Pretty Ugly Lies: a gripping and chilling domestic noir Read online

  How can I fix this? How can I restore our family before it’s gone? Or is it too late? I want to know—is he cheating on me? Is he in love with another woman? Do I really want to know? I think I need to, but I can’t unknow it once it’s out there. I don’t know how to feel right now. Part of me wants to hurt him, but part of me wants to win him back. Sadly I don’t have the guts to do either. I’m a pathetic bystander in my own life.

  I was writing words to Denny that he’d never read. I felt spineless hiding behind my journal, but perhaps it wasn’t the right time for confrontation. All he’d do was deny, followed by a series of excuses to combat the evidence I’d present to him. He’d make me feel like a fool, and I’d be forced to accept and ignore the reality. Just like I always did.

  Why was I acting so weak? I didn’t have to be. I was intelligent, hard-working, motivated. I didn’t need to sit back and take the punches.

  No, I couldn’t let him bulldoze over me, our marriage, our family. I needed to plan this out. Catch him, threaten him. Maybe if he faced losing everything he would come back to us. I needed something bigger to out him, something more irrefutable than a red stain and lingering floral scent. And when I’d dish it all back to him, I swore to myself that he’d be choking every painful, humiliating, life-shattering taste of my overcooked wrath down … and I’d never let him come back up for air.

  Chapter 4

  Shayla Kensington

  I knew as soon as I said it that the words would come back to bite me in the ass—I mean, butt: “I’m going to teach that fucking kid a lesson he’ll never forget.”

  I should have known better than to swear in front of the kids, because a moment later I heard Tenica parroting me from the living room down the hall: “Fucking, fuck-fuck-fuck.”

  Cringing at my bad motherly example, I didn’t bother to scold her. A reprimand would only egg her on to say it louder and more often. Three-year-olds had a way of testing the boundaries—at least mine did.

  “Ow!” Arion cried out as I lost focus and brushed the washcloth a little too roughly against his tender nose. He winced at the irritation as I scrubbed away the crusty blood that left a ring under his nostrils. It was the third time in as many months my son had gotten the shit beat out of him on his way home from the bus stop. And more than anything I wanted to kick the kid’s ass who kept hurting him. But no, I had kept myself in check, it wasn’t the Oleander way. I had handled it diplomatically and spoke with the parents; a lot of good that seemed to do. Trent even rearranged his work schedule so he could pick Arion up from school to avoid the bus ride altogether … until his boss demanded longer hours without a cent more in pay.

  Cheap bastard.

  I wondered how much more bullying I was supposed to allow before pulling him out of school and sending him … where? Our quaint neighborhood on Oleander Way was regarded as one of the best school districts in North Carolina. An unaffordable private school was out of the question. Homeschooling would have been an ironic choice since I was a teacher who hated the idea of educating my own kids. I could handle my classroom, but my own kids? Let’s just say that the four hours a day I spent with them after work was plenty for me.

  “Sorry, sweetie.”

  I examined Arion’s nose, the cartilage swollen and a blotchy purplish-red, wondering if it was broken again. The last thing we needed was another medical bill to not pay. I still had collectors after me for the last one, no thanks to our shitty insurance that didn’t cover a damn thing and hospitals that felt a $15,000 charge to set a broken nose was a fair price for a “surgical procedure.” Surgery, my ass! I could have done the same thing at home with a few cotton balls and some tape. The whole health industry was a racket. God bless America.

  Unlike most of our neighbors, we could barely afford our house, let alone maintain the lifestyle that was expected of residents on Oleander Way. We epitomized the phrase “house rich, cash poor,” a secret we closely guarded from the suburban busybodies.

  “So that punk Chris Morrison did this?”

  “Yeah,” Arion mumbled against the washcloth as I finished up. “But please don’t talk to his parents again. It’ll just make it worse.”

  “Worse than this?” I held up the blood-soaked rag. “This is the third time, Arion. I don’t understand why he’s targeting you.”

  “Really, Mom? Isn’t it obvious? I wear ugly glasses, I’m the shortest kid in my class, I suck at sports, and even the nerds are cooler than me.”

  “Hey, don’t say that. I think you’re cool.”

  “You’re the only one who does. Even the girls pick on me. And you don’t think it has anything to do with my name—Arion? Were you and Dad trying to make my life difficult when you named me?”

  “Oh stop. It has nothing to do with your name or your glasses.”

  Though even I had my doubts.

  Almost ten years ago, when Trent and I discovered we were pregnant at last—and by golly, our firstborn would be a blessed baby boy! Hallelujah!—we wanted what all parents want for their unborn child: a perfect, happy life. A life of big dreams and even bigger accomplishments. While picking out blue and gray onesies, and etching sports-themed borders along his nursery wall, his whole life was plotted out. Our son would stand out. He’d excel in sports—preferably basketball—and be the popular kid who ruled over the lunch table. Straights A’s for our son, with the occasional B tolerable. And of course he’d be the cutest boy in his class.

  His name would be strong and masculine and cool—everything we planned for him to be. But cool for us back then became very different from cool now. Instead of the symbol of power we had hoped his name would become, it was a noose around his neck. What kind of name is that? we heard from family and friends. And thanks to Trent’s family name, Leslie, falling back on his middle name didn’t offer a better alternative. Add that to his clumsiness and soft-spoken demeanor and it was a recipe for failure. Over and over, with each questioning look and mispronounced spelling, Arion’s confidence chipped away until nothing was left but a weak-kneed, battered, and bruised little boy.

  Bullies like Chris Morrison smelled the odor of weakness a mile away and stalked their prey.

  “Then why? Why’s Chris hate me? I’ve never done anything to him—I don’t look at him, talk to him, or even breathe the same air as him.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem. He knows you’re afraid of him. You’ve got to stand up to him, defend yourself.”

  “He’s twice my size. He’ll kill me.”

  A likely scenario, unfortunately. The poor kid was cursed with my petite stature—all five-foot-two of me—to go along with his offbeat name, inspired by a Marvel Comics character my husband admired. Only a couple weekends of playing catch in the backyard told us everything we needed to know about Arion’s athletic prowess: there was none. The kid was a wet noodle.

  I felt horrible. We had done this to him: created a perpetual victim. And if we didn’t get him out of this hell of a life, I could envision his face splattered all over cable news reports about the latest school shooting by a disgruntled student that classmates described as a misfit.

  “Maybe you can take some self-defense classes, like martial arts. What do you think?”

  He shrugged. We both knew his lack of coordination sometimes made just putting one foot in front of the other a challenge.

  “I’d rather just change schools.”

  “I’ll talk to your father about it and see what we can do. Now let’s get some ice on this and then you go watch some television, okay?”

  Arion nodded meekly, following me to the kitchen where I pulled a year-old bag of frozen sweet peas from the freezer. God knows why I even had those in there, other than to act as a makeshift icepack. It wasn’t like I could force-feed the kids anything green anyways.

  “Here, use this.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Arion gingerly applied the bag to his eye and ambled to the living room where his little sister curled up in the corner of the slipcovered couch that hi
d jelly stains and milk blots from years past. In a manic midnight shopping spree, I had ordered a new sofa from Wayfair that was set for delivery any day now. I could already imagine Trent’s fury when it arrived, but he’d get over it. One comparison to what my best friend Jo Trubeau’s husband let her buy would shut him up until the credit card bill arrived. One thing I loved about Trent was we fought hard, but we made up even harder.

  Clutching a sippy cup to her chest, Tenica’s chubby fingers hadn’t yet lost their dimpled baby fat, and her cheeks still had that kissable thickness that everyone wanted to pinch. I stood there for a moment, watching the two creatures I had given life to, observing their attentive gazes and comfortable silence as they were entertained by whimsical characters and frantic music. It was a cherished moment, basking in the simple pleasures of motherhood, something I rarely enjoyed these days. I never stood still. I never paused to reflect. I never felt … at peace.

  Happiness skittered away from me anytime I drew near. I couldn’t explain why I felt this way; God knows I tried. But the misery, the mania, the endless emotional roller-coaster cycles haunted me, gripped me like a bear trap sinking iron teeth into my flesh. I wanted to blame it on my bipolar disorder, but was it really just me? Was I the only woman in the world unhappy with life, with no clue what would make me happy? Trent was tired of me, the kids were tired of me, I was tired of me. Hell, even my shrink was tired of me. Prescribed me some lithium then sent me on my merry way.

  There was only one joy in my life: my little secret.

  A dark and forbidden secret that could set my life on fire. It was a danger that thrilled me. Wasn’t that always the way of it—security was boring while risks were exciting? It went against the human nature to protect oneself, but I guess that’s what made mankind so complex. We were both self-preserving and self-destructive all at once. We ate junk food that spread toxins through our bodies, then exercised to make up for it.

  Complicated and contradictory, that was me. I confessed to Trent every stupid thought that bumped along in my head, but when it came to the big stuff, the real stuff that went on in my life, I lied. I hid the lies deeper. I couldn’t even tell Jo, my best friend since high school, about the depths of my secrets. It was lonely being me in my make-believe world of lies.

  No one knew about them.

  And I intended to keep it that way. No matter how much they clawed to get out. Sacrifices must be made.

  Chapter 5

  June Merrigan

  The closet was as good a place as any to hide from him. Through the closed door and layers of blouses I could hear his voice, beckoning me, inviting me to join him in hell. It wasn’t like there was anywhere I could run. There was no refuge for me. In a few precious minutes I knew I’d be found, and the nightmare would begin.

  It was a nightmare I could never seem to wake up from.

  The nightmare, after all, was my waking life.

  The horrors that awaited me drifted like an aimless ghost, his moaning floating down the hallway toward my bedroom. Beyond his approaching voice I heard shrieks of pain, like that of a child being tortured. The screams intensified, growing louder and reaching pitches that rattled my eardrums. And yet I huddled further into my dark corner, unable to find the courage to come to the rescue.

  My face dropped into the palms of my hands as I shrunk into myself, a sob escaping but luckily muffled by my fingers. I tried to reel back the weeping, but it was too late. My body shook under the weight of my tears.

  If only I didn’t know what I faced on the other side of this door.

  If only a glimmer of hope peeked through the slats, into my dark world.

  If only, if only … if only I had the power to change everything.

  But today I was powerless.

  Today I was afraid. I was afraid of what I would do. I was afraid of what I couldn’t do.

  The sense of helplessness squeezed my lungs closed. I gasped for air between a silent snuffle, praying to a God I had lost faith in two years ago. It was the year I realized that the only logical explanation for my tragic life rested on a cosmic joke some sadistic deity was playing on me—and my daily death was the punch line.

  “Where are you?” The sing-songy voice broke through my loathsome reflections, taunting me to come out from hiding.

  My breath caught and I wiped my damp eyes against my arm.

  “Where are you?” he repeated, his words just on the other side of the closet door.

  This was a game to him, but to me it was survival.

  If I remained motionless, would he walk away? Or would he investigate every square inch of this room until he unearthed me? It was a gamble, either way a losing hand for me. Because regardless of his choice, eventually I’d have to come out. Eventually he’d find me. They all would. There was no escaping that reality. I could no longer save myself or salvage the thread of sanity that had long ago snapped.

  I was no hero.

  I was simply the mother of four children—including an autistic son.

  Just as silence drowned out the noise of the girls fighting in the living room, I exhaled relief. Maybe Austin had moved on to another room. Maybe I could sit in glorious solitude just a few more minutes, among the quiet shadows. The day had been hell enough already, and I still had dinner and bedtime to trudge through. I needed a moment to myself before I broke. But as the shadows moved and the slices of light played between the closet door slats, it was time to pull myself together.

  The light splayed across my face as the door folded open, revealing Austin’s smiling face looking down at me. Had he been a normal kid, I would have probably smiled back, but nothing with Austin went as you’d expect.

  “Found you!” he yelled before slapping me across the head. His fingernail caught my eyelid, slicing it just enough to startle me backward while I winced in pain.

  “Ow!” I reacted, my hand rushing to my eye. And that’s when I made my first mistake.

  Austin, noting my upset response, began wildly hitting himself in the head, screaming ow! ow! ow! with each self-inflicted punishment. Jumping up, I reached for his flailing fists, soothingly reminding him I was okay, it was okay, everything was okay. But he couldn’t hear my calming words over his screams, which degraded into an inarticulate screech. His little fists avoided mine, until finally I wrapped him in a fitful hug, careful to avoid his buffeting head, rocking him against the length of my body for nearly ten minutes until his flailing limbs calmed.

  Every day I searched for improvements, hoping he’d outgrow whatever held him hostage to a two-year-old’s mind in a five-year-old’s body. But what he improved on one day he would revert back from two days later and lose something additional in the process. While Austin revolved around a cycle of baby steps forward and leaps backward, I revolved around a cycle of dizzying despair and hardening complacency.

  I had discovered a whole new definition of “tough love”—and it had everything to do with finding it tougher to love my family.

  When Arabelle was home on break from school it was the hardest, as the next three weeks would inevitably prove. We had the disadvantage of living in a rare year-round school district, an unavoidable added stress. For every other family that might mean more family outings, a mini-vacation, or maybe just extra-long days of boredom. Not our family, though.

  Hauling four kids ages one through six was simply too much for me to handle when they ran in different directions. And with Austin’s autism, he never responded to his name, making him easy to lose track of.

  Only two weeks ago we were at the Museum of Life and Science when he slipped behind a bush during a momentary glance away. While wrestling with my three daughters to keep them by my side, I called out to him, my panic growing as the minutes passed with no sign of him. After begging a stranger to watch the girls while I got help from security, it took us nearly an hour before we found Austin—a mere five feet from where I had first lost sight of him. While he wordlessly played with a bug he’d discovered, I nearly had a h
eart attack from my hysteria.

  This wasn’t the first time it’d happened, and with pained realization, I knew it wouldn’t be the last.

  Life with Austin was a perpetual state of terror.

  Add Arabelle’s insistent whining and Kiki and Juliet’s irregular nap schedules to that and it spoiled the whole idea of attempting outings. Better to just stay home and die a little bit more inside.

  As for vacations—ha! Vacations were for people with extra money. If we could count the couple dollars we cleared after the bills were paid each month, then sure, we had extra money. Our family’s first and last vacation was my honeymoon seven years ago—the same week I conceived Arabelle. That week also marked the genesis of my slow death into self-sacrifice and poverty.

  All of us being home together turned grueling days into living nightmares. It was a war of wits and endurance. It was a battle for the alpha spot … and I always seemed to lose.

  One would have thought Arabelle might show signs of a burgeoning maternal instinct, like other six-year-old girls. But no, Arabelle was a disruptor. She stole toys from her siblings, pulled hair when she was angry, wrestled too roughly with the baby. The family dynamic changed with Arabelle around—from manageably busy to dangerously chaotic. She was the thorn in her siblings’ side, and at this rate I wondered if any of us would survive.

  It was as if she intentionally antagonized her siblings. A toy light-up piano she hadn’t used in years suddenly became indispensable the moment Juliet picked it up. A toddler book years below her reading level, she was just about to read as soon as Kiki expressed interest in it.