Page 30 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

Twenty-Eight

Emily

A s I brush my teeth, Alex’s words run through my head.

You can’t build a marriage on lies. In my heart, I know she’s right.

She’s also right that my marriage rests on a shaky foundation of lies thanks to both Tristan and me.

I think—I hope —his lies are the same as mine: lies of omission, silences that shouldn’t be.

Somehow this seems less serious than actively lying.

This is what I always tell myself to justify keeping Cassie’s murder from him.

Still, I’m struggling to wrap my mind around the enormity of all he’s kept from me over the years. His troubled childhood. His father’s suicide. The fact that he has a brother. What else has he kept from me?

And if Tate is as dangerous and unstable as Alex thinks he could be, there’s no excuse for not telling me about him, just in case he turns up at our door someday. Or is there? Could there be a very good reason for Tristan’s reticence? A reason I’m not seeing.

I should do what Alex suggests and sleep on this, but instead I pick up the telephone on the bedside table.

I need to say good night. I need to hear his voice.

Maybe that will untangle this knot in my stomach.

I dial his mobile number and look around the tidy, sparsely furnished room while I wait for him to pick up.

“Hello?” He answers with a polite, reserved tone, and I realize he doesn’t recognize the number.

“It’s me.”

“Em? Where are you?”

“I’m calling from Alex’s house.”

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Why are you there?” He rapid-fires the questions at me.

“I’m fine. The storm hit,” I tell him, “and the power went out in the cabin. I’m staying at the farmhouse tonight.”

“With Alex?”

There’s something in his tone. Worry? No, fear. I say, “Well, yeah.”

“Be careful.”

“What does that mean?”

He blows out a breath. “She’s a stranger. We don’t know her.”

Well, that’s not exactly true, now is it?

“Actually, you probably do know her,” I tell him.

“You mean because we both grew up in Windy Rock? I told you, I don’t remember her.”

I want to say “she remembers you,” to see how he responds. But I control myself.

“Her name was different then. She went by Lexi. Lexi Lincoln.”

I almost add that she’s a few years older than his brother, but I don’t want to do that over the phone either.

“Lexi Lincoln,” he repeats slowly.

“Yes.”

Even if he didn’t recognize her when he saw her, her name must ring a bell if the town is as small as they’ve both said it is.

He says nothing. I wonder if we’re about to tip over from lies of omission to lies of commission. Then he removes any question.

“Oh, right. I do know that name. She’s a good bit older than me.” He pauses. “I have a vague memory that she has some emotional problems. I don’t know the details, but I wouldn’t take anything she says at face value.”

It’s simply not believable that he would remember her name and not the fact that someone tried to carve her up. Especially not when it happened three days before his father killed himself. He’s lying.

I rein in my emotions and say, “Well, it was kind of her to let me sleep here. The cabin’s going to be really cold.”

“You could have built a fire.”

I ignore this and chirp, “I made great progress on the book—until the power went out, at least.”

“That’s fantastic, Em.” His voice is suffused with happiness for me. Sheer, uncomplicated joy. It makes me feel gross for doubting him.

“Thanks.” Then I remember. “Oh, did you ever hear back from Tyrone—about the man I saw?”

“I did.”

I’m silent, waiting for him to elaborate. But the pause stretches out long enough to be awkward before he says, “He’s grateful we let him know.”

There’s something he’s not telling me. I know it in my bones. And for the first time, I feel safer being away from him than with him.

I tell myself I’m not being fair to him. I’m emotional from all the wine and soul-baring. It’s not reasonable to expect him to bring up his brother on this phone call spontaneously or share what happened to Lexi or his dad.

I fake a loud yawn and say, “Well, I’m pretty sleepy. I just called to say good night.”

“I love you more than life, Emily.” His voice thrums with energy.

“Love you, too. Good night, Tristan.” I wonder if he senses the emptiness in my response.

I nestle the phone in its base and sit on the edge of the bed. The call I’d hoped would assuage my concern has increased it. And I’m forced to ask myself, how well do I really know my husband?