The Lies I Told(66)

I couldn’t look him in the eye. “No. Only you. I told Clare I wouldn’t tell anyone, and I shouldn’t have told you.”

He nestled his chin on the top of my head, and he wrapped his arms tighter around me. “No, it’s good you did. I’m not a fan of secrets. Especially between us.”

But it hadn’t been his secret or mine; it had been Clare’s. And I’d betrayed Clare when I’d told him. “Should I tell Marisa?”

“Don’t tell anyone. The cops don’t take kindly to witnesses who held back information. Clare is the past. You’ve got to let her go.”

Jack was right. Clare had dominated the past. And our baby would rule the future. “What if Marisa doesn’t let this go?”

“She will,” he said. “She’s never chased after this case for more than a week or two before she loses interest.”

I looked up at him, realized he was staring at me. “You think so?”

“I know so. It’s not good for her or her sobriety.” He tightened his hold.

“You’re right. I need to stop worrying.”

Soon Marisa would give up her yearly quest for whatever truth she thought was out there, and we’d all get back to our lives.

I’d never told Jack about the camera. Maybe blabbing about the baby had shocked me into silence. There were plenty of reasons to keep the camera secret now. It would bring the cops and reporters swarming back into my life, and Marisa would be pissed. This was a secret worth keeping. I’d the baby to consider now. Blood was thicker than water.





36


HIM

NOW

Friday, March 18, 2022

6:00 p.m.

Memories were my worst enemy. The one that now played over and over was seeing you hit that utility pole. I could hear the brief squeal of tires, the impact, the crunch of metal, the shattering of glass, and the hiss of the cracked engine block.

I’d lingered as long as I could, spoken to the other woman, who said she had called 9-1-1, and when we were alone, I’d spotted your cell phone lying on the floor. The calls and texts I’d made to you were on its memory card. I’d been careful to use a prepaid phone, but cops had a way of tracing the point of sale and, if motivated, digging through endless hours of video footage. I’d have been fucked if they found me on one of those recordings. So I’d reached in the car and grabbed your phone, tucking it in my pocket.

Now, as I poured a stiff drink, I fished your phone out of a drawer. I’d seen you type in the passcode once: 2009. The year your sister had died. Not genius, but personal and memorable for both of us, just like the print you’d made that reminded me of you both.

I scrolled through the last week before your accident to the night of your show. You’d taken several selfies, with friends and fans, I suppose. I recognized a few of the faces, including Brit, who was sexy in a buttoned-up kind of way. Your sister’s smile was brighter, but given the subject of your photography, I could understand the darkness in you. Death had left a deeper mark on you and me.

A few pictures of you at the opening looked posed. You were standing in front of your collection, smiling, but it was not joyous. It was sheepish, as if you’d felt like an impostor and didn’t belong there at all.

In all the photos, you were standing in front of the picture that I’d bought. As I scrolled back further, I searched for hints of any man in your life. Thankfully, I didn’t see anyone who gave off a romantic vibe. The men you were pictured with at various weddings were totally into you. How could they not have been? But you stared at the camera, clearly not noticing them like a lover would. That was good. I liked the idea that we had something special.

As I scrolled back in time, I could see your health decline. You got thinner. Your eyes grew hollower. Your skin got pastier with each new year. It was a descent into drug and alcohol addiction. It was not a pretty journey, and I was happy to return to your present healthy, whole self.

I gulped down the whiskey, closed the phone, removed the battery, and tucked it in my dresser drawer. The last thing I needed was for someone to trace the phone and find me. That would have required some explaining.

Restless and unsettled, I couldn’t relax. I’d killed you once and had nearly done it a second time. Christ. How could I have hurt someone I loved so much? Someone I’d do anything to protect.

Unable to calm down, I grabbed my keys and coat and headed out to my car. I knew where you lived. And I’d been there before so many times since your accident. I was not stalking but doing my best to look out for you. Your guardian in the shadows.

After a short drive I parked in your building’s lot. I stared up at the corner apartment and noticed your office light was on. Working late. You really needed to take better care of yourself.

Your slim frame passed in front of the window. You stared out into the darkness, and it felt like you sensed me. You must have felt our connection. It had never been broken and never would be.





37


JACK

Friday, March 18, 2022

7:00 p.m.

Seeing Brit several times over the last week had brought back a lot of memories. Some were good, and some not so terrific. Many on the outside of our relationship tagged us as complicated, but what we’d shared had been really simple. I’d shown her the dangerous side of life, while she’d shown me the respectable version. We’d opened each other’s eyes to what we could be. Once we’d taken what we needed, the relationship had run its course.