The Marriage Lie(35)

“And, okay, so his father wasn’t the nicest person. That’s not something he would have liked to talk about, either. But why not just say they were estranged? Why lie and tell me he never knew him?”

“You’re the psychologist here. What would make a person fictionalize the first eighteen years of their life?”

“Or more. After these past few days, I’m no longer assuming anything from the time before I met him. I’m not saying I believe everything Coach Miller said, but he described a deeply troubled kid, and even if only part of his story was true, you don’t bounce back from something like that—if at all—without serious therapy. Which is why I need more than just one eyewitness account. I need to talk to their old neighbors, find some more teachers and classmates. Coach Miller can’t be the only one who remembers him.”

Dave nods his agreement, and we emerge from the stairwell at the front of the building. From his spot by the entrance, the guard gives us a chin lift. “You find what you needed?”

“Yes,” Dave says, at the same time I hook a thumb back into the belly of the building, in the direction of the library. “Let’s go take another look at the yearbook. Better yet, let’s make some copies.”

“No need.”

“What? Why?”

He flashes me a zip it look, leaning in close and talking through gritted teeth. “I’ll fill you in in the car.”

The guard grunts like he couldn’t care either way. “Sign out before you go.”

Dave signs us out, and we head out the front door into a biting cold. Sometime while we were inside, steel-colored clouds rolled in on a front that dropped the temperature a good ten degrees. I shiver and tug my coat higher around my neck, but Dave unzips his, pulling the 1999 yearbook from behind his back with a cocky smile.

My eyes go wide. “You stole it?”

He purses his lips. “I prefer to think of it as borrowing.”

“India won’t see it that way. And when she notices it missing, she’ll know exactly who took it, too. Our names are on the visitors’ log, Dave.”

“Stop worrying. Borrowing implies giving it back, as soon as we’ve made ourselves a copy. We’ll put it back before India even notices it’s gone.”

“You don’t know that. What if she does? What if she tracks me back to Lake Forrest?”

He rolls his eyes. “Isn’t it difficult, walking around with your panties in such a wad?”

I love my brother, but here’s where we’re different. I live in a world where rules are meant to be followed, whereas he thinks rules are mostly an inconvenience. Especially the ones that inconvenience him. Dave puts his feet up on chairs and cuts through parking lots and brings his own snacks into movie theaters, all without ever getting caught. It’s all about attitude, he would say, and he’s not wrong. Dave has a boldness tucked inside him that draws people in and makes them forget he just stepped on their toes in order to push to the front of the line.

At the top of the stairs, the school doors slam open, and a throng of teenagers spills out. They hit the steps and scatter, moving at us with a speed and energy that can only come after being cooped up in a classroom for over eight hours.

Dave grabs my wrist, drags me in the direction of the street. “Come on, before we get trampled.”

We’re a block away, stepping into the rental, when my phone rings with a number I don’t recognize. I press it to my ear. “Hello?”

A woman’s voice, high and brisk, greets me. “Iris Griffith?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Leslie Thomas. I’m calling from the Family Assistance Center—”

“What happened to Margaret Ann?”

“Ann Margaret,” Dave whispers. He starts the car but doesn’t shift it into gear.

On the other end of the line, the caller doesn’t miss a beat. “Margaret Ann is currently unavailable, but I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

My attention snags, just for a second, on the name. Ann Margaret or Margaret Ann? Either way, this woman has caught me off guard. “Oh, I... Sorry, I’m not really in a place to talk right now.”

“This won’t take more than a minute or two. I understand that a number of families have banded together and are bringing a wrongful death lawsuit against Liberty Air. Are you one of them?”

Both her question and her tone, high-strung and almost manic, send all sorts of warning bells ringing in my head. Why would anyone at the FAC, an organization that exists under the Liberty Air umbrella, ask such a thing? I frown at Dave, whose brows shoot skyward. What? he mouths.

“I...I don’t know,” I say into the phone.

“You don’t know if you’re one of the families suing Liberty Air?”

“No, I don’t know anything about the lawsuit. Who did you say you were again?”

“My name is Leslie Thomas. This morning the Miami Herald reported that the pilot was coming off a three-day bachelor party in South Beach and was functioning on only one hour of sleep. If that’s true, will you and the other families be charging Liberty Air with manslaughter?”

Something icy steals around my heart, racking my torso with a chill that’s not from the cold. The pilot was half-asleep, possibly hungover? The blood drains from my cheeks, and I press a palm to my churning stomach.