The Lies I Told(40)

“How is it you always know the right thing to say and do?” I asked.

Even white teeth flashed. “Practice.”





22


MARISA

Tuesday, March 15, 2022

7:00 a.m.

When I woke, a dull throb pounded behind my ears. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare toes brushing the cool wooden floor. I needed a rug, but all my promises to find one online were always forgotten when my day got started and the computer work sucked me in.

My oversize T-shirt brushed the tops of my knees as I padded into the bathroom, stared at my pale reflection and the bird’s nest of hair that greeted me each morning. Oddly, longer hair required less attention. A quick brush and a ponytail had always been enough to make me presentable. But short hair, not so easily tamed, required shampoo and mousse.

It took another thirty minutes to pull myself together. As the coffee machine gurgled, I read through emails and texts, checking for client changes, new business inquiries, complaints, or requests. The usual. As I deleted ads for clothes, shoes, rugs I’d never buy, and teasers for vacations I wouldn’t take this year, I came across an email from an unknown address with an empty subject line. Normally, I deleted these immediately, always suspicious of a virus embedded in a link, but it piqued my curiosity. Sort of like a car accident. It wasn’t cool to look, but everyone slowed down and peeked. I’d certainly been vaguely aware of the crowd gathering around my wrecked car in January as I’d slipped in and out of consciousness and, of all things, wondered how many social media feeds I’d ended up on.

I sipped my coffee and opened the email. No link to click on but a simple message: They are all lying.

No signature. And when I clicked on the email address, I didn’t recognize the sender. I’d received odd emails before from people who confused MIS Images with all types of health facilities. I’d seen my share of requests for medical scans but never anything odd like this. I glanced toward my front door, still locked and chained as I’d left it last night.

They are all lying.

Who was lying? And about what?

I considered hitting “Reply,” but to what end? The sender had not signed their name. I pressed “Delete.” Unsettled, I closed my phone. A door opened and closed in the hallway and was followed by the click of a lock sliding into place.

“Have a nice day, Alan,” I whispered.

I walked to my desk and thumbed through the interviews that Richards had done thirteen years ago. It wasn’t a question of who’d lied, but how many and how often. They’d been teenagers, and fibs, meaning fabrications and untruths, had been par for the course.

But why would they lie to Richards? They’d all known and loved Clare, had stood at her funeral, lost and devastated at the reality of a peer’s death.

They are all lying.

I checked the time. There were more edits to be done today, and I’d promised myself to finally clear the backlog that had grown since my accident. Clients had understood I’d been injured, and they also accepted I possessed the digital files to their weddings and holiday events.

Grabbing my leather jacket, purse, and coffee, I shut my apartment door behind me. As I double-checked the lock, I saw a Post-it Note on my door: “Grab a drink sometime? Alan.”

I looked toward his closed, silent door. I needed to have a talk with him about drinking. The beer had been a one-off. I’d not gotten even slightly buzzed, and in my mind it really didn’t qualify as a transgression. Some would say yes, but I wasn’t so sure. I hadn’t even been freaked out enough to hit an AA meeting.

I fished a pen from my purse, scribbled my response under his bold block lettering, and reposted the note on his door. My scrawl looked chaotic, out of practice. “Sounds good. M.”

Down the three flights of stairs, I pushed out the front door into the cool air, moist with drizzle. In my car, I drove across the bridge into the city toward the police station. Richards was used to an annual visit, but I’d never doubled back.

I found parking on Grace Street, walked up to the sergeant at the front desk, an African American woman in her late forties. I waited fifteen minutes before Richards appeared. He stood tall, his dark suit pressed, his paisley tie straight and shoes polished.

“Court today?” I asked.

“How’d you guess?”

“You were wearing the same suit when you went to court about three years ago when I stopped by.”

“Good memory.”

“Wedding photographers notice clothes.”

“The trick is not to wear it to a crime scene.”

“I’ve ruined a few pairs of shoes at jobsites,” I said. “Mud, rain, splashed wedding cake, even blood—the hazards of nuptials.”

His scowl softened as he nodded toward the front door. “I’m on my way to court, so you’ll have to walk with me to the parking lot.”

I followed him out the front door and down the sidewalk, the cold air tunneling between the buildings on Grace Street. My long legs worked fast to match his pace. “Are you running late?”

“Always.” Eyes ahead, he fumbled for the key fob on his ring.

“Why did you give me the copies of your case notes?”

He didn’t break stride, and he didn’t look distressed. “I didn’t.”

“Who would’ve had access to your personal files?”