The Lies I Tell(70)

This is the tipping point for Ron. I have a website to finish and a visit to a Las Vegas notary. Then a second stop at the county clerk’s office before my flight home, where I’ll be filing for another DBA, one of the last benchmarks I need to hit in order to meet my deadline, two weeks before the election. I had only thirty-five days left.

And then I’ll take him to see the Mandeville property. Five acres in the heart of Brentwood, on the market for over two years with only one set of buyers who’d backed out unexpectedly a year ago. Dead weight hanging around the listing agent’s neck, and on lockbox with a combination anyone can access.

Kat’s text remains unanswered on my phone. I’m not sure what to think about it—what she believes, or what she wants. I think back to the flame of worry I felt when she told me about the bank account breach and then later the credit card. How certain I’d been that it was Scott and how frustrated I was when she refused to see what was obvious to me.

But who am I to judge? Every relationship I’ve ever had has been a lie.

I stare at the website I’ve just created, nearly identical to the legitimate one, with the exception of an extra underscore at the end.

I close my computer, wondering if I should have kept my name off a flight manifest. If I should have taken the time to drive the nine hours to Nevada and back again. But I shake off my unease. I need this DBA—and the bank account affiliated with it—sooner rather than later. By tomorrow night, it’ll be done.

***

The next morning, I’m on Sunset heading for the freeway that will take me to the airport, when I see Scott again. This time, two cars behind me. “Shit,” I mutter, fighting the urge to take off. To try and lose him on one of the many winding streets that branch off Sunset. Even though I’ve given myself plenty of time before my flight, I don’t want to waste any of it on a cat-and-mouse game through morning traffic.

My heart rate ratchets up as my mind spins out options that go nowhere. In any other situation, I’d be happy to let Scott follow me—to the market, to the nail salon, to the gynecologist. But he cannot follow me to the airport. To use his badge to get through security and see which gate I’m departing from. To make a call and have someone on the ground waiting for me in Las Vegas.

I think back to that confrontation with Nate so long ago, when he showed up at Cory’s house, threatening to expose me. I didn’t sneak away in the night or try to deny his accusations. Instead, I leaned in, escalating and making things too big for him to handle.

I check the time again. In my rearview mirror, the single car separating us changes lanes, putting Scott’s directly behind mine. As if the decision has been made for me.

I slam on my brakes, my car screeching to a halt in the left lane. Cars on the right veer wide, and I brace myself for impact. Scott doesn’t have time to react. He slams into the back of my Range Rover, and my car pitches forward, the impact vibrating through me.

I use the adrenaline of the moment, shoving my door open and stepping out, oncoming cars slowing down to see it all unfold. “What the fuck?” I yell, approaching Scott’s car. As I pass my bumper, I note my fender bent inward, but overall intact. Scott’s car, however, is a mess. The hood has crumpled inward, and his airbag has deployed, though thankfully he appears uninjured. The last thing I need is a lawsuit.

He steps out of his car, clearly rattled, and I suppress the urge to smile. Instead, I pull out my cell phone and start taking pictures. Of my bumper, of Scott’s car, his license plate, and even Scott himself. “I want to make sure all of this is documented,” I say. “My lawyers are going to tear you apart.”

“What are you talking about?” he says. “You had no reason to stop.”

“There was a dog. Didn’t you see him?”

Scott looks confused.

Someone has pulled over to the side of the road and calls, “Are you guys okay? Do you need me to call 911?”

“No,” Scott says.

But I say, “Yes. I want a police report that says this man was following too closely. He’s at fault.”

The good Samaritan hops on the phone, and within ten minutes, the police have arrived.

Scott looks jittery, as if he’s unsure what role to play. Does he reveal that he’s a detective following a suspect? Or does he play the private citizen card? I’m pretty sure the LAPD doesn’t issue shitty Toyota compacts to their detectives, so I’m guessing he wasn’t following me in an official capacity.

The officer approaches. “You folks okay? Think we can move the cars to the side and open up traffic again?”

When we’re parked on the shoulder, I go in hard. “This man plowed into me. He wasn’t looking where he was going. Every other car on the road saw that dog dart across four lanes of traffic. But this guy was probably on his phone.”

Scott shakes his head. “Not true,” he argues. “She slammed on her brakes for no reason.”

I wheel around, my voice rising. “Why would I do that?”

I wait, wondering how Scott will answer the question. Instead, he looks at the officer and says, “Can I speak to you privately?”

“Hell no,” I say, my voice close to hysterical. “You’re not going to have some bro convo behind my back.” I point at Scott, stepping closer to him. “I fucking see you. I know what guys like you try to do. You’re going to put your heads together and make this my fault. ‘Female drivers,’” I say, putting the words in air quotes. “I don’t think so. Not today.”