The Marriage Lie(45)

“In the lobby at the police station. Don’t worry, we haven’t been accosted or arrested or anything like that. We’re just here to request an old police report. It’s too much of a story to go into over the phone, but suffice it to say, my husband was a very different person when he lived here. Oh, and it seems I have a father-in-law.”

“Huh. Well, I’ll be darned. Did you meet him?”

My father has always been the master of understatement, and I can’t help but smile. “I did, in fact. And he’s not doing so great. He has Alzheimer’s, and his nursing home is awful. More drama that I’ll fill you in on later.” My gaze wanders out the wall of windows, and the pedestrians slogging through the constant drizzle as if it were a sunny day. “Anyway, were you calling to chat or did you need something?”

“I’m calling because your mother’s been nagging me to find out when you’re coming home, but also to give you a couple of messages.”

“Why didn’t Mom just call and ask me herself?”

“Oh, you know your mother. She didn’t want to be a nag.”

“So she just nagged you instead.”

“As I said, you know your mother.” I laugh, and a smile pokes through his words when he continues, “Now, you got a pen and paper handy?”

I dig an old receipt from the bottom of my bag and flip it over. “Hit me.”

“All righty, let’s see...” There’s a rustling and sounds of paper shuffling, and I picture my father sliding his readers onto his nose and flipping through his list. “Claire Masters from Lake Forrest called to check in, as did Elizabeth, Lisa and Christy, who seemed worried they hadn’t heard from you since the memorial. I assume you have everyone’s numbers?”

“Yes. I’ll shoot them all a text later.”

“I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear from you. Leslie Thomas said to tell you she’s very sorry, and that if you’ll talk to her, she has a name you need to hear. Something about a cocktail waitress at a bachelor party, if that makes any sense?”

“It makes total sense, unfortunately. Did she leave a number?”

Dad recites it for me, then moves on to the next message. “Evan Sheffield called, said he was sorry he missed you at the friends-and-family meeting but wanted to make sure you got the updates. He sounded legit. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave him your email address.”

“That’s fine. I promised I’d get it to him at the memorial anyway, and then with all the travel, totally forgot.”

“And a man named Corban Hayes stopped by earlier this afternoon. He seemed like he knew a good deal about you and Will.”

“He does. I talked to him at the memorial, too. Remember? He’s a friend of Will’s from the gym.”

“That’s what he said. He also brought by a box of things. A couple of books he borrowed from Will a while back, a stack of photographs, a T-shirt from some run they did together, stuff like that. He said he wanted you to have it.”

“That was nice of him,” I say, right as something else occurs to me. “You didn’t tell anybody I was in Seattle, did you?” Not that I imagine any of the callers, Leslie Thomas excluded, would be the messenger hiding behind a blocked number, but still, I have to ask. If my father’s been going around telling everyone who called or stopped by where I am, it certainly broadens the suspect pool.

“No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“Think, Dad. It’s important.”

He pauses but only for a second or two. “No, I’m positive I didn’t say anything other than that you were away for a few days, and that your mother and I were watching the house. Now, could you please tell me why you’re asking?”

Dave sinks into the chair across from me, flashes me an upturned thumb as a sign of victory. I give him a distracted nod, then fill my father in on the texts from the blocked number. That whoever it is knows I’m here, knows Dave and I are here to excavate details from Will’s past, even claims to know what I’m searching for and that I’m doing it in the wrong place.

My father’s voice goes deep and deadly, a carryover from his military days. “I don’t like it, Iris. Whoever is sending those messages could be tracking you from your cell. Which means not only would he know you’re in Seattle, he knows you’re sitting in the police station lobby.”

“Well, at least we’re safe here,” I say, but my joke falls flat. Dad grumbles while, across from me, Dave’s brows slide into a frown. “Seriously, Dad, we’re fine. The texts haven’t been threatening, just...insistent that I go home, which it looks like we’re probably doing tomorrow anyway. Seems we’ve hit a wall here.”

“Good. Your mother will be glad to hear it.”

Mom’s voice carries down the line, as clearly as if she’s sitting on his lap. “Hear what, dear?”

“That the kids are coming back tomorrow.” She says something else, something I can’t quite decipher, and my father sighs. “She wants to know if you’ve been eating.”

“Yes,” I say, and it’s not quite a lie. I have been eating. I just haven’t managed to keep much of it down. I steer us back on subject. “Anything else?”

“Yup. Nick Brackman’s called four times.”