Little White Lies (22 page)

“Everything okay?” Christian asks anxiously. “You’ve been ages. I was worried.”

“I got a bit lost,” I tell him, taking the widest possible path around the bed. “I bought supplies, though.” I dump the shopping bag and cross the blue diamond-patterned carpet to the far side of the room to put the kettle on.

“You sure you’re okay?” Christian says quietly.

“Yep.” I yawn. “Just really tired. It’s been a long day.”

“I know.” He sighs. “Come and sit down.” He pats the bed.

“In a minute.” I smile quickly. “I’m dying for a cuppa first. Want one?” I busy myself making the world’s most complicated cup of tea, buying space and time to think.

“No thanks.” He rummages in the bag. “Wow! Did you buy the whole shop?”

I shrug. “I didn’t know what you’d need.”

The boxes of hair dye tumble to the floor and I snatch mine up, seizing my chance.

“Actually, I’d better make a start with this, get it over with.” I make a beeline for the bathroom.

“Lou—”

“What?” I snap.

He looks at me, his eyes wide. “Don’t forget your tea.”

“Right.” I pick up the cup, hurry into the bathroom, and lock the door behind me. Then I take a deep breath.
Calm down.

I glance at the yellow button on my watch.
We can be with you in an instant if you need us.

I can do this.
Don’t blow it now.

I rip open the box of hair dye, the contents spilling everywhere. Irritably, I snatch them up, then spot the scissors from Joe’s flat lying next to Christian’s torn trousers. My heart beats fast as I reach for them, the metal cold and hard in my fist.

I still have these. Still have a weapon. Just in case... I tilt them so the blades glint and flash in the light, then suddenly see my own eyes looking straight back at me. I barely recognize myself.

What am I doing?
I look away quickly—unable to face myself—and start hacking at my hair instead.
May as well cut it too,
I reason as great chunks tumble to the floor and tears streak my cheeks.

I don’t want to be me anymore. I’m out of my depth and now I don’t know what to think, what to believe, what to feel. I don’t know what the truth is, what I
want
the truth to be....

Do I
want
Christian to be guilty, so I can make him pay for everything he’s done to me and my family? So I can finally get the justice I’ve worked so hard for? So I can feel less guilty for everything I’ve done to
him
?

Or do I want him to be innocent so I don’t have to be ashamed of the way I feel? For I can’t deny that my feelings for him have changed. Christian isn’t at all how I expected him to be, and when I think of his arms around me...

My stomach churns uneasily. Either I’m a horrible person for persecuting an innocent guy and putting his life in danger... or I’m a terrible cousin for developing feelings for the guy who left Poppy in a coma.

My head hurts, my thoughts tangling together like spaghetti, loose ends dangling everywhere.

Why didn’t Christian tell me about his other conviction? If he’s a con man, how can I believe a word he says?

But if he’s innocent, why did Poppy never mention him to me—or any of my family? Why would she keep him secret?

But why bother to make it all up if he’s guilty? Just so I wouldn’t call the police? He could’ve escaped any time—why lie?

I lay my head on my arms and instantly that foresty smell fills my lungs and my heart aches as I realize how desperately I want him to be innocent, to trust everything he’s said, to believe he really is the kind, gentle, caring guy I’ve come to know, to like... to
more
than like.

I sigh.

Guilty or innocent—w
hatever the consequences, I have to know the truth. If I can find Poppy’s phone, I’ll know if he’s lying. If it’s in Poppy’s bag, if it has his text on it, then it’s proof he’s telling the truth.

If not... I swallow hard.

Then at least I’ll know.

“Oh my God!” Christian gasps as I step out of the bathroom. “You look...”

“Hideous. I know. I’m not a born hairdresser.” I sigh, scrutinizing my jagged ends in the dressing-table mirror.

“No, that’s not—” Christian swallows, his reflected face pale beside mine. “It’s just you look... for a second you looked just like her. Like Poppy.”

I freeze.

“That’s who you reminded me of before, and now that you’ve changed your hair... it’s uncanny.” I stare at myself in the mirror, my heart racing as I realize he’s right.

Idiot!
I curse myself. What a stupid,
stupid
error!

There hadn’t been much choice of dyes in the store, so I just grabbed two boxes of red—I didn’t even
think—
and now with short hair... I glance anxiously at Christian. Has he worked it out?

“You mean she had a really crappy hairdresser too?” I raise an eyebrow, trying to defuse the situation.

He stares at me for another second, then grins. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“I’m the one looking freaky!” I moan, glad to change the subject. “I look like a rag doll.”

“Note to self: don’t leave you alone with scissors,” Christian laughs. “Come here, I’ll straighten you out.” He reaches for the scissors.

I hesitate, then reluctantly hand them over.

“Sit.”

I do as he says, perching on the edge of the bed, all the hairs on my body standing on end as he maneuvers himself behind me, his legs on either side of mine.

“So...,” Christian whispers, his warm breath tickling the back of my neck. “Who’s the
real
Louise Shepherd?”

I stiffen. “What?”

Snip
. The sound of the blades makes me jump.

“Your hair was dyed blond, right?” he says. “So what color is it naturally?”

“Oh—mousy brown,” I mumble, my skin tingling at his closeness.

Why does he want to know?
Has he figured out who I am? Could Poppy have shown him a photo of me? Or is it just an innocent question?
Will it always be this way with him? I wonder. Half terrified, half attracted, all my senses heightened whenever he’s near?

Snip.
I shiver.

No
,
I reason. Not once I know the truth. Then I’ll know how to feel.

“Head down,” he instructs, and I obey, wishing all my choices were so simple.

“So what’s your story, Louise?”

Snip.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, I bored you with my life history, now it’s your turn,” he says. “Where are you from?”

“Oh, I was born in Brighton,” I say truthfully.
But I live in London.

“Cool. I love the sea. Who do you live with?”

Snip.

“What?”

“You said your parents died when you were little—so who do you live with now? When you’re not at uni. Or boarding school.”

Boarding school?
I flinch as the cold metal skims the back of my neck, my heart beating fast. I never told him I went to boarding school....

“Are you okay?” Christian asks. “I didn’t nick you, did I?”

“No, I’m fine,” I lie.

Snip.

“So were you, like, adopted?” he asks. “Or do you live with family?”

Snip.
The blades slice close to my ear.

I swallow hard. “Adopted.”
By my family
.

I sit helplessly as my hair scatters all around me, feeling like I’m falling apart. This is it. He knows who I am. He must know... doesn’t he? How else would he know I went to boarding school?

“And do they have any other kids or adopted kids?” he says.

“No,” I lie again, cold dread filling my veins.

“I always wanted a sister,” Christian says. “A younger sister I could teach magic tricks to and take to ballet class and music festivals.”

Snip.

Ballet class and music festivals?
He’s practically describing Poppy! My fingers play with my watch, dancing hesitantly around the yellow button... but something stops me pressing it, still hoping I’m wrong.

“Have you been to many music festivals?” I ask lightly, trying to change the subject.

“Only once—to Glastonbury. That’s why Poppy asked me to go with her. She wanted me to show her the ropes—she was so excited.”

“So
she
bought the tickets?” I ask. “They were in her bag? With her phone?”

“Yes,” Christian says. “I guess so.”

“And where’s her bag now?”

“My grandad’s allotment,” he tells me. “It seemed the safest place. I buried it under his shed.”

I nod. An allotment should be easy enough to get into.

“My grandad always tried to get me interested in gardening. He used to take me down there after school sometimes—even let me paint a big sunflower on the roof of his shed—but I was hopeless with plants. Everything I grew died. So I gave up. Now I wish I hadn’t—that I’d spent more time with him, and with my parents before... before that day.” He sighs. “Was it really hard for you, being away?”

“What?” He knows I was away when Poppy was attacked?

“For school, I mean. You must’ve missed your adoptive parents when you were at boarding school?” he says. “Vix told me you and Kenny both went?”

“Oh, right,” I say, letting go of my watch, dizzy with relief.
Vix
told him about boarding school! “Yes, we did. It was fine. How’s your leg?” I ask quickly, glancing down at his bandaged shin beside me.

“I can barely feel it,” he says. “It’s okay, honest.”

I nod.

“Are you?” he frowns.

“What?”
Honest?

“Okay?”

I look up as he takes my hand.

“I’m sorry, Lou.”

“What for?” I say as he pulls me closer, tucking me under his arm.

He shrugs. “Everything,” he sighs. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this mess.” He kisses my forehead. “You know you can leave any time, right? You don’t have to stay with me.”

“Don’t be silly,” I say, hiding my face against his chest. “We’re in this together, right?”

“Right.” He holds me tight, like a bird in a trap. A trap I’ve willingly walked straight into.

I wake suddenly, my heart pounding as I glance round the unfamiliar room. The unfamiliar
empty
room. I sit up swiftly, scouring the floor, the desk, the bed. There’s no sign of Christian’s clothes anywhere. He’s gone.

Slowly, I lie back on my pillow. It’s over.

Relief streams through my body but pools in my stomach, mixing with frustration, anger, disappoint
ment. I close my eyes and a tear slides unbidden down my face, leaving my cheek cold, numb.

He’s left me behind. It was all a lie.

Suddenly the toilet flushes and my eyes fly open as Christian hobbles out of the bathroom, fully dressed. He smiles when he sees I’m awake.

“Coffee? Milk, no sugar, right?”

I nod numbly as I stare at him, trying to remember what to feel. Fear? Guilt? Affection? All of the above,
I decide miserably
.

“The supplies you got are great.” Christian smiles, handing me my coffee and sitting down next to me on the bed. “They should easily keep us going till tonight.”

I look up. “Tonight?”

“It’s safer not to stay in one place for too long,” he sighs. “And it’s safest to move at night. When it’s dark.”

“Actually”—I jump out of bed—“I’m going out.”

He looks up. “What?”

“I’m going to find Poppy’s bag.”
And go to her funeral
. “I’m going to prove your innocence.”

“What? Lou...” He falters.

I watch him closely as I slip on my shoes. If he’s guilty, he’ll try to stop me.

“You can’t.” He shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Dangerous? It’s in an
allotment
!” I smile. “Besides, this is the answer to everything,” I insist. “If I retrieve Poppy’s bag and find her phone, then your text will be on there, proving you were friends—pr
oving you’re innocent!” I look at him. “Right?”

Please.
I beg silently. Please be innocent. Please let me go out and prove it.

He takes a deep breath and I cross my fingers.

“No,” he says finally. “You can’t go.”

My heart sinks. It’s not there. He knows it’s not there. Because it doesn’t exist.

“I’ll go.” He climbs off the bed.

“What?” I stare at him. “Christian, that’s crazy!”

“I can’t let you put yourself in danger, Lou.” He grabs his coat. “Not for me.”

“I won’t be in danger!” I argue. “No one will connect me to you—especially with my new hair. But, Christian, if you go out there, you won’t last two minutes!
Everyone
knows what you look like—your face is all over TV, and the papers! You can’t go outside—es
pecially with your injured leg.”

He looks at me, his eyes troubled, torn.

“But
I
can,” I say quietly, stepping closer. “Let me do this for you. For us.”

His eyes soften. “Us?”

I nod.

If I can find Poppy’s phone, it’ll prove that I can trust him, that he didn’t hurt Poppy, that he’s innocent. And if I can prove that he’s innocent, justice will be served. I’ll have what I always came for, and he’ll be free.

And... we can actually be together. The thought hits me, and I realize suddenly that that’s what I want. I take his hand, and this time when he kisses me I don’t flinch, don’t pull away. Instead, I lean into him, surrendering to the moment, to his lips, his kiss gentle, deep, passionate as he pulls me closer to him, banishing every single thought in my head. When his lips finally break away I feel dizzy, weak, bereft.

“Okay,” he whispers, his breath sweet in my mouth, our lips barely millimeters apart, his eyes deep in mine. “For us.”

I nod slowly as he traces the line of my face with his fingers, my eyes never leaving his, never wanting to, my heart aching as I pray with every fiber of my being that I’ll find Poppy’s phone, that it’s all really true, that there’s hope for us, a future...

Unable to imagine the alternative.

As soon as I leave the Travelodge I nip to the phone box to check on Gran—still no change—before calling Aunt Grace to update her, then Vix and Kenny to tell them the plan and beg a lift. The allotments aren’t far from Joe’s flat, so I can’t risk taking my car just in case the vigilantes are nearby and recognize it, and taking the bus could be risky too—though that’s what Christian thinks I’m doing—so Vix picks me up a few blocks away, out of sight of the Travelodge windows.

“Nice hair!” Vix comments as I slide into the passenger seat of Kenny’s Mini Cooper. “I almost didn’t recognize you!”

“That’s kind of the point.” I smile. “Where’s Kenny?”

“Keeping an eye on Christian,” Vix explains. “He’s hacked into the Travelodge CCTV because he doesn’t trust him not to do a runner while you’re gone. Have you got your car keys?”

I nod, patting my jeans pocket. I don’t believe Christian’s guilty, don’t believe he’ll disappear on me, but there’s no point taking any chances, just in case.

I give Vix the directions Christian’s scribbled on the back of last night’s till receipt, while I keep my eyes glued on the rearview mirror.

When I’m absolutely sure we haven’t been followed we park in a residential street near the allotments, and even then I watch every car and every pedestrian that passes for a few minutes, till I’m positive it’s safe before I risk getting out of the car.

So far, so good.

I glance at my watch. Nine-thirty. Aunt Grace said the funeral’s not till three, and it’s pretty nearby, so I should have plenty of time to find Poppy’s bag and phone before I head to the house.

If the phone’s really there.

I duck my head as I climb out of the car and follow Vix, trying not to look like too much of a psycho as I keep glancing behind me, paranoid after last night despite my new sunglasses, haircut, and hair color. The vigilantes could be nearby, and though my house isn’t far away either, I don’t know this neighborhood at all. At least it’s daylight now, and there are people around if we need them—a woman hanging out her washing, a couple of kids playing in a garden, a man walking his dog—

My breath catches in my throat.
I know him
!

He was at a family barbeque one year—I’m sure of it! I turn away as he passes. I don’t want to be recognized by anyone, gang member or neighbor.

I take a last careful look over my shoulder before we slip down a narrow alleyway, following the wooden fence for a few meters until we reach a blue gate, just as Christian described it, and Vix turns the handle.

“Shit.” She tries again. “It’s locked.”

I glance both ways down the alley, then take a run up and leap at the fence, doing my best to scramble up it—only to graze my palms as I tumble painfully back to the ground, unable to get a grip.

Double shit.

“Need a hand?” Vix asks, linking her fingers into a stirrup.

“Thanks.” Resting one foot on her hands, I finally manage to reach the top of the fence and lift myself up.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” a man’s voice yells.

Startled, I lose my grip and crash into Vix, who swears as we tumble to the ground. There’s a rattling sound at the gate, and before we can scramble to our feet, it creaks open. An old man with a spade stares down at us.

“And what do we have here?” he says sternly.

“H-hi!” I stammer. “Sorry, we were just—”

“Breaking and entering?” He raises an eyebrow.

“No, we were—”

“Vandalizing? Stealing?” He looks us up and down.

“No... I... my uncle left something in his shed and we’ve come to get it,” I bluff. “He said it’s got a sunflower on the roof.”

His eyes widen. “You’re
Bertie’s
niece?”

“That’s me!” I smile quickly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Gordon.” The old man shakes my hand. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear. That’s Bertie’s over there.” He points to an old dilapidated shed. “Can’t miss it with that bloody flower on top. Cheerio!”

“Thanks!”

“Was Christian’s grandad called Bertie?” Vix asks me as we hurry across the allotment, past the neatly dug plots filled with rows of vegetables and beanstalks and gooseberry bushes, towards the musty old shed.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I hope so. If not—”

“If not, then Bertie must be the new owner of the shed,” Vix finishes for me. “Christian’s grandad died, after all.”

“Oh God, Vix, then what if the new owner’s found Poppy’s bag?” I cry, panic rising in my chest. “What if it’s not even here anymore?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” she says, trying the door.

Suddenly it flies open, startling me and sending Vix reeling backwards. An old man stares out at us, puzzle book in hand, looking even more surprised than we are.

He must be Bertie.

“Can I help you?” he grunts.

“I’m... I’m sorry, I’m, er, looking for my uncle’s shed,” I stammer, the lie tumbling out again automatica
lly—may as well be consistent. “I’m his niece.”
Obviously.

“It must be that one instead.” Vix quickly points to a shed on the other side of the allotment. “That’s got a red door too.”

The man nods brusquely. “Wrong shed.” As he blinks I notice his eyes are red and watery.

“I’m so sorry we disturbed you,” I tell him. “Goodbye.”

“Wait,” he says. “You’re Ted’s niece?”

“Um, yes,” I lie, wondering what hole we’ve dug ourselves into this time.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Ted was a good bloke, God rest his soul.”

Shit.

“Yes, we... we all miss him terribly.” I stare at my shoes in what I hope is a mournful way as guilt swells in my throat. I can’t believe I’m lying to this old man.

“We’ve come to clear out his shed a bit,” Vix says. “Pick up some of his stuff, you know.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t even know he had a niece.”

“No—I—we hadn’t seen each other in years,” I bluff.

“That’s a shame.” He frowns. “Family should never be kept apart. It’s the most painful thing.”

I nod, thinking of Poppy and suddenly, I realize I don’t have to pretend to be grieving. I’m hurting for real. “I guess you never realize how much you’ll miss someone till they’re gone.”

Bertie shakes his head, his voice strained. “And then it’s too late.”

I look up. The wrinkles seem to crack his face into pieces and somehow I know he’s not talking about Ted.

“You lost someone too?” I ask quietly.