The Lie
A Novel
by Karina Halle
Also by Karina Halle
Contemporary Romance Novels
Love, in English
Love, in Spanish
Where Sea Meets Sky (from Atria Books)
Racing the Sun (from Atria Books)
Before the Dawn (from Atria Books)
Bright Midnight (from Atria Books)
The Pact
The Offer
The Play
The Lie
The Debt (Fall 2016)
Romantic Suspense Novels
Sins and Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1)
On Every Street (An Artists Trilogy Novella #0.5)
Shooting Scars (The Artists Trilogy #2)
Bold Tricks (The Artists Trilogy #3)
Dirty Angels
Dirty Deeds
Dirty Promises
Paranormal/Horror Romance Novels
The Devil’s Metal (Devils #1)
The Devil’s Reprise (Devils #2)
Donners of the Dead
Darkhouse (Experiment in Terror #1)
Red Fox (EIT #2)
The Benson (EIT #2.5)
Dead Sky Morning (EIT #3)
Lying Season (EIT #4)
On Demon Wings (EIT #5)
Old Blood (EIT #5.5)
The Dex-Files (EIT #5.7)
Into the Hollow (EIT #6)
And With Madness Comes the Light (EIT #6.5)
Come Alive (EIT #7)
Ashes to Ashes (EIT #8)
Dust to Dust (EIT #9)
First edition published by
Metal Blonde Books February 2016
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Karina Halle
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Cover design by Hang Le Designs
Edited by Kara Maclinczak
Metal Blonde Books
P.O. Box 845
Point Roberts, WA
98281 USA
Manufactured in the USA
For more information about the series and author visit:
http://authorkarinahalle.com/
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
For Scott
PROLOGUE
Brigs
Edinburgh, Scotland
Four Years Ago
“I’m sorry.”
I’d rehearsed it so many times that I thought I could just open my mouth and the words would flow out. The whole speech. The entire confession. I thought if I kept saying it over and over again in my head, that when it came time to speak the awful, horrible, liberating truth, it would come easily.
But it doesn’t. It hasn’t.
I can’t even explain myself. All I do is drop to my knees, my legs shaking from the stress of it all, the stress I brought upon myself. It pales in comparison to what she’s about to feel.
Miranda is sitting on the couch, like I’d asked her to, the cup of tea placed neatly on the saucer. I keep my eyes focused on the subtle wafts of steam rising from it. I thought I could do the right thing and meet her eyes, but I can’t. I’m cowardly at the end of it all, unwilling to see the pain, the deep cuts from my own hand.
“Sorry for what?” she asks in that calm voice of hers. Always so calm, able to weather any storm I’ve thrown her way. The fact that I’m on my knees, visibly trembling like a fool, hasn’t changed her tone in the slightest. Maybe this won’t be as hard on her as I thought.
Bloody wishful thinking, that is.
I take in a deep breath and wince when it comes out shaking. I wish the sound of the rain pouring outside would mask it.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat again. My voice sounds hollow, like I’m hearing a playback on a dusty old tape. “I have to tell you something.”
“I can see that,” she says, and now I detect an edge. “You asked me to sit down and now you’re on your knees. I hope you’re not proposing to me all over again.”
It would all be so much easier if that were true.
I finally dare to meet her eyes.
My wife is such a beautiful woman. Grace Kelly reincarnated. A neck like a swan. I remember our first date. We’d barely been out of high school, but even then it’s like she held a world of secrets in her poise. She was so put together, so perfect. I showed up with my shitty car and took her to the movies and dinner at the best place I could afford, even though the food was bloody horrible. And she was forever gracious, didn’t bat an eye. She made me feel like I was somebody when I was with her, and maybe that’s why I married her. She was everything I wasn’t.
She’s still everything I’m not. That can’t be more apparent right now.
“Brigs,” she says, frowning. She barely has lines even when she’s making that face. “You’re scaring me.”
I clear my throat but it’s like pushing boulders. “I know.”
“Is it about Hamish?” she asks, and as that thought comes over her, her eyes widen in panic.
I shake my head quickly. “No, nothing to do with Hamish.”
I’m thankful more than ever that the little man has gone to bed when he’s supposed to. The rain is coming down harder now, tapping at the windows, and that has always worked on him better than any lullaby.
“I just want you to know,” I tell her, putting my palm on her hands. So soft, like she’d never worked a day in her life. I used to make fun of her for that, for being the socialite, the trust-fund baby. Right now they make her seem achingly vulnerable. “I just want you to know that…I’ve put a lot of thought into this. I never wanted to hurt you.” I stare at her, begging with my eyes. “You must know that.”
“Oh god,” she says with a gasp, pulling her hand away from mine. “Brigs, what did you do?”
The weight of all my choices blankets me.
There is no easy way to say this.
No way to soften the blow.
I don’t want to hurt her.
But I have to.
“I…” I swallow the razors in my throat. I shake my head and fight the heat behind my eyes. “Miranda, I want a divorce.”
She stares at me blankly, so calmly, that I wonder if she’s heard me. My hands are shaking, my heart is about to need resuscitation.
“What?” she finally whispers in disbelief.
To outside eyes we’ve had a happy marriage. But we both knew this was coming. Maybe she never saw the catalyst, but she knew this was coming. She had to.
“We’ve both been very unhappy for a long time,” I explain.
“Are you serious?” she says quickly. “Are you seriously doing this?”
“Miranda.” I lick my lips, daring to meet her eyes. “You must have known this was going to happen. If it wasn’t from me, it would
have been from you.”
“How dare you,” she says, roughly pushing my hands away and getting to her feet. “How dare you put words in my mouth? I’ve been happy…I’ve just been…I’ve just been…”
She’s shaking her head violently, walking to the other side of the living room. “No,” she says, standing against the mantle. “No, I won’t give you a divorce. I won’t let you leave. You can’t leave me. You…Brigs McGregor could never leave Miranda Harding McGregor. You would be nothing without me.”
I let her words deflect, even though my belief in them is what’s led to this moment. “Miranda,” I say softly, and her name is starting to sound foreign, the way it can when you say a word too many times in a row. “Please.”
“No!” she yells, and I flinch, hoping she doesn’t wake up Hamish. “Whatever foolish ideas are coming over your brain, I don’t know, but a divorce isn’t the answer. This is just…a flight of fancy for you. You being unhappy at your job. This is you not feeling like a man. This is you not performing like a man.”
A dig below the literal belt. I should have known that would be her first line of defense. Our problems in the bedroom for the last year. I can’t fault her for that.
“No,” she says again. “I can live with that, I can. And if I never have another child, so be it. But my family…my reputation…it will not come to this. We have a good life, Brigs. This house. Look at this house.” She points wildly around the room, a feverish look in her eyes. “Look at these things. We have everything. People look up to us. They envy us. Why would you throw that away?”
My heart sinks further down my chest, to my stomach, and burns there.
“Please,” I say softly, not wanting the whole truth to come out, but ready to wield it if I have to. “I’m not…I don’t want to hurt you. But I’m just not in love with you anymore. It’s the honest truth, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She blinks like she’s been slapped. Then she says, “So? What married couples are in love with each other? Be realistic here, Brigs.”
Now I’m surprised. I frown. I didn’t expect her to fight for us so much. And to fight for a loveless marriage she’s okay with.
She’s watching me closely, tapping her nails against her lips. Plotting. The rain spatters at the windows, and in the distance, thunder rumbles, the first autumn storm. The room seems smaller than ever.
“We can work it out,” she finally says, her voice back to being eerily calm. “This is just a hiccup. We can work it out. You can love me again, and if you can’t, then it’s okay. It’s fine. No one has to know. We both love our son, and that’s enough. Don’t you want him to grow up with a father, a complete family? Don’t you know a divorce would destroy him? Is that what you want for him?”
I take an ice pick to the chest with that one, the cold spreading through me. Because of course, of course, that’s what I want for him. It’s what’s held me back and back and back. But kids know, they know when their parents aren’t happy. Hamish deserves better than a childhood tainted with angst.
“Separated parents are better than two miserable parents together,” I tell her, pleading now. “You know it’s true. Hamish is smart, so smart. So intuitive. Children pick up on so much more than you realize.”
Her eyes narrow. “Oh? What self-help book did you steal that from? Bloody hell, Brigs. Just listen to yourself. Talking out of your arse.”
“Do you want him to grow up in a house where I don’t love his mother? Is that what you want? Don’t you think he’ll see? He’ll know.”
“He won’t,” she says viciously. “Stop making excuses.”
I get to my feet and raise my palms, feeling helpless to the core. Guilty as sin. “I have no excuses. Just the truth.”
“Go fuck your truth, Brigs,” she snaps.
The thunder crashes again. I pray it drowns out our argument, that Hamish is still blissfully asleep and unaware that his future is changing. Not for the worst, please God, not for the worst. Just changing.
She walks over to the antique bar cart and pours herself a glass of Scotch from the decanter, like a heroine in a Hitchcock film. Playing the part.
Can’t she see how tired I am of pretending?
Doesn’t she get tired, too?
“Do you want one?” she asks over her shoulder, almost coyly, the glass between her manicured fingertips. Her father gave us those, and the decanter, as a wedding present.
I shake my head, trying to steady my heart.
She slams back the Scotch, and in a second it’s down her throat. “Suit yourself. I’ll have your share.”
She pours another glass, holds it delicately, and glides over to the couch, sitting down in front of me. She crosses her legs and stares up at me, cocking her head, a wave of blonde falling across her forehead. She’s buried her emotions again, pretending, acting, as if that will make everything okay.
“You’re a fool, Brigs. Always were. But I forgive you. We all have lapses in judgement sometimes.”
I sigh heavily and close my eyes. She’s not getting it.
“People fall out of love all the time,” she goes on, finishing half the glass and putting it down on the glass side table. The clink sounds so loud in this room that seems to be growing emptier and emptier. “It’s a fact of life. A sad, sad fact. But you can fall back in. I’ll try harder. I really will. I’ll do anything to make you stay. You know this. You know how I can be. Once I have something, I don’t let go. I fight. And I keep what’s mine.”
I do know that. Which is why I have to give her the truth. The terrible truth. Because only then she’ll see. Only then she’ll see what I mean.
I wish I didn’t have to do this.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“I forgive you.” She finishes the rest of her drink, wiping the back of her hand across her lips without managing to smear her lipstick.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again, feeling the tears building behind my eyes. I shake my head sharply. “The truth is…I’m in love with someone else. I’ve fallen in love with someone else.”
There.
The truth falls.
Lands on her like bricks.
She jerks her head back from the impact, eyes widening in confusion. Fear. Anger.
“What?!” she exclaims. She stares at me, the fury slowly building and building and building before it’s unleashed. “Who? Who? Tell me fucking who?!”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, but she’s up on her feet, sneering at me, face red and contorted. Unable to pretend anymore.
“Tell me!” she screams, holding onto her head, her teeth bared, her eyes wild. “Tell me! Is it someone I know? Susan? Carol!?”
“It’s no one you know, Miranda. It just happened, I—”
“Fuck you!” she screams again.
“Please. Hamish is sleeping.”
“Oh, fuck you!” She pounds her fists against my chest and pushes me back. “Fuck you for making me the fool. What is she, some young tart? Did she make you get it up? Huh, did she fix your problem?”
“I never slept with her,” I tell her quickly.
“Oh, bullshit!” she screams. “Bloody fucking hell. Brigs. Brigs, you can’t be serious. You’re in love with someone else.” She shakes her head, talking to herself. “You, of all people. The professor. Quiet Mr. McGregor. No. I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it.”
“I know it’s hard to hear.”
Crack.
She slaps me hard.
Again.
And again.
One side and the other, and I turn the cheek because I deserve this. I knew this was coming, and if she didn’t react this way, then I really didn’t know the woman I married.
“You arse! You wanker!” She shoves me one more time and runs across the room, to the bar. She picks up the decanter of Scotch, downs a few gulps of it straight out of the nose, then spits some of it up, bent over in a coughing fit.
“Miranda, please.”
“You
are disgusting!” she screeches after she’s caught her breath. “Pathetic little shit! You slept with another woman. You—”
“I didn’t!” I yell, my arms flying out to the sides. “I never slept with her, please believe that.”
“And even if I believed you, you think that gives you a pass?” She nearly spits the words. “Love is a choice, Brigs, and you chose this. You chose to not love me, and you chose to love her, some fucking whore. Some nobody. You chose to ruin our fucking lives!” At the last word she picks up the decanter of Scotch and hurls it at me. I duck just in time as it crashes against the cabinet behind me, breaking into a million pieces.
“Mummy?” Hamish whimpers, rubbing his eyes and standing in the doorway.
Fuck!
I whirl around, trying to smile. “Mummy is fine,” I tell him. “Go back to sleep, buddy.”
“Is it storming out?” he says, walking forward toward the broken glass.
“Hamish!” I yell at him, hands out for him to stop. He does before he reaches the glass, blinking at me. I never raise my voice around him. But before I can scoop him up, Miranda is running across the room and grabbing him by the arm.
“Come on, baby. We’re going, we’re going,” she says, leading him out of the living room and into the foyer.
I run after them in time to see Miranda grabbing her car keys and her coat. Hamish is crying now and she’s picking him up in her arms.
“What are you doing?” I shout, storming after her.
She quickly runs out the door and into the rain, and I’m right behind her, bare feet sinking into the cold mud, nearly slipping as she heads for the sedan.
She can’t be serious. She can’t do this.
I manage to grab hold of her arm as she puts Hamish in the front seat and closes the door. The car seat isn’t even there—it’s in the house, the maid was cleaning it after Hamish spilled his milk this afternoon.
“You can’t take him!” I scream at her over the wind and rain.
“Let go of me!” she yelps, trying to pull away. “I’m taking him from you, you bastard.”
“No, listen to me!” I tighten my grip on her arm. Hamish is wailing from inside the car, rain sliding down the window. “You’re not thinking. You’ve had the Scotch. It’s a fucking storm out there and he needs his car seat. Just listen to me!”