The Day the Lies Began Read online

  The Day the Lies Began

  TWO COUPLES, FOUR IRONCLAD FRIENDSHIPS, THE PERFECT COASTAL

  HOLIDAY TOWN.

  It happened the day of the Moon Festival. It could have been left behind, they all could have moved on with their lives. But secrets have a habit of rising to the surface, especially in small towns.

  With its salt-stung houses and tight community, Lago Point is the scene of postcards, not crime scenes. Wife and mother Abbi, town cop Blake, schoolteacher Hannah and local doctor Will are caught in their own tangled webs of deceit. Sometimes doing wrong can feel completely right.

  When the truth washes in, so do the judgements: victim, or vigilante, who will forgive, who will betray? Not all relationships survive. Nor do all residents.

  THE

  DAY

  THE

  LIES

  BEGAN

  KYLIE KADEN

  “We are so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others,

  that in the end, we become disguised to ourselves.”

  – François de la Rochefoucauld

  Contents

  About the book/blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Acknowledgements

  About Kylie Kaden

  Copyright

  To my husband,

  for making the good bits in my life possible.

  Chapter 1

  6 DAYS AFTER THE MOON FESTIVAL

  It seemed simple at first – folding one lie over the next. Six mortifying days she’d been doing it, this surrogacy of sorts where Abbi pretended to be normal. She had become an expert at feathering over the cracks to ensure her life appeared the same. But inside, it didn’t feel fixed.

  She’d barely seen Blake since it happened, since the ugliness of it all.

  But she wanted to get things back on track.

  So, there they sat, angle-parked on a balding embankment, staring at the misty line where the horizon met a squally sea. Two cupcakes were perched on a rain-splattered packet on the dash, one pink, the other blue. Abbi pulled out two candles and stabbed one in each. Blake had the car windows down an inch, and gusts of salty air shot inside. Ironically, his police vehicle, with dash cam and radio, was the only place they could really be alone.

  ‘Let me guess,’ he said, grabbing the pastel-pink cake. ‘This one’s mine.’

  Icing shards landed on his starched, eggshell-blue uniform as she flicked her rain-soaked hair. ‘Well, you always were the prissy one.’

  His eyebrows arched, the way they had for his Miami Vice face when they were kids. ‘You forget. I have a gun now.’

  Abbi smirked. ‘Have you used it yet?’

  ‘Pointed it once, rather menacingly.’

  She blew out a laugh and Blake did a double take. His eyes softened. ‘Watch out, you were almost happy there for a sec.’

  Happy. Abbi had been impersonating it all week. She’d forgotten what the real thing felt like. That light, butterfly-in-your-throat feeling she used to have every day. Now she constantly looked over her shoulder, had lost all confidence in her decision making, felt overwhelmed with even the slightest extra task. Her eyes drifted closed as she pressed her shoulder blades against the passenger seat. She could still sit by her brother’s side, hear the ocean, and eat cake. Abbi was content with that. Grateful, even, under the circumstances.

  The wrinkled sand was speckled with splotches on the path to the shore. She watched the waves sipping at the spit, and the palm trees bending, twisting in the breeze. A minibus shot past in a whine of spray, then parked on shiny bitumen at the base of the lot. The sun’s rays had incubated the turtle eggs all summer, and it was nearing the end of hatching season. But the locals made sure they milked the last drop of townie money before the leaner, cooler months. The tour leader and a scrum of poloshirt-wearing camera wielders clambered from the bus and unfurled umbrellas.

  Abbi felt privileged, growing up by the sea, and remembered the endless heat-haze days of Christmas holidays – eternally sunburnt shoulders stinging in the shower, sunset fry-ups and listening to a chorus of cicadas. It felt pure and simple, living off guava and pineapple and the catch of the day. But after what they did, this sacred place had been cast in shadow. A dense cloud hovered behind her every step and she felt it was only a matter of time before she tripped and fell in the darkness.

  A couple from the retirement village zipped by on a motorised golf buggy taken from the country club, the canopy flapping in the breeze. They parked beneath a shivering bottlebrush, pulled out their towels and plodded down to the swirling waves, hand in hand.

  ‘Look at those two,’ Abbi said. ‘Barefoot. Brazen. Still so in love.’

  ‘Parked illegally. No rego. Plus, the bloke’s wearing budgie smugglers – now that should be illegal.’

  ‘I hope I’m that happy at their age, and still married …’ She thought of Will; solid, straight-talking Will. It was like her life relaxed as soon as he walked into it. Will, and the unusual circumstances in which she fell in love with him, had made her a better version of herself. ‘God, I was lucky to find him. You know what I was like before.’

  Blake turned to look outside. ‘Dating dickheads, clueless and broke?’

  Abbi screwed up her nose. ‘I wasn’t that bad.’

  ‘You dropped out of journalism three times, dated a pothead who wore socks with sandals, got evicted … By the way, I still think you owe me a grand for that rental bond I lent you.’

  Abbi pretended not to hear.

  ‘You had such promise in high school – head nerd, straight As. What happened?’

  ‘You know what happened.’

  Blake sneezed. ‘I’m getting sick. I’m sure of it.’ He sniffed again, as if to prove it.

  Whenever Blake was stressed, he’d worry he was coming down with something. Abbi blamed Dr Google for Blake’s recent medical condition: hypochondria. But deep-down, Abbi knew she was the real problem in his life and a lump formed in her throat.

  The palm-tree-lined beach before them was scattered with buckets and spades, a child’s lost thong and an abandoned boogie board tied to a post, and it made Abbi think of her daughter’s holiday-scene Lego set; plastic-like in its perfection.

  Abbi combed her fingers through her copper-brown hair, noticing the bedhead style she’d acquired since parenthood (her lifestyle now demanded she get ready in under five minutes). She angled the rear-view mirror and inspected herself; her dark eyebrows seemed scruffier than usual, and with her caramel skin and wisps of sun-bleached hair falling over her face, she looked no better groomed than the homeless woman camped out in the dunes.

  A pack of teenagers on rusty bikes skidded on bitumen, skin glowing, boards under arm, not a helmet among
them. Blake shook his head. ‘More law-breakers.’ Abbi knew Blake liked to imagine he kept Lago Point in order, but it was an old-fashioned town where dogs wandered off-leash, doors went unlocked. A town where the butcher still kept seniors’ tabs till pension day, and bare feet and board shorts got you in anywhere worth being.

  Blake snuck a sideways glance at Abbi, her cupcake balancing on her lap. ‘Didn’t think I’d see you on your birthday. Not this year.’

  Abbi wondered why she’d bothered doing anything for it. It was kind of tacky, with everything. ‘Why? It’s your birthday too.’

  ‘Thought you’d be home. With your people …’

  Aren’t you my people? ‘You know my husband. Not one for fanfare.’

  Will was the antonym of fanfare.

  Using his hand as a shield from the wind funnelling into the car, Blake lit each wick with a lighter that appeared from nowhere, and Abbi figured his Dunhill stash wasn’t far away. ‘Thought you’d quit.’

  ‘Shut your face.’

  Abbi smiled. Back before it was social suicide, back before the age of superfoods and wheatgrass, smoking had been their thing. She liked that it was still a part of him, even if a hidden one. ‘You really should stop that filthy habit, you know,’ she said.

  ‘What? Hanging out with you?’

  She rolled her eyes, and they sat and watched the flame on the candle dance, mesmerised.

  Abbi reached over the handbrake and punched his arm. ‘Happy birthday, Blake.’

  ‘Happy birthday, sis.’

  She hated it when he called her that.

  The candles flickered in the sea breeze – the flame as fragile as life itself. She closed her eyes as she made a wish and blew. One breath later, the flame was gone. ‘Your turn.’

  He did the same, and she wondered if their wishes matched along with their cakes.

  ‘Remember our first birthday?’

  Blake’s eyebrows pulled together. ‘I was one.’

  ‘First joint birthday. At the beach, just down the front from us near the spit. Our twelfth.’ Life was simple. She missed simple. ‘I do.’

  Blake shook his head. ‘No, you don’t. You just make up stories around your photos to fill the gaps. And now there’s no one left but me to correct you.’

  Abbi felt a jolt of nostalgia. It had been five years since her mum died and it still hurt like fire when she thought of her not being here, that the world still went on without her. ‘It was the day you were placed with us. Remember?’

  A blankness fell over his eyes, as if he resented her pulling him back in time. ‘Not really.’

  ‘It was in the Macca’s car park on the highway. You know, the one where we did the changeovers. It was raining, like today. Those hypo twins were drawing stupid cock-and-balls pics on the foggy windows in the back of the Tarago. I remember pulling hard on the seatbelt so I could get the first look at the new kid but all I could see was that placement officer with the puffball hair.’ Abbi picked at the icing as Blake brushed crumbs off his uniform. She’d known he was a serial foster because he had the sack – the black plastic rubbish bag to cart his loot from life to life. ‘Your hair was long and you were so skinny; Mum joked if we cut your hair, you’d lose half your body weight.’

  Blake patted his belly – more padded than it was during his scrawny teenage years. ‘Your mum bought me three boxes of Macca’s cookies. It was like Christmas.’

  ‘They didn’t warn us that it was your birthday. She was compensating for not having a present for you.’ Abbi found those same cookies in a hidden stash beneath Blake’s bunk weeks after, together with a torch and map of bus stops and main roads that he must have tried to memorise in case he needed to escape. He was a runner. He always ran back to his real mother.

  Months later, Abbi’s mum found his stockpile while checking for drugs like she always did with noobs, and gave him the most long-winded hug ever, just to show him how unnecessary his precautions were. That he was part of them now. They were his twelfth placement, and she told him it would be his last.

  Blake smiled. ‘Things got better, from that day.’ Blake started whistling. He never whistled. It was the cop in him. He was usually the grim llama, the first to point out the inherent danger in any situation. He’d been at it ten years now; it had changed his DNA. He could barely sleep the night they’d shoplifted three packets of Skittles from Wyatt’s general store at fifteen, let alone what they’d done this time. But he seemed grounded today, like he’d forgiven himself. She wondered if he’d ever forgive her.

  ‘Why so chirpy?’ She and Blake hadn’t done chirpy since what went down. ‘Has Seinfeld announced a tour or something?’ Are you in total denial of what we did?

  His dimples made their second appearance this rainy morning. ‘She’s coming back. For real this time.’ He drummed a rock beat on the steering wheel.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hannah Banana.’ His voice was cool but his body betrayed him, bouncing a little in his seat like a galah as he spoke of Hannah Worthington. The same Hannah Worthington who had broken his heart more times than Abbi had missed editor’s deadlines. ‘She’s been threatening to come home for ages, but Molly told me she’s booked her flights. It’s happening.’

  Molly had babysat for Abbi last week and hadn’t mentioned anything about her big sister making a comeback tour. Her mind raced. ‘Are you kidding? She’s coming back now?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘In eighty-three hours, to be exact.’ He was beaming. ‘God, hope I don’t get sick for that. What if it’s swine flu?’

  No, it’s called a guilty conscience. ‘And you’re not worried about her being back? Have you forgotten that thing we did?’

  His brow furrowed. ‘We’ve dealt with that.’

  ‘You hope.’ Abbi scoffed.

  It had been almost a week. The sky hadn’t fallen. The world was indifferent, even if they weren’t. It was like spilt wine on a linen tablecloth – disastrous at the time, but now seemed to have been cleaned up without a trace. Only they knew the stain would always be there.

  She watched the rain bending the bristly branches of the coastal casuarinas lining the car park. ‘She’s been overseas, what – six years, and now she decides to come back? Isn’t that coincidental?’ Hannah may have been on the other side of the world, but she’d always had Blake by a thread that she’d yank now and then, just to make sure he was still attached. Now the puppet master would be back, pulling strings.

  ‘You think she planned her life just to piss you off? Self-absorbed much?’

  Abbi rolled her eyes. And so, it began – Blake mediating between the two women in his life. ‘How’s Fatso, anyway?’

  He laughed that easy laugh she loved. The laugh she hadn’t heard for a while.

  ‘You were best friends for half your life, now you can’t even say her name?’

  ‘Hannah.’ Abbi said it like she was sixteen instead of twice that, with the scowl to prove it.

  His tongue planted in his cheek. ‘You think you’ll be demoted, hey?’ He laughed that laugh again. She liked it less now.

  But he spoke the truth. Abbi preferred Hannah when she was on the other side of the Pacific, not the other side of town. She and Hannah were in nappies when their lives collided. Their mums had met in mothers’ group, so they were first friends by circumstance in that way kids play when they have no choice in the matter. Over the years, something other than proximity kept drawing the girls together, but Abbi feared it was often closer to rivalry than a heartfelt connection.

  Abbi shifted in her seat. Her eyes slid sideways and saw a spark in his eyes that had lain dormant for years. He’d been lost without that woman, like a stray sock that sits on the edge of the drawer, ever hopeful.

  ‘Which reminds me, I was going to ask you to feed Newman the following weekend. Thinking of taking Hannah out to one of those treehouse B&Bs, you know? With the robes.’ He paused like he needed a buffer to what he planned to say. ‘If things go well, I’m gonna ask her to
move in. I’ve got the house now. No more stinky cop-shop quarters – she always carried on about staying over when I lived there.’

  ‘You talk like you’re finally worthy of Miss Worthington.’ What was wrong with the old Blake, anyway? He was already too good for her. ‘But Blay, if you’re hoping for a Notebook-style reunion, I think you should lower your expectations.’

  Blake shook his head. ‘It won’t be like last time. She’s different now. I’m different now.’

  ‘You know this through Skype?’

  ‘She’s had her fun with that Yank, and she’s realised what a catch I am.’ He flexed his bicep, propping it up with his finger, like boys did at fifteen.

  ‘Wasn’t she screwing a married guy? Nice type.’

  ‘His wife had cancer, she was living in a home.’

  ‘Her husband’s home?’

  He rolled his neck. ‘A palliative care facility.’

  Abbi shook her head. One thing she hated was disloyalty. But who was she to judge?

  The memory of Blake brooding on her couch after the last time Hannah broke his heart filled her mind. But that wasn’t the only reason for her unease. The Hannah she remembered was stroppy, opinionated, always on her high horse about the latest injustice and dogmatic about her views. When she grabbed hold of something, she never let go.

  Abbi glared at him, hoping her wisdom, her fear, would transfer via osmosis so she wouldn’t have to say it out loud: Miss Do-Gooder was a threat.

  His eyes narrowed. He’d got her drift. He could still read her thoughts. ‘It’ll be fine, Abs.’

  Abbi wasn’t so sure. Banners advertising the Lago Moon Festival still adorned the streets, tattered lanterns still looped around lampposts despite the event being old news. If Hannah and Blake did get back together, it would come up; in the bedroom, in a drunken moment of intimacy. He was a sharer. He’d blab, eventually. She’d pry it out with her claws if she knew there was something to be found.

  ‘It’s just hard to act normal with people who know you well.’

  His eyes dropped to the pedals. ‘You’re managing.’

  ‘Am I?’ She felt like an impersonator around her husband: her marriage was a shell of what it had been. She was just hoping time would fill the hollow. That they still would be that old couple, together forever. ‘Would any sane person manage this?’