The Lies I Told(59)
“How do you like the place?” I asked.
“It’s great. I love the privacy, the view, and the rent.”
“It’s a real find.”
“How long did you say you’ve lived here?”
“Three years.” In the sink were two wineglasses. One had red lipstick on the rim.
He opened the cabinet and pulled out two mugs. “Milk?”
“Yes. And sugar if you have it.”
“A woman after my own heart.” He set a sugar container in front of me and a half-full milk carton.
I dressed my coffee, sipped, savored the jolt and flavor.
“You were out driving?” As he stared at me over the rim of his cup, I imagined this was how he looked at a defendant on the witness stand. He allowed the silence to wheedle my story loose.
“I was in a car accident in January. I cracked up the car and my head. I’ve lost about a week or so of time before the accident, and I thought seeing the site would help me remember.”
“Did you remember anything?”
“Bits and pieces, but I can’t figure them out. It’s as if someone dropped a thousand tiny puzzle pieces on a table and I’ve been given three and told to guess the picture on the box.”
“Missing time can’t be easy.”
“It’s only ten days, but I know it was important.”
“I keep meticulous records in my calendar. I can tell you what I did on this date ten years ago. I couldn’t imagine not knowing.”
“I’ve never been good at keeping track, beyond work appointments. I had an art show on the Friday before, a wedding on Saturday night, a new-bride meeting on Tuesday—and several digital files show I’d done a good bit of editing that week. Those are my only concrete markers.”
“When was the accident?”
“The following Friday.”
“What about your phone? GPS history? Texts. Emails.”
“My phone was missing after the accident.” I stared into the creamy depths of my coffee. “My sister insists I’m making something out of nothing. But it’s important, and I can’t tell you why.”
“I saw your sister here. Brit Stockton, right?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“I know a lot of the attorneys in the city. She’s tough.”
I couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or a complaint. “After our mother died, she was the primary caregiver for my sister and me. She had to grow up fast.”
He sipped his coffee. “What caused the accident?”
“The report said I was intoxicated. But I don’t drink or use drugs.”
“You took two sips of the beer I gave you.” He did have an eye for detail.
“Big mistake,” I said. “I did it without thinking and should always be thinking.”
“Maybe on the day of the accident, you weren’t thinking, either. Maybe someone offered you something, and you took it before you realized. It just got ahead of you as you were rushing to get home.”
“It’s a good theory.”
“But . . .”
“I don’t think I screwed up.”
He frowned. “Could you have been drugged? It happens too often.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did the hospital test your blood?”
“They were too busy getting me into surgery. Later they did test, but the tests were inconclusive. But even if they found a substance, I didn’t willingly take it.”
“Who’re you trying to convince?”
“I didn’t screw up.” I wasn’t afraid of myself, but of someone else. I sipped my coffee and carefully set the mug down. “Here you’re offering me coffee, and I start spilling my guts. You have a way, Mr. Bernard.”
He studied me, clearly recognizing my deflection. “The Mr. makes me sound too old.”
I smiled. “You’re not.” Suddenly a little too aware of him, I stood. “And I’ve got a mountain of editing today, and you’ve got to get to work.”
“Are you working a wedding tonight?”
“No.”
“I never followed up on my sticky-note invitation.”
“Maybe another time.”
Unfazed, he walked me to the door. “I’m going to hold you to that. See you around.”
“Will do.” As I crossed the hallway, I felt him watching me, but when I turned back to smile or wave or something, he’d vanished into his apartment.
As I closed the door, my phone began ringing. I glanced at the number and didn’t recognize it. Still, with new clients reaching out all the time, I accepted the call. “Marisa Stockton.”
The line crackled with silence on the other end.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
I glanced at the number. “This is Marisa Stockton.”
The line went dead.
My first thought was Alan. He’d tried to call, maybe even dialed the wrong number. I walked to my computer and typed in the number. There was no listing.
Hang-ups and wrong numbers weren’t unheard of. Still, they always left me restless, unsettled.
I was being ridiculous. Overreacting, like I did so well. I closed my eyes, took deep breaths, and shifted my attention to my daily schedule. Routine kept me grounded and focused. Today, there was some editing I could do, emails to read and respond to, but it was only a few hours of work, and I was ahead of schedule. Time enough for that later tonight.