The Marriage Lie(89)

Evan’s gaze fishes over my shoulder and sticks. I twist on my seat to see Detective Johnson standing on my front stoop, watching us.

“Her suspicions are already up,” Evan says, his gaze coming back to mine. “Whatever you tell her, she’s going to be looking for inconsistencies.”

“Are you telling me to lie?”

“Hell, no. I’m telling you to think long and hard about what you do say.”

I give him a squinty look, thinking it still sounds an awful lot like the same thing.

“You don’t have much time.” Detective Johnson must have given him a sign, because he nods over my shoulder. “Look, I’ll plead emotional exhaustion and shock, see if I can hold the big questions off for a day or two, but you’re still going to have to give her a statement tonight. She’s going to want the basics before she’ll release you.”

I sigh, trying to settle my thoughts, but there are too many, and I’m too tired. The exhaustion has made me sluggish, like my brain cells are swimming through sorghum syrup. I lean my head on the headrest and close my eyes, just for a second.

A warm palm wraps around my wrist. “Iris, did you hear me?”

“I heard you.” I open my eyes and sigh, reaching for the car door. “Let’s get this over with.”

*

When you know what to look for, spotting a lie is pretty easy. You see it in the fidgets and sudden head movements or sometimes, when the person is overcompensating, through no movements at all. In how their breathing changes, or how they provide too much information, repeating phrases and offering up irrelevant details. In the way they shuffle their feet or touch their mouths or put a hand to their throats. It’s basic psychology, physical signals that the body doesn’t agree with the words coming out of its mouth.

So when Detective Johnson asks me what my relationship was with Corban Hayes, I meet her gaze with a perfectly calm face. “He was a friend of Will’s from the gym.”

The three of us are huddled in my driveway, Evan and I shoulder to shoulder, Detective Johnson scribbling furiously onto a pad. The dogs are finally quiet, but the air is chilly and the street busy.

By now the media has gotten wind of the evening’s drama. Their vans line the curb, satellite dishes pointed to the stars. A dozen or so reporters are lined up in front of them, aiming their cameras and microphones up my lawn. Evan shifts his big body in front of mine, doing his best to keep my face off the morning news.

Detective Johnson keeps going like they’re not even there. “What time did he arrive?”

“Around ten or so.” I keep my tone even and breathing steady, and I answer only the question that is asked. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Why did he stay so long?”

“Because he had this crazy idea that my husband was still alive. He claimed Will owed him money.”

She raises her brows at the crazy. “Last Thursday, when you came to see me with a statement, you agreed. When I asked you if you were positive your husband was on that plane, you said no. You thought he might still be alive, too.”

“It’s been an emotional couple of weeks.”

Tell the truth, but misleadingly—that is the key to lying.

Detective Johnson scribbles my answer onto her pad followed by a big question mark. I know her next question before she poses it.

“What about now? Do you think your husband is still alive now?”

I mold my face into a half-amused frown. “That would make me as crazy as Corban, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s not exactly an answer.”

Her response isn’t exactly a question, either—one I’m not about to touch.

“Mrs. Griffith, did your husband own a gun?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Did he ever go hunting or to the shooting range?”

“You’re asking if he knew how to use a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Again, not that I’m aware of.”

“That’s enough. It’s late.” Evan swings an arm around my shoulders. “I’ll call you in the morning to set up a time for the full interview, as soon as Mrs. Griffith is rested.”

Detective Johnson doesn’t look happy about it, but she relents. Her gaze burns between my shoulder blades as I turn toward Evan’s car.

The reporters are ready, and they take off like racehorses released from the gate, sprinting across the lawn with their microphones and cameras bobbing. They shout my name and a jumbled slew of questions I can’t decipher.

“No comment,” Evan barks, holding them off with an arm, and then he packs me into his SUV. Two seconds later, his engine roars underneath us, and we peel away.

“You should rest,” he says as soon as we’re around the corner. The radio is on, the volume turned low to some country station, and the car smells like Evan, leather and spice. “I’ll wake you when we get there.”

I sink deeper into the seat with a loud yawn. “Where’s there?”

“My house. And before you say a word, I’m not taking you to a hotel, so don’t even ask.”

I don’t ask. I’m too tired to argue anyway. I close my eyes, barely even noticing that I’m drifting off.





31

I awaken in a strange room, and it takes me a second or two to remember where I am. Evan’s guest room, with its private bath and lock on the door. He was right; the bed is beyond comfortable. I stretch out over the king-sized mattress, wondering how I got here. The last thing I remember was Evan telling me to rest. When my eyes slid shut, we hadn’t even made it out of my neighborhood yet.