Lies She Told(58)

Tears escape my eyes. They are real, fueled by despair over my future. I will never again have a sound sleep. The fear that someday someone will figure out my crime will hang over me like a suspended boulder.

Tyler cradles my cheek with his palm. “Don’t worry. I certainly won’t say anything to him. It will be all right.”

His assurances annoy me. Obviously he won’t talk to Jake. He doesn’t want my husband to go after his license for sleeping with me. Plus, nobody in his right mind would tell a likely murderer that he fucked his wife the prior night.

“I’m so afraid.” I sound meek. I can’t tell whether I’m acting or if the stress of the past twenty-four hours has sapped all the confidence from my voice. “If he thought I knew what he did . . . If the police found out and it somehow got back to him . . .”

Tyler pulls me into his chest. Here, with his arm around my back and my head against his strong shoulder, I feel protected. I want to stay. Hero types are my downfall.

“Please,” I whisper. “You can’t tell anyone that I knew about the affair. Even the police. It could get back to Jake.”

He makes a shushing sound as though I’m an infant. “They can’t ask me about our sessions.”

“What if they gave you a subpoena?”

“I can’t be compelled to talk about anything you said. I’m bound by confidentiality. I’m your doctor.”

I lift my chin to gaze into his empathetic brown eyes. He’s not scared. He thinks his doctor-patient privilege protects him and, to a lesser extent, me. In fact, he feels more secure now that I have my own reasons to keep our one-night stand secret. But he should be afraid. I covered up a crime. I know that once the police start investigating Nick, they’ll want to verify my comings and goings. They’ll check the security cameras around our building. I wasn’t thinking about avoiding them when I went to Tyler’s apartment. My face is undoubtedly on a CCTV tape somewhere. Tyler’s doorman saw us too. And although Tyler’s practice is in the same building as his first-floor apartment, the timing of our rendezvous is wrong for a session. Once the cops see us walking to the elevator, hand in hand, late at night, they’ll know it wasn’t for a standard psychiatric visit. Confidentiality will crumble.

“But what if they find out that I was with you that night? If they see me on a camera somewhere or your doorman recognizes me? What will you do?”

“I’ll tell them . . .” His eyes widen. “I’ll tell them . . .”

I cup my right hand over the one stroking my left and look him straight in the eye. “You’ll tell them that I developed feelings for you. My husband was ignoring me, and I mistook your attention for affection. You were trying to calm me down.”

“But what if they have footage in the lift?”

I close my eyes, considering the possibility without seeing the worry lines across his brow. We definitely kissed in the elevator—though that probably works to my advantage. It would be better for the police to think that I was having sex with a lover than out killing Colleen. Faced with any footage, my best bet is to tell the cops that I’d been seeing Tyler, maybe even to hint that I’d intended to leave my husband for him. But I can’t ask Tyler to come clean. Once he admits to sleeping with a patient, his career is over. He’ll have nothing to lose by telling the whole story, making clear just how angry I was at Jake and his girlfriend.

I squeeze Tyler’s hand. “If they have elevator footage, you can say that I was kissing you. You didn’t push me off because of my fragile state. But you talked to me until midnight and got me through my crisis. Then I went to my mother’s.”

He nods slowly, taking in everything I’ve said. Evaluating me. He thought I was a desperate housewife. Deferential to her husband. Nonconfrontational. Unaware. Weak. It is occurring to him that his assessment was off. “Thank you, Beth.”

I grab the stroller. I should leave before he realizes all that I am capable of. “Thank you, Tyler, for helping me.”

“Be careful.”

I press my lips together as if holding back tears. Really, I’m stopping the retort on the tip of my tongue. I always am.





LIZA


The apartment is in disarray when I return. Papers are strewn over the dining room table. Books have been tossed from shelves onto the floor. Clothing—David’s from the look of it—is thrown over the living room couch. A thousand pins pierce my lungs. Is he packing? Is he fleeing the country? Is he leaving me?

My voice trembles as I call out my husband’s name. He emerges from the master bedroom, face flushed from exertion. The sunlight penetrating the French doors tinges his blue eyes an animalistic yellow.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

His nostrils flare. “I’m looking for that note. I have to find it.”

The fear that had gripped my body moments before releases. “Are you sure it’s even here?”

He flips on the overhead lights and then scans the room with his hands on his hips. The artificial brightness highlights areas of mess. David’s expression changes from panic to disgust. He looks at me sheepishly.

“Is it from the court?” I ask. “Can’t you get a new one?”

“No. I . . .” His eyes water. He shuts them and presses the heel of his palms into the lids. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”