Behind Every Lie Read online

  Praise for USA Today bestselling author Christina McDonald’s “compulsively readable” (Publishers Weekly) thrillers

  BEHIND EVERY LIE

  “Behind Every Lie is a deep, suspenseful novel packed with family secrets. Christina McDonald has a true gift for creating characters that are so well developed it feels like you know them. An outstanding achievement!”

  —Samantha Downing, internationally bestselling author of My Lovely Wife

  “A clever, tense, and absorbing novel—this tale of family secrets had me racing toward the final pages.”

  —Emma Rous, bestselling author of The Au Pair

  “A layered, gut-wrenching domestic thriller that explores the complexities of mothers and daughters and the secrets families keep. Smart and intense, and with more than enough twists to give you whiplash, McDonald’s beautiful, emotional storytelling will leave you breathless. I don’t think I exhaled until the end.”

  —Jennifer Hillier, ITW Thriller Award–winning author of Jar of Hearts

  “Behind Every Lie is a cleverly plotted and emotionally charged page-turner about memory, trusting yourself, grieving, and letting go. Family secrets run deep in this compelling exploration of how far a mother will go to protect her child. Full of twists and turns, this is domestic suspense at its best!”

  —Karen Katchur, bestselling author of River Bodies

  “With nuanced and dubiously trustworthy characters, dual timelines revealing decades of secrets, and a tension-packed plot, Christina McDonald has crafted an engrossing and utterly addictive thriller. I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough!”

  —Kathleen Barber, author of Truth Be Told

  “[An] intriguing suspense novel.… McDonald weaves together Eva and Kat’s narratives, which span past and present, to create a compulsively readable and fast-paced yarn that explores the lingering effects of trauma and abuse as well as the complex bonds between mothers and daughters. Readers who enjoy character-driven thrillers will be pleased.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE NIGHT OLIVIA FELL

  “A stunning thriller that instantly grabbed me by the throat and wouldn’t let go until the final, poignant sentence. McDonald artfully brings to the page the emotionally fraught, complex relationship between mother and daughter in this atmospheric, absorbing page-turner. The Night Olivia Fell cracked my heart into a million pieces and then slowly pieced it back together again.”

  —Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence

  “An emotionally charged mystery that will leave readers equally gut-wrenched and gripped. The Night Olivia Fell welcomes a talented new addition to the world of domestic suspense.”

  —Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of The Good Girlt

  “McDonald ratchets up the suspense with every chapter, including plenty of gasp-worthy twists and turns as Abi and Olivia’s story pushes towards its devastating conclusion. The suspense is supplemented by relationships of surprising depth and tenderness, providing balance and nuance to the story. A worthy debut from an up-and-coming domestic-suspense author; readers who enjoy mother-daughter stories in the genre should line up for this one.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “In The Night Olivia Fell, Abi gets the call every mother fears: her daughter has fallen from a bridge and is brain-dead … but was it an accident or a crime? McDonald reveals the answer in steady, page-turning increments, a gradual unfolding of truths and long-held secrets that culminates in a heart-wrenching resolution. A suspenseful debut that packs an emotional punch.”

  —Kimberly Belle, bestselling author of Dear Wife

  “Beautifully written and moving, with characters I felt I knew, The Night Olivia Fell is a stunning debut that kept me guessing right until the final, heartbreaking twist.”

  —Claire Douglas, bestselling author of The Sisters and Local Girl Missing

  “[A] complex, emotionally intense first novel.… Fans of twisty domestic suspense novels will be rewarded.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The Night Olivia Fell takes a mother’s worst nightmare to a whole new level. This is an intense, twisting, heartbreaking thriller that explores in painful detail the consequences of family secrets. The reader will be riveted until the final page … and may even feel a bit of hope when all is said and done. Don’t miss this one!”

  —David Bell, bestselling author of Somebody’s Daughter

  “I was absolutely hooked. It was such an emotional read that I was broken by the end. Heartbreaking and thrilling at the same time.”

  —Jenny Blackhurst, bestselling author of How I Lost You

  “This book is a tearjerker, so have tissues at hand. A well-structured story of how lying corrupts from the start that will keep pages turning.”

  —Library Journal

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  For Carly. For taking a chance and believing in me.

  Also for Emily Doe, and every Emily Doe who’s had their worth, their confidence, and their voice stolen. You are the warriors.

  The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.

  —Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

  prologue

  WHAT HAVE I DONE?

  The thought charged at me, stark and unrelenting. Blood was everywhere. Under my fingernails. In my mouth. In my hair. It was streaked across my shirt. On the floor, it blackened and congealed, filling the air with its metallic breath. The sickly sweet scent clung to the back of my throat.

  My mother was slumped on the floor in the living room, mouth gaping, brown eyes staring at nothing. A dark pool of blood seeped from a gaping wound at the base of her neck. The urgent beat of her pulse had faded to an unrelenting nothingness.

  Both my hands were clamped around her throat. An emotion thudded so viciously in my chest it was painful, like searing.

  “Mom!” I tried to scream.

  But only a choked sob came out.

  Hail clattered against the windowpanes. The wind thrashed against the house. The living room lights flickered and darkened. Fear, salty on my tongue, shot through me like an electric pulse.

  Suddenly I was outside, the night sky pressing on my skin.

  The burning scent of ozone scorched the fine hairs of my nostrils, mingling with the pungent scent of wet earth. Black and purple clouds roiled in the night sky. Thunder rumbled ominously. The air crackled with electricity, static lifting the fine hairs along my bare arms. Rain skidded into my scalp, licking at my face.

  Tears mingled with the rain on my cheeks as I ran. I was crying so hard I could barely breathe. I skirted the perimeter of the elementary school and pounded toward the park, passing cars parked neatly along the curb. In the distance, a metal statue, the Seattle skyline just beyond.

  There was a massive boom, an explosion as I drew level with the statue. Then only light was all around me, inside me, crashing against my retinas, hissing along my nerves, an explosion inside my organs.

  I fell to the ground spasming, crippled with pain. Fire engulfed me from the inside, every nerve ending flayed open. I was no longer in control of my brain or body. They had cracked into a million pieces.

  And then there was nothing.

  Blackness swallowed me whole.

&
nbsp; one

  eva

  LIAM PARALLEL-PARKED on Langley’s main street like it was the easiest thing in the world. Three movements: stop, reverse, straighten. Done. I’d never mastered the skill.

  In the distance, a chilly morning wind whipped off the waters of Saratoga Passage, kicking the waves into frothy tips. The snowcapped Cascade Mountains rose in the distance. Scarlet and gold leaves licked the coastline along Whidbey Island. There were no rain clouds yet today, the promise of a crisp fall day held out like a gift.

  “My hero,” I teased. “I just need to get you a little black hat and you can be my chauffeur.”

  Liam reached into the backseat and grabbed one of the black baseball hats his builders wore. He put it on and grinned. “Your wish is my command, my lady.”

  He brushed his lips against mine, pulling me tight against him so I smelled the expensive sandalwood-and-citrus cologne he wore.

  “I’m only going to work.” I smiled against his lips.

  “I know, but I want more of you, Eva Elizabeth Hansen.” His blue eyes danced as he slid his hands lower down my back.

  I laughed and pulled the baseball hat off, running a hand through his hair. It was still thick and sandy blond, not a strand of gray, even though he was more than ten years older than me. “Are you working in Seattle today?”

  Liam was a successful property developer with offices in Seattle and here on Whidbey Island. He spent most days in meetings, elbow-deep in profit and loss reports and zoning ordinances, or driving to and from property sites.

  “No, I’m here. I have a meeting in an hour, but I’ll be at our new site over in Greenbank after that. My builders got the structure up for the new strip mall so I need to take a look at it before the inspector comes by later this week.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “That was fast. I thought you said you didn’t have the building permit yet?”

  Liam shrugged. “It’s just a technicality. I know they’ll approve it. Just sometimes the bureaucracy takes time to wade through.” He straightened his navy tie and glanced at his watch. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here to pick you up after work.”

  “I have that dinner with my mom and brother tonight, remember?”

  “I thought we were going to that Thai place you love over in Coupeville.” Liam said it in that way he had: a statement, not a question.

  “No, that’s tomorrow.” I hesitated, unsure of myself. “Right?”

  Liam showed me the calendar on his phone. “It’s today.”

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry!” I clapped a hand over my mouth. “I totally messed up! Remember I told you my mom won the Seattle Medal of Courage? Andrew organized this dinner to celebrate.…” I bit my lip. “Should I cancel? Maybe I should cancel.”

  “No, you should go. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “Why don’t I go with you?” His face was expectant, hopeful.

  I froze. “It’ll be boring,” I said carefully. “Besides, my family is weird.”

  He laughed. “Aren’t all families weird?”

  Liam knew better than most how weird families could be. He’d grown up so poor his dad kicked him out at sixteen, telling him he needed to fend for himself. I was sure that sort of rejection would have laid me flat on my face, but it didn’t seem to bother Liam. He said it had just made him strive harder to succeed.

  “I’ll introduce you soon. I promise.” I looked at the time on my phone. “I’ll see you at home later, okay?”

  I loved saying that. Home. After dating for a year and a half, I’d finally moved into Liam’s house. My princess-cut diamond ring winked in the morning light. Slowly but surely my life was coming back together. A large part of that was thanks to Liam.

  I leaned across the console and kissed him good-bye. “Love you!”

  “Love you most!”

  I headed up Langley’s main street, a charming combination of antique shops, independent bookstores, eclectic boutiques, and art galleries. Town was quiet, the tourists gone now that fall was here. I hunched in my favorite green corduroy coat, a dreamy vintage style with a belted waist and buttoned front. I shoved my hands into its wide flap pockets, my boots clicking sharply against the pavement.

  My neck suddenly prickled, the feeling of someone’s eyes on me heavy and hot. Something moved in my peripheral vision. I swung around to look, but there was nobody there. The American flag above the door of the tavern at the end of the road flapped in the wind. Across the road, an elderly couple walked hand in hand along the sidewalk.

  I scanned the road, the familiar feeling crawling over my body. I closed my eyes and breathed in. Nobody was there. Nobody was ever there.

  I scuttled down the quiet lane to the Crafted Artisan, the art gallery where I rented space to paint and sell the clay pottery I made. Mostly dishware, pots, and vases. My favorites were the special requests from customers who stopped by the gallery with a piece in mind.

  The bell over the door chimed as I entered. The gallery was small but brightly lit, with glossy white paint, black tiled floors, and varnished redwood accents. A wall of floor-to-ceiling metal shelves holding colorful ceramics lined one wall; another featured a collection of glass mosaic works.

  The owner, Melissa, was standing in the middle of the gallery. She held a dark-green vase with a crackle glaze that looked like it had been broken. An intricate web of gold beads filled the cracks. Her blue-black curls were wild around her round face, dark eyes winged with black eyeliner and coated in mascara, a slash of red lipstick on her mouth.

  “What’s that?” I asked, slipping my coat off and stuffing it under the cash register desk.

  “I met a woman on the beach in San Diego this summer and we got to talking. Turns out she’s an artist. She makes the most beautiful pieces, so I offered to display her work.”

  I smiled. Melissa was one of those über-friendly types, like a hairdresser or one of those women in the makeup department at Macy’s, someone people told their secrets to without meaning to. She liked people, and they liked her. She’d become a good friend since I’d moved to the island, even if I still couldn’t bring myself to tell her the whole truth about my past.

  “Look at the detail! She wrapped each broken piece in fabric, then used these beads to patchwork the pieces together. It’s based on kintsugi.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a Japanese art. The artist fixes broken pottery by filling the cracks with gold. Usually they use epoxy to glue the pieces together. It’s supposed to highlight the damage instead of hiding it.”

  I lifted the vase from her hands and examined it. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Oh, by the way.” She reached behind the cash register and handed me a flyer for an art exhibit in Seattle in the spring. “You got mail.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced at the flyer and dropped it in the garbage.

  Melissa shook her head, one hand on her hip. “Why do you do that? You could totally get your work shown there!”

  “Melissa, these are trained artists. They’ve been doing it their whole lives. I only bought my kiln and wheel a few years ago. My little homemade pottery can’t compete.”

  “What is it going to take for you to just trust in yourself a little?”

  She plucked the flyer from the trash and thrust it at me so I had no choice but to take it.

  But I knew the truth: I couldn’t trust myself at all.

  two

  eva

  THE FIRST RUMBLE OF THUNDER came as I turned in to the parking garage in downtown Seattle. Despite morning sunshine, clouds had rushed to fill the afternoon with rain, and it looked like we were in for a storm.

  I took my ticket from the machine and slowly nosed the car into a tiny space, wincing when my bumper scraped against a metal pole. I sucked at driving. I’d already stalled the engine an embarrassing number of times driving off the ferry. This was why I always let Liam drive.

  I shook my umbrella open, hard drops of rain
thumping against it like handfuls of gravel. I walked up the street’s steep incline, my thighs and shoulders still burning from my lunchtime yoga class with Melissa.

  Another low rumble of thunder. I ducked my head and tilted the umbrella over my forehead, keeping my eyes fixed on my phone. It was, I’d learned, the best way to disappear. Instagram told me one college friend had been promoted at work, another had just had her second kid. I had forty likes and six comments on my picture of my engagement ring.

  As I arrived at the restaurant, I slid my umbrella closed and reached for the door, noticing as I did an elderly homeless man sitting under the restaurant’s awning. Matted gray beard. Sad, rheumy eyes. Ancient, weathered face. He was drenched. No coat. A crumpled umbrella lay on the soggy cardboard box under him, its frame bent and broken. My heart crunched with sadness.

  “Here, take this,” I said gently. I pressed my umbrella in his hand.

  His eyes lit up and he smiled, revealing a row of missing teeth. “Have a blessed day, miss!”

  The restaurant was crowded. Mom was already sitting at a table in the middle of the room, her beige khakis, shapeless V-neck sweater-vest, and no-nonsense brown shoes clashing with the linen-draped tables and elegant Renaissance-style murals.

  “You’re late,” Mom said, her crisp British accent disapproving.

  “Sorry, Mom.” I knew she hated it when I called her Mom instead of Mum, which was probably why I did it, some stupid, knee-jerk reaction left over from my teenage years. “Traffic was pretty bad for a Sunday.”

  I expected her to scorch me with a critical comment as I gave her a quick side hug, but she stayed silent. She smelled of pine trees and cotton body lotion, a bizarre bouquet of nostalgia that launched me back to happy family camping trips and sulky adolescent silences. I wondered if all mother-daughter relationships were as complicated as ours.

  “Congratulations on the award!” I said. “You’re an actual, real-life hero!”