Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) Page 4

  My cell phone alarm beeped, drawing me back into the present day. Soon, the school’s warning song would sound, and I liked to be the first to arrive in my classroom. Other places had bells. We had Beethoven, Bach, Wagner, and Schubert.

  I walked down the hallway to my classroom, where for an hour, we’d consider the art and genius of Leonardo da Vinci, and then we’d spend another two hours sketching. Several of my students were fascinated by his habit of using mirror-image cursive for his notes. The mystery that was the man held our attention as no other artist we’d studied together. His legacy is one I never tired of teaching.

  When I opened the door, my students were already there with questions, tears, and hugs. As unprepared as I was for Alan’s rejection, nothing could have readied me for their acceptance.

  All but one student sat down. Evan glanced at me briefly. He started to rock back and forth on his feet. We all accepted his Asperger’s Syndrome. His mother taught us what he needed from us. We were part of his team, and he was part of ours. We respected him and were in awe of his gifts. His great joy was his art, the feel of his pencils, the paper, and the sight of his hand placing what his mind saw there. Evan rarely spoke and was unsettled by any change. My news threatened to throw him off-kilter. He needed facts – nothing more. None of us moved, but we were all ready to support him if he needed us. Although his rocking increased, he held on. He usually retreated to his easel even when I lectured—it was his safe place—but he didn’t miss a word I spoke. That day, he stood in front of his peers and asked me, “What are you going to do?”

  Until I looked into that courageous young man’s eyes, I had no idea. Somehow he would know if I lied. As the plan took center stage in my brain, my stomach did a double backwards somersault of excitement mixed with fear.

  “Thank you for asking, Evan. I’m going to do art. I’m going to draw trees, and flowers and faces. I’m going to take photographs of whatever fascinates me, and I’m going to write poetry. I might teach again someday, but for a while, I will do what I tell you to do every day we’re together: I’m going to be me in and through my art.”

  The students clapped and hooted. Evan covered his ears until the others were quiet again, and then he said, “I think that’s a great idea.” He gave me a partial high-five, where we raised our hands toward each other, but didn’t touch. He walked to his easel and sat on his stool. I wondered if I’d ever love a student as much as I loved him at that moment.

  Then I taught da Vinci as I never had before. My passion for the man’s talent, curiosity about his life, and respect for his brilliance could no longer be restrained.

  Nor could I. That day, a boy trapped inside himself had set me free. The cocoon was off and I was emerging, wet and bedraggled but full of possibility.

  * * *

  Instead of crying the night away, I went to the basement storage room Alan had assigned me when I moved in. I hadn’t brought much but hoped the little I did was still there. I discovered it wasn’t just my stuff down there. Broken antiques, cardboard boxes, and wooden crates were everywhere. The dust made me sneeze, and in some spots, the dust bunnies huddled together and looked like they were morphing into something bigger. On top of an old table, I found my art portfolio.

  When I turned to go, I noticed under the stairs lay an old wooden box with brass corners. I left it where it was, intending to tell Lloyd or Justine in the morning where to find it.

  Back in the apartment, I stared at the oversized case holding work I hadn’t seen in years. The black plastic was cracked and gray with dust. I didn’t open it then, but I wiped it off with a damp paper towel and put it in Jillian’s closet with my old backpack and a large tote that now held the letters from my students and their parents. I knew in order to move forward, I would have to take a brief look back, but that would have to wait. I was tired and decided to sleep in Jillian’s canopied bed under her ruffled comforter.

  Before I fell asleep, I remembered one of Jillian’s favorite lines, “Mommy, I think it takes a princess to make a princess so if I’m one, you must be one too.”

  I whispered to the room, “I wish.”

  * * *

  I woke up, certain I heard someone walking away from me and then the click of the front door closing. Afraid to move, I stayed as still as possible until dawn. I got up and acted like nothing was bothering me. If someone was there, I’d run screaming. It wasn’t much, but it was my plan. A single rose in a vase on the bedside table shattered my courage. The attached note said, “I remember you.” I grabbed my cell phone and called Lloyd.

  “Someone has been in the apartment. Get up here now.” As I felt the bile rise in my throat, I demanded, “Let yourself in.”

  Lloyd and his sidekick Merle found me throwing up in the bathroom. “Olivia? Are you okay?”

  “No. I mean yes, but someone was here. Look at the rose,” I said pointing at the bedside table.

  It was gone.

  “Maybe you had a little too much to drink last night?”

  “No. It was there, and I heard someone.”

  “I think you’re mistaken. Maybe a little hot coffee and an aspirin will help.” Although Lloyd’s words were kind, they felt condescending as they scratched across my heart.

  His cell phone rang, and he stepped out into the hall. I heard him say, “She’s fine, Mr. Lyons. I think she’s a little hung over and may have had a nightmare. It looks like she slept in the little girl’s bed.”

  Merle watched me the way one might an alien, as if expecting me to spew green slime while I reached out to strangle him with the strength of a boa constrictor.

  “Get out! Both of you. Now!”

  “We’re leaving. Call us anytime you need us.” Lloyd said.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, and something crackled in my pocket. The note. I’d grabbed it before heading to the bathroom. I’d hidden the first one underneath the bottom shelf in the medicine cabinet. There was a slender space there I’d always used to hide my birth-control pills.

  After a hot shower, I placed both of them in a plastic bag. On my lunch hour, I’d go to the bank near the school, open a new account as requested by Alan, and rent a bank box. Until then, the baggie would be pinned to the inside of my waistband.

  I watched my pills head into the sewer system in a swirl. I don’t think I waved, but in my state of mind who knows.

  My reflection in the mirror didn’t reveal a wild woman on the verge of a meltdown. At least that’s not what I saw. “No one else had to believe me, but I know I am not crazy. Scared, alone, and sad, yes. But not crazy. Or nuts. Or bonkers,” I said out loud to myself.

  * * *

  On my way out of the building, I decided not to use the private exit because it was a little too secluded for me. That meant I had to pass Lloyd’s desk. “Olivia, any time you want to see the security video for the last few days let me know. No one went in or out of your apartment through your door, nor was anyone recorded on the stairs or in the elevator. I have no idea how an intruder could get there. It is impossible.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said, wishing for a statement a little less clichéd, but it was all I had and I followed it up with my best glare.

  Merle held open the door for me. When he smirked, the urge to kick him in the shin was nearly more than I could bear. A businessman in an expensive suit and designer sunglasses stood on the sidewalk in front of me. He adjusted his reflective shades, nodded his head, and refused to move. I walked around him and muttered, “What? You think you own the sidewalk?”

  He stared at me, and his presence rattled me. I thought he looked familiar, but as my paranoia grew, I felt that way about all men wearing sunglasses. Hurrying away, I struggled to get a grip on my emotions before they took over. I envisioned myself in a mental institution, rocking in place and ranting about my fears. Taking a deep breath, I told myself, “You have three options: someone is stalking you, you are insane, or both.” Nothing comforting there.

  I only had a few days left at the school, and I was not going to let an invisible enemy who wrote notes, a couple of security guards on the Lyons’ payroll, or men hiding behind silvered sunglasses ruin the time.

  Well, not much anyway. It was getting harder to stay in my internal safe place. It felt like the hinges were loose and the lock broken.

  CHAPTER 7

  On my last morning at the school, my current and some past students lined the sidewalk heading into the building and then escorted me to the auditorium where they shared memories of our time together.

  They sang, danced, painted, and performed a skit. They were funny, deep, wise, and clever. I was so proud to have been their teacher.

  Then Evan stole the show. He stood with his back to the crowd in the center of a soft spotlight on an otherwise dark stage. He thanked me quietly for accepting him as he was and unveiled his most recent master piece—a sketch of me teaching with the faces of every student in the school surrounding me, and a small self-portrait of him at his easel off to the side in Norman Rockwell style. He exited stage left, where his mother waited for him. When she returned to the stage with him, we all did what she had taught us, we gave him a silent high-five. He returned it, nodded to me, and quietly followed his mom out of the room. When the floor lights went on, the rest of the students burst into applause and chanted my name.

  I hadn’t prepared a speech which, for a moment, felt like a mistake. Then I realized the lights were bright enough I couldn’t see my audience well. The silence allowed me to pretend I was alone, and I let my heart show.

  “You are here because you are talented,” I said. “But that’s not enough. Between today and the time you walk between the brass anchors out front after graduation, you have to find the courage to release your talent int
o the world. Not everyone will appreciate the beauty flowing out of your hearts, and that will hurt, but it’s also okay. You don’t need or want everyone’s acceptance or approval. You will be appreciated by the ones who matter most—the ones who will find something captivating and profound in your work. If you stay true to what you’ve been given to do, you will have lived well. I came here an unknown teacher. Today I am known by a few . . . by you. That is how I define success. You aren’t just enough, you are more than enough to keep my heart full and my creative juices flowing. I love you all dearly. I am grateful you are my students—the students of my heart.”

  The next thing I knew, the lights swiveled into the auditorium. Students, parents, teachers, staff, and the board stood to their feet, clapping. In the far back, I noticed Stan, the janitor wiping tears from his eyes. At that moment, mine tipped over my lower lids onto my cheeks.

  After a few moments, the administrator and the board filed up to shake my hand and wish me well.

  Alan and I pretended we were barely acquaintances one more time. I watched my ex-lover walk off stage with his admirers as if he were some kind of royalty and wondered if I’d ever hated anyone as much as I did the Lyons king.

  I had. Right before I decided to kill him.

  CHAPTER 8

  The lonely dialogue with myself started after supper on that last day of school. Without friends or family, I was all I had. After a meal of canned spaghetti and cheese curls, I paced the long hallway in the apartment. During my solitary walk, I decided I needed to start moving my life ahead. There were a few keepsakes in my room, the things from my desk at school, and special items in Jillian’s room I could pack in preparation for my move. I needed boxes and newspapers.

  Using the private elevator was out of the question, and Alan had also decided I was no longer welcome in the basement. That meant I had to depend on others for assistance. I called the front desk and was surprised when Lloyd answered.

  “You’re working overtime?” I asked.

  “Something like that.”

  His voice left no room for more questions. “What can I do for you?”

  “My new restrictions now extend to Mr. Lyons’ store room. However, he also told me if there are any more empty boxes down there, I am free to use them, and you have access. Do you have time to look for me?”

  “I didn’t see any others down there, but I’ll check again. If not, I’ll get you some. Will you be ready for them in about an hour?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  The minute I hung up, I remembered I’d seen a wooden box down there.

  Irritated by Alan’s limitations on me, I texted Harper. “You asked about a wooden box with brass corners. I remember seeing one in a section of the basement where I’m no longer allowed to go.”

  “I’ll be over in a couple of hours. If it’s of interest, I’ll call the FBI. Did you touch it?”

  “No.”

  “Good. See if a family member or representative can join us,” she texted back.

  I sent Michelle a text letting her know what I’d remembered and that the police were coming over, but I didn’t hear back from her.

  While I waited, I cleaned out the refrigerator. There wasn’t much, but there were some plastic containers with leftovers that had green-gray fuzzies growing here and there. I tossed them into the wastebasket, bowls and all. It smelled ripe, so I triple bagged it and put it by the door.

  Lloyd rang the bell. I was still annoyed with him for assuming I’d been drunk. Before I opened the door, I looked out the peep hole, mostly to be silently sarcastic. The view of the long hallway in the dim light initiated an unwelcome flashback. Lloyd’s voice saved me from that vortex of humiliation.

  “Olivia, please open the door.”

  I did, wishing I had the energy for a snitty smile. Instead, I knew I looked as undone as I felt.

  “I found more than empty boxes. There are two with your name on them, and a couple of others, I thought you’d want to see,” Lloyd said.

  I stepped back, and he pushed in one of those flatbed carts. As he rolled it past me, I noticed a couple of boxes with Jillian’s name written in Alan’s careful, all-capital-letter printing.

  He must have seen the questions in my eyes I couldn’t ask. “I brought you Jillian’s things too.”

  My daughter had loved Lloyd and he was devoted to her. He still had a picture on his bulletin board I’d taken of the two of them one morning when he’d let her go to work with him for a couple of hours. She’d been interested in his job and fascinated by the man. He had the carriage of a general. That morning, I’d asked him if he was ex-military and Jillian answered, “Mom, Lloyd is a marine. Others might be ex-military, but once you’re a marine you’re always a marine.” She’d ended the quote with her version of their famous Ooh rah! Which came out “who ya!”

  He had not corrected her mistake and nodded at her in respect. She felt safe enough with him not to cover her bald head. That earned him a lot of points with me. She’d smiled up at him and said, “He made me an imaginary marine.” They’d high-fived and Semper Fied each other before hugging.

  While I remembered, he stood in his normal “at ease” stance waiting for me to tell him what to do with the boxes.

  “You were one of her heroes,” I stated.

  He nodded and looked down. “And she was one of mine.”

  “Would you mind putting hers in her room and the others in the living room?”

  While Lloyd carried out his duty, I stayed by the door, thinking he had more right to be in the apartment than I did.

  “Olivia?” Lloyd interrupted the start to my pity-party. “Would you like me to take your garbage down?”

  He’d gotten the drop on me. I’d thought I’d hand him the bag as he was leaving, the way one might when dismissing a mere servant.

  “Yes, thanks,” I muttered, disappointed he’d gained the upper hand with kindness.

  He shut the door carefully then checked to be sure it had locked behind him. His act should have calmed my frayed nerves, but instead the nasty voice inside my head was back and asked in a hiss, “Does he want to be sure I’m safe or is he making sure I’m locked in like a criminal?”

  My phone buzzed with a text. We’re all busy on two new murders tonight. Either special agent Newman from the FBI or I will be over to see the box tomorrow. Is it secure?

  I typed in the answer. Lloyd is on the job and can be trusted.

  Our texting ended there, and I wondered how they lived with so much death on their minds. I knew from personal experience it wasn’t easy.

  Lloyd had left the bedside lamp on in Jillian’s room. As I walked over to shut it off, I took a detour toward the boxes the way a June bug is drawn to a light bulb. The first one was full of her favorite stuffed animals; Winkin, Blinkin, and Nod, her teddy bear trio, Taxi the bumblebee, and Gill, her Nemo look-alike, were wrapped carefully in white tissue paper.

  Next came her doll box. She only had one, a dimply, life-sized, round baby girl doll she named Merry the moment she’d unwrapped her. Along with the doll were the clothes I’d bought to go with her; real baby onesies, footie pajamas, frilly dresses, and matching shoes. My favorites had always been the soft suede baby moccasins with Native American beading. Jillian had asked, “Mommy what dress do these go with?” The rebel in me rose up, and I said, “All of them.”