Little White Lies (18 page)

Then I hear it. Canned laughter. The TV.

Shit
! I flick the lock and wrench the bathroom door open just as he changes channels. To the twenty-four-hour news.

“Do you mind if we turn back?” I say, hurrying into the living room. “I love that show!” I reach for the remote, but Christian snatches it away.

“Just a minute—I’m watching this.”

“What about your hair dye?” I remind him desperately.

“I’ll go in a sec—look, there’s been a terrible earthquake in San Francisco.” His eyes flick back to the news. Sweat trickles down my back and I glance hopelessly at the door. Where the hell is Joe?

“Actually, you know what, let’s not watch TV,” I suggest quickly.

He looks at me like I’ve got two heads.

“I mean”—I think fast—“if this is the last time I’ll ever see you, I don’t want to waste our last moments together.” I sit down on the coffee table in front of him, trying to block his view of the screen as I take his hand. “We could’ve been so great together,” I add for good measure.

His expression softens. “You’re right.” He flicks the TV to mute and pulls me onto the saggy blue sofa beside him. “Lou,” he sighs. “It’s not that I don’t
want
to see you again—it’s just... it’s too dangerous.” He tucks my hair behind my ear and my pulse races.

Definitely too dangerous.
My eyes dart to the TV, which shows the wreckage of a skyscraper.

“You know,” Christian says. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a really,
really
long time.”

I force a smile; then the screen flashes and my eyes flick back to the TV as a photo of Poppy fills the screen.

Shit!

“Lou?” He turns to see what I’m looking at.

Quickly, I cup his face and kiss him. He seems surprised for a moment; then he closes his eyes and kisses me back.

My mind races as fast as my pulse as I try to decide what to do. Checking his eyes are still shut, I carefully reach past him for the remote control. He presses closer and my heart beats madly as my fingertips grasp the remote. He pushes me deep into the sofa, the fruity smell of his hair dye making my head spin as my fingers fumble blindly on the buttons.
Change channel—of
f—anything
!

“
Tonight, police are hunting for convicted criminal Leo Niles!”

My heart stops dead as the volume bursts on and Christian’s lips freeze against mine.

It’s over.

I can’t breathe.

Christian’s lips break from mine, his expression a complete blank as he stares at the TV.

“Leo Niles has broken his parole conditions, just hours after his victim, Poppy Willoughby-White, tragically died.”

Christian gasps. The photo of Poppy in her school uniform fills the screen again, but this time my eyes are glued to Christian as his face drains of all color.

“Convicted burglar Leo Niles ignited public outrage last year when he and his accomplice, nineteen-year-old Tariq Khan, broke into a policeman’s home and assaulted his teenage daughter.”

My pulse races as I carefully edge away from Christian, who sits transfixed by the screen.

“When Sergeant Willoughby-White returned home he startled the youths and tried to defend his daughter, killing Khan, while Niles escaped with stolen goods,” the reporter continues. “On his release, nearly three months ago, Niles was given a new identity to protect him from vigilantism, much to many taxpayers’ disgust, but today he broke his probation after his house was set on fire in what is thought to be a reaction to Poppy’s tragic death. The police are calling for anyone with information on his whereabouts to report it.”

Christian flicks off the TV and I freeze. I’ve only made it to the edge of the sofa. The revelation hangs in the air between us, filling the room.

No more secrets.

No more fake identity.

The truth is out there for the world to see.

My heart hammers painfully, panic rushing in my veins as I look around desperately, feeling trapped, helpless and unbelievably stupid.

Why did I come with him? What was I
thinking
?

I blink quickly, trying to stop the tears prickling at my eyes. I should’ve just delivered him to the police when I had the chance—but what would they have done? Put him back inside for a few months, then released him under another secret identity somewhere else? I couldn’t have followed him again because he knows me now—I’d have lost my only chance for vengeance.
Keep your enemies close,
isn’t that what they say? But now he’s far too close for comfort...

Suddenly he turns—my hand flies instinctively to the scissors in my pocket—but I am shocked to see tears streaming down his face. He screws his eyes shut tight and a low moan escapes from somewhere deep inside him, growing louder and louder till it reaches a roar; then he crumples into the sofa, his body shaking violently as he buries his head in his arms and sobs.

I stare at him.

Why is he crying
?
Because
he’s been found out? Because he’s scared of what’s going to happen to him? Or because he’s remorseful?

I swallow hard. “Christian?”

He doesn’t respond. Tentatively I lean forward, keeping the scissors gripped tightly in my hand.

“Are you okay?” I touch his shoulder lightly and his head snaps up, his eyes red and watery.

I stare back, a deer caught in headlights.

“Louise...,” he says finally. “Oh God, Louise.” He covers his face with his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

Sorry he didn’t tell me? Sorry for what he’s done? Or sorry for what he’s about to do?

“I should’ve told you—I’m sorry.” He sniffs. “God, what must you think?”

He looks up and my face must make it pretty clear what I think.

“It’s not true!” he insists. “Lou, I swear—it’s not!”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re not Leo Niles?”

“No—I mean, yes, but—”

“What? You’re not a convicted criminal?” I ask, anger hardening in my veins. “The police aren’t looking for you?!”

“Yes, yes!” he moans wretchedly. “But, Lou, I’m not—I didn’t do that—I can’t believe...” Tears wash away his words.

“What?”

“I can’t believe Poppy’s dead!”

“Really?” I say. “You didn’t think that if you break a girl’s skull, leaving her in a coma, death might someday be on the cards?” Tears scorch my words.

“I didn’t hurt her!” he protests.

“Right, you were just a thief,” I amend, the scissors giving me courage. “A burglar who stood by and watched his mate kill an innocent girl?”

“No! I didn’t, I wasn’t—Poppy was my
friend
!”

I don’t move. “Your—your
friend
?”

“Yeah—I mean, I didn’t know her that well, but—”

“You burgled your
friend
?” I interrupt scathingly.

“No! I... I just went to pick her up. I mean, I was meant to pick her up.” His face crumples. “But I was too late and—and now—now she’s dead!”

I stare at him as more tears streak down his face, my thoughts whirling wildly.

“If I’d been on time, she’d be okay,” he sobs. “She’d still be alive.”

I swallow hard, trying to think, focus.

“What do you mean?” I say quietly. “What do you mean, you were going to pick her up?”

“That was the plan—that’s the whole reason we were there,” he says. “Tariq offered to give us a lift to the train station—we were going away for the weekend, but I was running late. I texted Tariq and Poppy to tell them I was on my way, but when I arrived...” He shakes his head miserably and I hold my breath.

“Tariq’s car was outside and the front door was wide open. Poppy’s bag was there, packed and ready in the hallway, so I picked it up and called out to her. But there was no reply. I could hear noises upstairs, so I went up.” He presses his eyes closed tight and tears seep out beneath.

“There was so much blood,” he gasps. “I’ve never seen so much blood.”

My throat constricts.

“Poppy’s dad had Tariq handcuffed to the bed, but Tariq wasn’t moving, just—just bleeding.” Christian swallows. “I tried to stop her dad—I grabbed his arm—but then he turned on me with a pair of scissors.”

He runs his fingers gently over the scar on his chest and I immediately let go of the scissors in my pocket as a chill trickles through me.

“He swung at me with the blades, but he was clumsy—drunk.”

I look up. That’s the second time Christian’s said Uncle Jim was drunk that night, but as I told Vix, Uncle Jim hardly drinks at all now—just a pint after work on a Friday, or a glass of wine with a fancy meal. I frown. That’s why I always thought the prosecution was exaggerating when they too claimed Uncle Jim was drunk that day. I assumed they’d found alcohol in his blood from a drink after work and then blown it out of proportion to support their case. But then why would
Christian
lie? It doesn’t affect his burglary conviction, after all.

“I managed to duck out of his reach and ran down the stairs and away,” he continues. “All I could think about was escaping. I didn’t look back. Not once. I didn’t even
see
Poppy—I had no idea she was hurt.” He covers his face and groans, a terrible, painful sound that sends shivers down my spine.

“It’s my fault they’re both dead! It’s my fault Tariq was there in the first place. I barely even knew him!”

“Why did you ask him for a ride if you didn’t know him?” I ask.

“I knew his girlfriend
—Sabina. She said he’d be happy to drive us.” He clasps his head in his hands. “If only I hadn’t been late, none of this would have happened!”

I hug my arms tightly, trying to take it all in, hideous pictures flooding my head.

“But if you were innocent, why didn’t you go to the police? Or did you?” I ask, knowing full well he didn’t—that the police tracked him down after they found his fingerprints on our bannister.

“No,” he sighs. “I should’ve done, but I was too scared—the attack was all over the news—and I... I was in shock, I suppose.”

“But then when they found you why didn’t you tell the police what really happened?”

“I tried.” He shakes his head miserably. “I even gave them my phone with the sent texts to prove I knew Poppy, that she was expecting me, but it got smashed—I dropped it down the stairs in my hurry to get away from her dad, and the SIM card was too damaged.”

“Couldn’t they trace it from the phone company records?” I say, trying to mask the suspicion in my voice. He’s good at thinking on his feet, I’ll give him that, but then I guess he’s used to lying after three months with a fake identity.

“They tried, but the messages get deleted from the system after a few days, and they didn’t find me for over a week. It was too late.”

How convenient.

“What about Sabina? Couldn’t she verify your story?”

“She did! But they didn’t believe her either. They thought we’d concocted the whole story together in the week before I got arrested. I’d never met Poppy’s dad before, I’d never met any of her family, so he didn’t recognize me. Didn’t believe me. He thought because I turned up just after...” He swallows. “He assumed I was involved.”

“But how come you’d never met her dad?” I ask. “Why didn’t she tell them about you?”
Why wouldn’t she have told me?

“I don’t know,” Christian says. “We didn’t know each other that well, I suppose. We’d only met a few times—in the art gallery.”

I blink. “The art gallery?”

He nods. “I used to go there to sketch passersby and one day Poppy caught me sketching her, so we got talking.”

Sketch...
I remember the portrait in Christian’s sketchpad that Vix had assumed was of me.

“I thought it was odd that she’d spend her holidays sitting in the same gallery day after day,” Christian continues. “But she said it was the only place she could get any peace, that she was having a hard time with her parents and had to get out of the house.”

I frown again, trying to connect the Poppy I knew with the Poppy he’s describing.

“After that we kept meeting up. We got to talking about music, and she told me she was going to go to Glastonbury.”

I freeze.
“Glastonbury?”

He nods. “She’d bought tickets and everything—but the person she was going with had pulled out.”

The world spins before my eyes.

Me.
I
pulled out. Poppy was desperate to go to Glastonbur
y—and thanks to me, she did have a spare ticket: the one she bought for me for my birthday.
How could he know that?
Unless
...
Unless he’s telling the truth...?

My head pounds painfully and I stare at him as if I’m only just seeing him properly for the first time.

He’s innocent.

“She didn’t want to go by herself, so she asked me to go with her,” Christian continues. “She seemed cool, so I thought why not? I had no idea her parents didn’t know.” He rubs his hand roughly over his face. “Or why she never told them about me.”

I have
. There’s no way Uncle Jim would let Poppy go away with a guy she’d just met. He always insisted on meeting all our boyfriends before he’d even let us go on a first date! He was always really charming and funny, but it still freaked them out, getting the third degree from a policeman, so Poppy and I sometimes “forgot” to tell him about boys, in order to bypass the inquisition.

Now I wish we hadn’t.

“They had no idea who I was,” Christian sighs. “They thought I was lying about the whole thing, trying to cover my own back. All they knew was that Tariq had attacked Poppy, I’d turned up just after, and then they found my text on his phone saying I was on my way, linking me to him.”

I nod grimly.

“It did prove that I wasn’t at the house at the time Poppy was attacked, though. So the police charged me with burglary.”

“But why did they think it was a
burglary
?” I frown.

“I didn’t notice it at the time, but apparently one of the little windowpanes by the front door was smashed in—Tariq must’ve done it to reach inside and unlock the door. They found his fingerprints and blood on the broken glass. And... and some of Poppy’s stuff was missing,” Christian says. “I didn’t realize her bag was still on my back when I ran away.”

So that’s the bag he lied about in Never Have I Ever.

“But why didn’t you hand it in to the police?” I ask. “You could’ve explained.”

“I couldn’t,” Christian argues. “Poppy’s bag was filled with money and jewelry and stuff. The police were already trying to charge me with burglary, and if they’d found it, I just—I panicked that it would’ve looked like I
had
nicked it. So I hid it.” He sighs. “Not that it made any difference in the end. Tariq was dead and Poppy was in a coma, so they couldn’t tell them the truth. I kept hoping, kept
praying
that she’d wake up....” His face crumples again. “But now she never will.”