He's going to meet us in the lot. He's not here yet."

  Nate set the pace, which was the only thing that kept her from running back. They leaned against the bumper. A moment later, Garrison's black Camry parked beside the pickup.

  Marisa met him as he stepped out of his car. "What happened?"

  "Let's find a place to sit down."

  "I'm freezing," she said, "and I don't want to sit. What happened?"

  Garrison looked over her head at Nate with a pleading glance.

  Nate said, "Why don't we just—?"

  "Fine. Whatever."

  Nate opened the tailgate to Brady's truck, and she lifted herself onto it. The cold of the metal seeped through her borrowed jeans. "Please tell me what happened."

  Nate stood beside her, and Garrison stopped in front of them. "I called my old partner last night. I figured it was time to get him up to speed on what was going on."

  Her heartbeat, already racing, sped up. "The guy said no cops."

  "Relax, Marisa." Garrison wore a patient smile, which made her want to smack him. "My partner's trustworthy. With our theory about your sister, I thought maybe he and I could figure out who she's working with."

  Marisa glanced at Nate, who nodded to Garrison. "And?"

  Garrison shook his head. "Nothing on the partner yet. But..." He took a breath and blew it out. "He called me this morning."

  She waited through a long pause, knowing what was coming was bad news and almost not wanting to hear it. Almost.

  Garrison's expression softened. "Your sister's body was discovered this morning. She was murdered."

  Chapter 17

  HE HADN'T MEANT TO kill her.

  The scent of that morning's burnt toast mingled with the stink of old garlic and bad cheese, the remnants of a thousand meals previous tenants had prepared here. The sound of his footsteps joined the noises beyond the thin walls. A slamming door. A distant TV. The traffic out front. He paced past the gouged and discolored laminate countertops, past the stovetop grimy from decades of misuse, past the cheap, fiberglass table and its fake leather chairs. He swiveled at the wall, trying not to see the faded wallpaper, sure that if he accidentally touched it, his hands would come away dirty, and paced back. Maybe if he could think about something else, anything else. But despite the apartment's assault to his sense of aesthetics, all he could think about was Leslie.

  He hadn't loved her. Hadn't cared at all about her. He'd found her because he believed her sister had Charles's money. He'd convinced her he loved her, convinced her that all that stood between them and their eternal happiness was the money Marisa had stolen. They'd been fiddle-farting around about how to get the money from her when Leslie'd phoned him one day and announced they had to move soon. She'd seen a Pod in the reporter's driveway. If Boyle moved, Leslie might never be able to find her sister. They'd cobbled together a plan and set all this in motion. Leslie had been as desperate for that money as he had. Or maybe she'd just wanted to please him.

  But she'd gotten cold feet. Started worrying maybe her sister was telling the truth.

  He hadn't wanted to kill Leslie. Not just because now he had to take care of the kid. Not just because he hadn't yet gained access to her overseas account. Yeah, he knew Leslie had stolen the firm's money. He'd still been figuring a way to get his hands on it.

  He looked at his hands, remembered what they'd done. The blows. The knife. He hadn't meant to do it. He'd never be able to undo it.

  To bring her back. To get the cash.

  Whatever.

  Leslie's money was lost to him. She was dead. Now, more than ever, he needed to find Charles Gray's money.

  At least Leslie had paid off his gambling debts. A couple thousand here, a couple thousand there. She'd helped him.

  He hadn't meant to kill her.

  He punched the mustard-yellow refrigerator, and the pain in his fist traveled up his arm. Stupid move. He shook out his hand. The fist had already been bruised and cut from his fight with Leslie. And now the fridge was dented, too. The landlord would probably keep his security deposit.

  As if that mattered.

  What had he done?

  He'd killed her.

  The kid started crying again. He could hear her high, whiny voice through the walls. He didn't want to hurt the girl, but he was running out of options. He stalked out of the kitchen and across the living room. He'd kept the shades down and the lights off. He pounded on the bedroom door on the far side. "Shut up!"

  Her little voice responded, "I want—"

  "I don't give a flying..." He stopped short of the word and shook his head at his own stupidity. Murder, sure, but God forbid he should swear at a child. He pounded the door again, finished his sentence, and added, "Shut up, or I'll shut you up."

  The girl's cries turned to whimpers. At least he wouldn't be able to hear the muted sound in the kitchen.

  He couldn't stay in the living room. The sight of the blood brought it all back.

  If Leslie had just kept her stupid mouth shut. But no, she decided—long after it was too late—that maybe her sister didn't have the money after all. She'd been sure. Completely convinced. And then she'd gotten cold feet. She'd started talking about how to give the kid back without getting caught. He'd screamed at her. "It's my money."

  And the waterworks had started. "You never loved me at all, did you? It was all about the money." When she'd started for the kid's room, he'd had no choice. She'd have ruined everything.

  He'd had to kill her.

  He stomped back to the kitchen, leaned against the sticky countertop, and looked at his hands. Had he always been capable of murder? Or had the circumstances changed him?

  If he didn't move and strained to hear, he coul
d still hear the kid crying.

  What was he going to do with her?

  Chapter 18

  LESLIE. MURDERED.

  The words weren't making sense, because her sister couldn't be dead. She couldn't be. Leslie had been Marisa's caretaker, her confidant, her companion. The idea that she could be gone...

  Thank God it wasn't Ana.

  Ana.

  "Oh, my God. My baby."

  "There's no sign of her," Garrison said.

  "He's going to kill her."

  Nate reached for her, but she angled away and focused on Garrison. "Did they find anything that made them think...?" She closed her eyes to block out the image of her daughter's beautiful body, dumped in an alley, dead and deserted. Gone.

  Nausea rose to her throat, and she jumped off the truck and stepped a few feet away before losing her breakfast. After emptying her stomach, she staggered further into the grassy area and fell to her hands and knees.

  Leslie was dead. Dead, dead, dead.

  Forever.

  And maybe it was Leslie's own fault for getting involved with that guy. Maybe she'd let greed and envy rule her. Maybe she'd gotten in over her head.

  No chance for redemption now.

  Dead, dead, dead.

  And Ana... Sweet Ana, if she was still alive, she no longer had someone to care for her. What was that man doing to her? Had Leslie died trying to protect her? From him? From pain? From death?

  Marisa sat up, stared at the park, imagined the city beyond it, the state, the country. Her daughter was out there somewhere. They were no closer to finding out who stole the money than they had been at the beginning of this nightmare, and even if they did figure it out, would the kidnapper—the murderer—really exchange Ana for information? And risk being caught?

  Why would he, when the only person left alive who could identify him was a four-year-old girl he couldn't care less about? A little Mexican girl, just a pawn with no value. A pawn who could destroy him.

  And there was nothing Marisa could do. She'd adopted Ana to give her the best chance for a good life, and all she'd done was sign her death warrant. A Mexican orphanage was no place to grow up, but at least her daughter would've had the opportunity to grow up. To fall in love and have children. To learn and live and laugh. Now, Ana would have none of that. And Marisa... Marisa wouldn't survive this blow. She didn't want to.