Beautiful Lies Read online

  “You’re right,” I say. “You really know me, don’t you?”

  He rests his head against mine. “I guess I do.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, and I can tell we’re both thinking about our fight from a couple of weeks ago. I was the one who started it. We’d been seeing each other for three months, but there was so much he wouldn’t tell me about himself. I still didn’t even know his last name. We were at his apartment one afternoon, and I started looking through his mail while he was in another room, trying to figure it out, but everything was addressed to Current Resident.

  When he confronted me, I got so angry—I was crying, begging him to tell me why he kept so many secrets. “How can you be my boyfriend if I don’t even know who you are?” I’d demanded. I was throwing the mail all over the room, making a huge mess.

  And then he said the most awful thing. At least, it seemed like the most awful thing at the time. “That’s the problem, Alice,” he told me. “I can’t be your boyfriend.” He wouldn’t say anything else, even though I begged him. I finally left; that was the last time I’d seen him until today.

  “So what happened?” he finally asks. “After you broke the figurine and your aunt went nuts, did you tell Rachel not to get on her bike?”

  I nod. “Yes. And by then I’d made such a scene that my uncle finally went out to look at the bike, I guess to make sure it was safe for her to ride. He was just patronizing me, I knew. But after a few minutes he came back inside, and he had this weird look on his face. Our bikes had come with these canvas pouches attached to their handlebars—you know what I mean, right? So we could have a place to keep stuff while we rode?”

  Robin shrugs. “Sure.”

  “Well, I guess the bikes had been parked in our garage for a while, maybe a week or so. And Rachel’s bike … there was a hornet’s nest inside the pouch. They’d burrowed inside and built a nest while it was hidden. If she’d gone for a ride right then—if I hadn’t done something to stop her—she could have been swarmed.” I pause. “But I did stop her. And she was safe.”

  Robin exhales a deep breath. “Because you knew something would happen to her if she got on that bike.”

  “Yes. But there have been other things too, Robin.” I rush on. “The summer before last, when we were sixteen, Rachel did a bunch of work in our yard. It was my aunt’s birthday, and she wanted to do something nice for her. So she spent a whole afternoon pulling weeds beside our house, and when my aunt came home that evening, Rachel was excited to surprise her. But my aunt was worried; she told Rachel there’d been a ton of poison ivy growing among the weeds; my aunt had been meaning to have it sprayed for weeks. Rachel had been working in shorts and a tank top all day. She hadn’t showered yet.”

  Robin shudders. “Well, that’s unfortunate. She must have been a mess.”

  “She was, yeah. Even though she showered as soon as she found out, it was already too late. She woke up the next morning covered; she even had it between her toes. But here’s the weird thing: I got it too. I got it all over me, just like Rachel.” I stare at him. “I wasn’t in the yard at all that day, Robin. I was at my grandma’s.”

  He lowers his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know. But I’m not making it up.”

  “And you think she’s in trouble now because of what’s happening to you,” he finishes for me. “You want to figure out how to save her.”

  “Yes.”

  “But Alice, do you have any clue at all where she might be? Do you even know where to start?” He sits up straighter, pulling away so he can look me in the eye. “Rachel is her own person. You might be her twin, but that doesn’t make you responsible for her.”

  But it does, I think. He doesn’t get it because he doesn’t know everything—not yet. “Robin,” I say, “I think it could be my fault that she’s missing. Whoever took her … I think they meant to take me. Do you understand? I am responsible; it should be me who’s missing, not Rachel. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Robin pulls farther away, but I don’t get the sense that he’s trying to distance himself from me as much as he’s simply trying to find space, to think about everything I’m telling him. Without a word, he gets up and walks toward the kitchenette. He opens the refrigerator and stands before it, staring inside.

  The fridge is almost bare except for a lone stick of butter on the top shelf, a six-pack of light beer, and a wooden palate smeared with half a dozen shades of oil paint. Despite the glaring light from the fridge, the apartment otherwise dim, I can guess each color on sight: Burnt sienna. Cadmium orange. Cerulean blue. Chromium oxide green. Raw umber. Gold ochre. He grabs a beer, twists it open, and turns to me. “You want one?”

  I shake my head. The bruises around my eyes feel damp and hot in the warm, moist air of the apartment. My whole body aches. Still, just being here with him makes me feel … different. Safer, maybe? Protected? But that’s not it—not exactly.

  I feel loved. Being with Robin makes me feel loved, despite everything else I’ve done, all the things that make it hard for me to stand myself right now.

  Before he shuts the door, Robin reaches into the freezer and removes a plastic bag of frozen tater tots. “Here.” He walks back across the room to me. I give a little yelp of pain as he presses the bag to my face. “Shh,” he says, sitting down again. “It’s okay, Alice. Everything will be okay. I promise.”

  I can feel the individual hairs on his arms brushing against my face. I want to lean into him and close my eyes shut more tightly, to fall asleep and wake up in a new day where none of this is happening. I want to believe him that everything will be okay. But I can’t; I don’t. Instead, I start to cry.

  “Shh,” he repeats. He pulls the bag of tater tots away, tilts my head upward, and stares down at me. I can tell he’s trying to suppress a smile.

  “What?” I ask, pulling back a little. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  His eyes crinkle at their corners, even as his grin wavers. “This is going to sound weird,” he says, “but you look so pretty when you cry.”

  He’s right; it is a weird thing to say. But I don’t respond; I just lean into him again and let him hold me while I cry. Despite everything that has gone wrong in the past day, I have never felt so protected. I clutch his shirt in my fists, rubbing my thumb across the threads woven into soft fabric, unwilling to let go even when my phone begins to ring in my bookbag. I ignore it, squeezing my eyes shut more tightly instead, trying to pretend that it is only the two of us, that the rest of the world doesn’t exist, that there is nothing beyond his front door.

  After a few moments, Robin breaks the silence, his somber tone yanking me back to reality. “Alice,” he says, “I don’t know how I can help you. I’ve never met your sister, and I definitely didn’t see her last night. I didn’t go to the fair. I was here all night, alone.”

  “But you called me,” I say. “You don’t have a phone.”

  He pauses. “A friend stopped by.”

  “Which friend?” Before he has a chance to answer, something else occurs to me. “Robin, my aunt and uncle took my phone away last month. You knew that. I’ve had Rachel’s phone since last night; you called her phone, not mine.” Even as the thought materializes in my mind that he might have intended to call my sister, not me—that maybe something has been going on between them that I don’t know about—I try to dismiss it. The possibility is too painful to confront.

  “You gave me her number,” he says quickly—maybe too quickly.

  “I did?” I shake my head. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Alice, come on.” He gives me a reassuring smile. “Don’t get crazy on me.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry. But who was here with you last night?”

  “Alice, seriously,” he says, ignoring my question, “I know you’re worried about Rachel, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to look for her on your own. You need to go to the police.” He stops for a minute, thinking. “W
ait—you were about to tell me something a little while ago, before I interrupted you. What was it?”

  I sit up, pulling away from him. I think of my dream from the night before, my sister’s words. Don’t. Tell. Anyone.

  Aside from Rachel, Robin is the only person in the world who knows my true identity right now. I’ve already told him that much. I need to tell him the rest.

  “Robin … I did something wrong.”

  His eyes are kind and concerned; there is not a trace of judgment in his gaze. “What did you do, Alice?”

  I’m so ashamed that I can’t look at him. “I stole some money.”

  “…”

  “Robin, I stole a lot of money.”

  He stays calm, absorbing the information without much expression. “How much are we talking about, exactly?”

  I close my eyes. “Ten thousand dollars.”

  I can tell he’s trying not to react too strongly, but his body stiffens beside mine. “Jesus, Alice,” he breathes, “why would you steal so much money? Where did you get it?”

  “I found it.” I unzip my bookbag and take out the money to show him.

  “Oh my God.” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Shit, Alice, you know whoever that belongs to is gonna miss it, don’t you? Nobody just loses that kind of cash. Once they realize it’s gone—if they haven’t already—they’re gonna want it back.”

  I nod. “I know. I tried to put it back, but I couldn’t.”

  There is a hint of frustration in his voice. “How is that possible?”

  “The door was locked.”

  He stares at the money, the thick pile of crisp hundreds in my shaky hand. I can tell he wants to touch it. I know I did, the first time I saw it. I couldn’t help myself.

  “Robin.” I rest my hand on his forearm. “I took it for you. I was going to give it to you.”

  “For me? Alice, why the hell would you do that? I don’t need any money.”

  “Of course you do! Robin, look around. This place is awful—it’s practically falling apart. Nobody should have to live this way. This money could help you, couldn’t it? You could buy a car, or get a new apartment, or … I don’t know, do something to make your life better.”

  Robin shakes his head. “No. I don’t need a better life. What I have now—this place, and you—that’s the hand I’ve been dealt, you know? Nothing is going to change that, and even if it could, I don’t want it to change.”

  My body slumps against the couch. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I know, but I just wanted to help you. I thought that maybe if things were easier, we could … I don’t know.” I stuff the money into my backpack. “Forget it. It was a stupid idea.”

  “You thought the money would make it easier for us to be together, didn’t you?” He looks at the painting of me hanging above the couch. When I posed for it over the summer, I took off all my clothes as I stood right in front of him. His gaze explored my entire body that day, but he never once tried to touch me. It has always been that way—it’s like there’s an invisible line between us that he won’t allow himself to cross, and I have no idea why.

  “Alice,” he continues, “you have to listen to me. I don’t care if the door to wherever you found this money was locked. You need to figure out a way to give it back. Has it occurred to you that whoever you stole this from might know what you did? And if they mistook your sister for you, they might have—”

  “Yes,” I say. I’m surprised by how flat my voice sounds. “I understand. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Whatever happens to Rachel is all my fault.”

  “So make it right,” he urges. “Give the money back somehow.”

  From my purse, my phone begins to ring again. Somehow it sounds more insistent this time.

  “Don’t you want to get that?” Robin asks. “It might be Rachel.”

  “It’s my uncle,” I say. “I left the house without telling anyone. It’s been a crazy morning.”

  He stares at his hands. He makes a halfhearted effort to pick at the paint beneath his fingernails.

  I reach across the sofa and take the beer from his hand. He lets go of it easily enough. As I take a long swig, it occurs to me it’s the first thing I’ve had to eat or drink since the sip I took from Holly’s lemonade last night; my throat is parched and my lips are dry. The beer tastes fantastic. I can feel it moving down my throat, a rush of warmth spreading as it hits my stomach.

  My phone rings again.

  “Maybe you should answer that,” he says. “It’s the third time they’ve called.”

  I shrug. “It’s just my uncle telling me to come home.”

  He tilts his head in question. “Do your aunt and uncle know where you are right now?”

  “No. I snuck off. I took my uncle’s car. They called the police right before I left. To report Alice missing.”

  Robin shuts his eyes. “Oh, man,” he breathes. He stares at me, closing his hand over mine. “Alice, you should go home now. You need to talk to the police. I know it’s going to be hard, but I think you should be honest with them. About everything.”

  “No!” I say. My voice rises as my words rush together. “Nobody can know who I really am, nobody except you. If I tell my aunt and uncle that I’m Alice and not Rachel, they’re going to tell the cops. And if the police find out, then it’s only a matter of time before other people learn the truth. Robin, please. If I tell anyone who I really am, then whoever took Rachel will come for me eventually.” I swallow. “And if I don’t figure out where she is, then whoever she’s with might hurt her even more.”

  My phone rings again. I know that it’s not going to stop ringing until I either answer it or show up at home.

  The room goes fuzzy again as I stand up. The terror and dread that have spread within me seem to be alive, flowing through my veins, thriving on my worst fears. For so many years—since I was nine years old—I believed there was nothing in this world that could be worse than what I had already faced. Until now. “I’m leaving, okay?” I tell him.

  Robin stands up and takes a step toward me. Carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt me, he rests a hand on my shoulder. I am so overwhelmed with panic, so lost and alone, that I almost collapse beneath his grip. For a second, I’m afraid I’m going to throw up.

  He brings his face so close to mine that I can feel the warmth from his breath. I lean closer, expecting him to kiss me, but at the last second he tilts his head away, his lips barely grazing my cheek before he whispers into my ear.

  “Lang,” he says.

  I pull away. “What?”

  “Lang,” he repeats. “That’s my last name.”

  “Oh.” I try to smile, but the effort is weak. “Okay. Now I know.”

  There is a flash of something in his eyes—sadness, or maybe regret—as he takes a few steps backward, his hand slipping away from my shoulder. “Sure,” he agrees. “Now you know.”

  I drive toward home in silence, the only noise the sound of raindrops pounding against the windshield as the Porsche sloshes along the wet streets. I think of my sister and her words in my dream. Don’t. Tell. Anyone. Even in sleep, I trust her completely.

  Rachel doesn’t know about the money I took. Aside from Robin, nobody knows. At least, I don’t think anyone does. The idea that someone might be punishing her for what I’ve done makes me feel so sick and panicked—so guilty—that I can barely stand to be in my own skin.

  My sister has been the only constant in my life. If I lose her, I might as well lose everything.

  The smell of turpentine clings to my clothing from Robin’s touch, and for a moment my thoughts drift to last summer, when we met. It was a Monday afternoon in the first week of June. I was taking a painting class at the local community college. My easel was set up next to a large window that looked out on a grassy courtyard complete with a fountain surrounded by park benches. Each day as I worked, I sometimes found my gaze wandering outside. I watched students as they quietly studied in the gras
s, unaware of my stare. I watched a falafel vendor sweating over his cart at lunchtime, serving up pitas topped with condiments that had been sitting in the sun all morning. I saw mothers who let their toddlers run around in the fountain, ducking underwater and coming up with fistfuls of pennies from other people’s wishes. And each afternoon, from sometime after one o’clock until my class ended at three, I saw Robin. He would stroll across the courtyard and sit down on a bench, spreading out the contents of his bookbag so he was taking up the whole space for himself. He’d pull out a sketchbook and he’d sit there beneath the sun for the entire afternoon, gazing down at the paper as he drew. Every once in a while he would glance up and look around, but it never seemed to me like he was looking at anything in particular.

  From my place beside the window in my classroom, I watched him as he worked, day after day. It was like I could sense the energy coming from his body; even as I stood before my easel beneath the unpleasant fluorescent lights in the classroom, his proximity made me feel like I was bathed in sunbeams. After he’d shown up four days in a row, I spent Thursday afternoon drawing him with light pencil strokes, pausing every few seconds to glance out the window. He was a perfect subject: so still and beautiful, completely focused on whatever he was drawing.

  From so far away, I didn’t think he could possibly notice what I was doing. I’d seen him glance in my direction a few times, but I never got the impression that he was looking at me specifically. By late Friday afternoon, I had finished my sketch and wanted to begin painting over his faint likeness. I stayed late on campus to continue working as he remained on his bench, sketching away. Around four o’clock, immersed in the rhythm of my brushstrokes, I looked up and realized he was gone.

  Thinking I could continue from memory—and wanting to continue so badly, to watch him as he became fully realized on paper—I kept going. I don’t know how much time passed, or how long he stood in the doorway, watching me, before I noticed him.

  We were alone in the room, maybe even alone in the building as far as I could tell. And here was this stranger who I’d essentially been spying on all week long, stepping into the room. Under any different circumstance, I might have been afraid. He could have reacted in so many ways. He could have been upset, even angry.