Anyway, she just turns away and starts walking again. Or staggering, really. So, I’m like, shit, I can’t just drive away. And I’m sure as hell not going to drag this girl into my truck with me.
So I call the cops and tell them where she is and say I’m gonna slowly follow her until they get there because I’m real worried. I didn’t know this at the time, but they had every cop in town out looking for Lucy because they’d already found Savannah’s body and feared the worst, you know? Anyway, a cop gets there so fast. I could see him in my rearview mirror, doing like a hundred.
The cop catches up with her and I wait around for a bit because they want me to give a statement. An ambulance comes and at least seven other cop cars. I’d never seen such a ruckus in Plumpton before. One of the cops tells me about Savannah and I’m just like, shit, this girl must have gotten so lucky. And the cop was like, “Yeah, no kidding, hope she can tell us who did this to them.”
I don’t think that a single cop at that scene was thinking that this girl was the one who killed Savannah. Everyone was so relieved. They thought that Lucy was dead too and they were so happy to have found her.
We didn’t know. We couldn’t have even dreamed it.
CHAPTER SIX
LUCY
The wooden stairs creak as I walk up to them, much worse now than when I was a kid. I’d have a hell of a time sneaking out these days.
I glance back at Dad as I go. He’s in the kitchen, taking a breath so big I can see his shoulders rise with the effort. My presence makes many people uncomfortable, but none more so than my own father.
I think about Nathan, standing in the corner of his bedroom yesterday, rambling about work as he watched me pack. I could feel the nerves rolling off him.
Fuck, he reminds me of my father. Wonderful. My therapist is going to love this.
The master bedroom door is cracked and I can hear the sound of a humidifier coming from inside. I press my hand to the wood, nudging it open.
Mom sits on the bed, back propped up with pillows, legs stretched out in front of her, one in a giant white cast. Her blond (fake, she’s brunette like me) hair is pulled up in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a full face of makeup. I’ve rarely seen Mom without makeup. Plumpton is the sort of town where people drop by unexpectedly.
She spots me creeping at the door and smiles. “Lucy! I thought I heard you down there. Come here, hon.”
I step inside. The master bedroom used to have an elaborate gallery wall over the bed of me growing up—at least a dozen pictures of me being cute as hell throughout the years—but there’s a large blue and white quilt there now. It was probably handmade by Mom, but I’m still a little salty about being replaced by a blanket.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Come here and give me a hug. I know I look dreadful, but don’t worry, I’m fine.”
She does not look dreadful. She does look older, though. Maybe that was what she meant by dreadful. My mom, like her mom, is blessed with smooth, beautiful skin that has always made her look a good ten years younger than she really is. Now, at fifty-five, she’s starting to actually look like she’s in her fifties.
I inherited this great skin, but I look twenty-nine. I might look well into my thirties, on a bad day. Being accused of murder has aged me prematurely.
I walk to the bed and give her a quick hug. She smells like perfume. Probably expensive, but I wouldn’t know. All perfume smells like flowery garbage to me.
“I’m so glad you came,” she says. “Your grandmother is being impossible about this party. The woman won’t even let us take her out to dinner for most of her birthdays and now she suddenly wants a huge shindig with the entire family? And she tells me two weeks beforehand? I think she’s trying to kill me just so she can brag about outliving her daughter.”
I don’t argue, because that does sound like Grandma.
I perch on the edge of her bed. “How’s the leg? Did they give you some good pain meds?”
“I don’t need pain medication.” She waves her hand dismissively. Mom has more of a Texas accent than Dad or I do, and it makes everything she says sound friendly. She grew up here, in Plumpton, but Dad didn’t move to Texas until college. I lost what little accent I had after a couple of years away. I’m not sad about it.
“How’d you even get up here?”
“I just used my crutches.” She flexes her biceps. “The doctor said it would be difficult, but it was a breeze. All those sessions with the personal trainer are paying off.”
“When did you become a gym rat?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t believe I like that term. But exercise is very important for older women. Do you still spend all those hours on the treadmill?”
“Yes.” Running until I can’t think is the only way I stay sane, most days.
Well, relatively sane.
“Maybe they’ll let you use my pass while I’m injured. I’ll remind them that I’m not suing.”
“Very big of you.”
She pats my hand. “Now, I want you to feel free to go wherever while you’re in town. I told several people that you’re coming so that no one will be surprised. I’m sure it’s spread all around town by now.”
“I’m sure.”
“I do hope you’ll go out and see folks.” Her hand is still on mine, and she looks at me anxiously.
“No one wants to see me, Mom.”
“Sure they do. And I think it’s best if you don’t hide. You don’t have anything to be ashamed of, do you?”
It’s a genuine question, one that requires my response. Mom asks me constantly, in a million different ways, whether I murdered Savvy. Maybe she thinks that if she asks enough, I’ll eventually let it slip that I did indeed bash my friend’s brains in. I have to admire her persistence.
“No, I don’t have anything to be ashamed of,” I lie.
“That’s right, dear.” That’s what she always says when she thinks I’m lying.
And my mom definitely thinks I’m lying about not remembering the night that Savvy died. She tried for years to get me to confess.
She pestered me to come back home after I left for L.A.—“If you’re back here, you might remember something. Or you might feel compelled to share something new. Have you seen the memorial they did for Savvy?”
She tried the god approach—“You need to confess and atone for your sins here if you want to be forgiven in the next life.”
She gave logic a whirl—“You were the only one with Savvy that night, so I think that it’s time to face facts.”
She went for guilt (by far her favorite)—“Do you know what that family is going through? They need an explanation.”
There is nothing my mother wants more than for me to confess to killing Savvy. Not just because she thinks it’s the right thing to do, but because she would excel as the mother of a murderer.
She’d be a star at church. She’d give long speeches about forgiveness. She’d write a book about overcoming the guilt she felt at raising a murderer. Sometimes I think that she’s angrier about me depriving her of this than she is about me actually (maybe) murdering someone. Mom enjoys being the best at everything, and I’ve denied her the opportunity to be the best mother of a murderer. You can’t be the best mother of a woman suspected of murder. That just doesn’t have the same ring to it.
I stand, and her hand slips off mine. “Do you need anything?”
“No, I’m fine, hon.” She smiles up at me, and I head to the door. “By the way, I don’t know if anyone told you, but that podcaster is back in town. Might want to keep an eye out.”
Listen for the Lie Podcast with Ben Owens EPISODE ONE—“THE SWEETEST GIRL YOU EVER MET”
Savannah’s mother, Ivy Harper, invites me to her home shortly after I arrive in Plumpton. It’s the first of several conversations.
Ben:???????????????Hi, Mrs. Harper?
Ivy:?????????????????Ben! It’s so nice to meet you, finally. Come in, come in. And please call me Ivy.
Ivy is a small woman, just barely over five feet tall, with blond hair that is neatly braided every time I see her. Savannah took after her mom, which I mention when I see the pictures of her hanging on the wall.