Beautiful Lies (28 page)

He doesn’t miss a beat. “No. I came here to check on you.”

I stare at him. “Why would you need to do that?”

“Because it’s my job,” he says simply. “To protect and serve. You’ve heard that before, I assume?”

Instead of responding, I look beyond him at the city of Greensburg spread out all around us, the rain falling more heavily by the minute. I’ll be soaked by the time I get home.

“I have to go,” I say.

He frowns. “You’re not walking, are you?”

“Yes. I’ll be fine.”

“No way.” He shakes his head vigorously. “Come with me. I’m giving you a ride.”

“I don’t want a ride.” It’s not true; I’d actually love one. But if I get in his car, he’ll definitely smell my breath.

“I don’t care if you
want
one,” Ryan presses. “I’m not letting you walk home in the dark, especially not in the rain.”

I give him a steely look. “I’ll be fine. I can do what I want.”

He seems disappointed. “You’re sure?”

I force a smile. “I’ll be fine,” I repeat.

As I walk away, the rain is coming down in tiny droplets that feel like a million needles hitting my skin; I’m soaked almost immediately.

Even with my back turned, I can tell Ryan is still standing under the awning, watching me. Before I cross the street, I look over my shoulder. Sure enough, there he is.

He cups his hands around his mouth. “You’ll catch a cold!” he yells.

I’m almost to the end of the street before I realize what a ridiculous warning it is. The understanding makes me laugh out loud.
I’ll catch a cold,
I think, unable to suppress my giggles.
What a tragedy.

The rain remains constant and heavy as it pours from the low, thick stratus clouds overhead, hitting my cheeks as I walk toward the center of town, to the path that will take me home. My shirt is soaked all the way through to my skin. I have goose bumps. The days are growing shorter, and it’s completely dark right now, at barely seven o’clock. In a few weeks it will be dark by five. I’ve never liked autumn much. A person can go for what feels like forever around here without seeing the sun.

The path, once I reach it, appears to be empty. And even though it’s eerie to see it so still and quiet when it’s usually pretty crowded, it doesn’t surprise me. Who would be out for a stroll on a night like this? The rain comes down harder by the minute as the sky grows darker, and the evening gives me such an uncomfortable, unsettled feeling that I find myself walking faster, almost trotting in my dress shoes as I hurry to get home.

A faint noise sounds behind me in the almost-darkness, pebbles tumbling along and falling against one another, a low scuffle of motion. I pause for a second, listening.

Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.

I glance over my shoulder. After maybe fifty feet, the trail curves to my left, preventing me from seeing anything beyond a certain point. Maybe all I’m hearing is the rain hitting the ground or trickling down from the leaves on the trees surrounding me.

I keep walking, a little faster now.
Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.
The sound is rhythmic and constant. It’s not the rain.

Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.
It’s a person. I can sense him before I see him. But then, as I hurry forward, I look over my shoulder again and make out a tall figure wearing a dark raincoat—camouflage, maybe?—and sweatpants. It’s a man, a jogger. He’s heading right toward me, trotting along with his head down, hood pulled tightly around his face.

I don’t know why, but I’m scared. I’m sure whoever’s behind me is just a random person out for an evening run. And even though the trail is otherwise empty right now, I’m sure that lots of people go running on it in all kinds of weather. There’s nothing for me to be afraid of. Right?

Still, I speed up, trotting a bit, my feet aching with every stride as my shoes hit the loose gravel. I’m starting to wish I’d accepted Ryan’s offer for a ride.

Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.
The runner is getting closer. I speed up a bit more, my adrenaline flowing, and finally I
see the break in the path that leads to the road near my house.

“Rachel!” I hear from behind me. “Rachel, wait!”

It’s Sean Morelli. I stop, catching my breath as my panic subsides. He trots closer to me, puts a hand on my shoulder. “What are you doing out here?”

“I’m going home.” My teeth chatter as I smile. “You scared me.”

“I did? Aww, I’m sorry. I was trying to catch up with you. I thought something might be wrong.” He looks up and down the path, which is still deserted. “Anyway,” he continues, “you shouldn’t be out here by yourself, not at night. Come on—I’m going home too. I’ll walk with you.”

For a little while, both of us are quiet as we head toward our street, rushing to get out of the rain even though we’re already soaked. I’ve known Sean for six years, but it’s still an awkward silence. I’m not used to being alone with him.

“Wish I had an umbrella for you,” he says. “Why did you have to walk home? Couldn’t someone pick you up?”

My steps grow slower as we trudge uphill. It’s tough to walk quickly on the pavement in these shoes, which are uncomfortable under the best of conditions.

“I got fired,” I tell him, my tone apologetic. I give him a quick explanation of the night’s events so far. He listens, eyes wide open in attention, nodding his head as I tell him everything that Mr. Hahn said about Alice. By the time I’m finished, we’re standing on the front porch of his house.

“You ever been fired before?” he asks, fiddling with his keys as he goes to unlock his front door.

“Never.” I hesitate as he steps into the foyer. “Um, I should probably go home. Thanks for walking with me.”

He looks me over. “You’re drenched. I’m not sending you home like that. Come inside and dry off first.” Smiling, he adds, “You don’t want to catch a cold, do you?”

I wait in the kitchen, taking a seat at the table while he goes upstairs to get me a towel. His house is sparsely decorated, clearly lacking a woman’s touch. As far as I know, he doesn’t date much. I remember him having a girlfriend a couple of years ago—Adrienne? No. Her name was Alexis. She was a teacher too. I think she taught chemistry or biology—something like that. Anyway, they lived together for a few months. Charlie adored her. She and Mr. Morelli adopted his dog together from the Humane Society. But after a while, something went wrong between them and she moved away. It happened quickly. She came to our house early one morning to say good-bye to Charlie, and her car was parked down the street, already packed up and ready to go. She drove away and never came back. Poor Mr. Morelli—I remember my aunt and uncle talking about how heartbroken he was when it happened.

The house is almost quiet except for the sounds of his
footsteps upstairs as he walks around his room. I imagine him changing out of his wet clothes and getting dressed again, and can feel heat rising in my cheeks, embarrassed by my own thoughts. His yellow Lab, Sheba, is asleep on the living-room carpet. She’s the calmest dog I’ve ever encountered. All around me, I hear small sounds that would otherwise blend into the stillness of the room if I weren’t paying attention to them: The hum of the refrigerator. The sound of the faucet dripping, all the way down the hall in the first-floor bathroom. The rain outside hitting the windows. Sheba’s heavy breathing, the air in her lungs creating a light wheezing sound.

As I’m sitting there, my gaze catches something sticking out from behind the refrigerator. I recognize the shape right away: it’s a canvas stretched across a square frame, the fabric pulled tightly over the corner and held in place with a small row of staples. I can tell immediately that it must be a painting. But what is it doing behind his fridge?

Weird. Mr. Morelli isn’t an artist, but anybody with half a brain should know that you can’t store art behind a fridge; the heat from the coils will warp the painting, eventually destroying it. It’s almost like storing it behind a radiator.

I listen for a moment, paying attention to the noise upstairs. I can hear water running. Maybe he’s taking a quick shower. For a brief instant, I imagine him like that—in the shower—and I feel embarrassed all over again.
Get ahold of yourself, Alice. He’s just a guy.

I walk to the fridge and tug at the corner of the painting. As it falls out from its place against the wall, I stare at it, confused.

It’s one of mine, a painting I did over the summer. It’s sort of a throwaway piece, only half-finished. I barely remember working on it at all; I think it was part of a three-day exercise in my art class at the college. As I tug it free from the space, I recognize the brushstrokes as my own; I recognize the glint in the subject’s eyes, the curve of her jawline, the wave in her hair. I recognize her playful smile, those eyes looking at me from every angle, and the small gap between her front teeth.

The painting feels oddly heavy in my hands. It’s just a thin piece of canvas, plus a few staples and nails to keep everything in place, but I can barely hold it up for more than a few seconds. My arms begin to tingle; the feeling starts at my shoulders and moves all the way down to my fingertips. I shift my weight, trying to steady myself as I hold on to the painting, but the weight quickly becomes too much to bear; I have to put it down.

As I’m resting it on the kitchen table, my vision goes fuzzy. I grab the edge of the table with both hands, afraid I might pass out. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment; when I open them, everything is in focus again.

Everything except the painting.

At first the girl is only a blur, the brushstrokes so muddled that I can’t even make out her face anymore. But then,
right before my eyes, her image begins to multiply. It’s the same effect that happens when a person stands in front of a three-way mirror: a hundred blurred faces fading into infinity, pulling apart as I watch, astonished by what I’m seeing, until they stretch across the entire room. The farther outward they go, the fainter her face becomes; it’s like a little more color is lost with each copy. Then, just as rapidly as they expanded, they begin to collapse, folding in on themselves from either side until there are only two faces in front of me. They both look completely real, like I could reach out and feel the grooves in the paint.

But they aren’t identical, not anymore. The image on the left is the same one I’ve been seeing this whole time: it’s the gap-toothed girl, with her long golden hair and feather earrings, smiling up at me.

The face on the right belongs to my sister. Rachel holds the same pose as her blond counterpart. She wears the same expression. She has the same glint in her eyes. If it weren’t for her hair and teeth, the subtle difference in the shape of their mouths, they could almost be twins.

“Hey.”

I scream, yanking my outstretched hand away from the faces like I’ve touched something hot. I can smell Mr. Morelli before I turn around to look at him. He smells soapy, damp, freshly showered. But there’s something else: the smell of autumn, dirt, wet leaves. It’s an earthy smell.

“Rachel, calm down! What’s the matter?” He tugs at my
arm, glancing down at the table. “Oh. I see you’ve found her.”

“What?” I stare, expecting to see both faces still gazing back at me. But my sister is gone; there is only the gap-toothed girl now, her expression still and unchanging.

“The painting,” Sean clarifies. “You found her. I mean, you found it.”

“Huh?” I press my palm to my forehead, which is cold and sweaty. “Oh, right. Yeah.”

“Are you okay?” His hand is still on my arm. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“I’m fine,” I tell him, blinking again and again as I look around the room.
She was right there,
I think to myself.
I saw her.

But now she’s gone. What is the matter with me? Am I hallucinating? Regardless, I know I shouldn’t say anything to Sean about what happened; he’d probably insist on walking home with me to tell my aunt and uncle.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to seem calm. “I didn’t mean to snoop. I saw the corner sticking out, and I was just curious—”

“Rachel, relax.” He hands me a clean towel. Then he leans past me, bends over, and picks up the painting. We both look at it as I blot my hair dry.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” he asks. He has changed into loose-fitting jeans and a red-and-white-plaid button-down shirt. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. There are small bursts of dark hair on each of his knuckles.
He holds the painting with his right hand, and he places his left hand gently on my back. I get goose bumps from his touch.

“Alice painted that,” I say.

“She sure did,” he agrees. “I can’t believe she didn’t take it with her. I was walking past the art studio a few weeks ago, and there it was, perched on an easel.” He teaches English at the community college; I used to see him there all the time last summer.

He takes a step away from me, letting his hand linger on my back for just a second before he walks across the room and rests the painting on a windowsill. “I’ve been meaning to tell her it’s over here. I’m guessing she doesn’t want it, though.” He glances at me and flashes a smile. His teeth are so white that they almost seem to glow. “Do you think she’ll mind if I keep it? I’ve been thinking of hanging it somewhere.” He pauses. “What am I saying? I should offer to buy it. She does such great work; it’s hard to believe she’s only eighteen.”