The Lies I Told(79)

“Come on, just tell me what happened?” I whispered. “Just a few more clues. I’m good at puzzles.”

But the silence grew mutinous, so I gave up, turned the car around, and headed home.

Ten minutes later, I parked in my spot and crossed the lot. As I pressed the keys of my security pad, my phone rang. The unexpected shrill startled me, and I forgot where I was in the sequence. When I pressed “Enter,” the system denied me. My phone kept ringing. I didn’t recognize the number.

Hands trembling, I entered the security code again, and the door opened this time. Inside, I glanced around the darkened parking lot, half expecting to see David staring back at me. I see you. I know you’ve been following me.

A chill oozed over my muscles as I gripped the phone and stared at the number. Finally, the ringing stopped, and I waited for a voice mail message to pop up. Nothing appeared. Wrong number. Maybe.

Back up on my floor, I glanced toward Alan’s door and saw the light trickling out. Footsteps echoed inside his apartment. The man never slept. Pot calling the kettle black.

Inside my apartment, I flipped on a light and went straight to my computer, where I searched the phone number of the call. There was no listing for a business or person. Wrong number. Spam. A drunk dialer.

Or had David crossed paths with Clare at the art exhibit or me at Brit’s university? I’d been drunk my one night at Brit’s school and passed out. When I’d woken up, I’d been in a dorm room by myself. I’d been fully dressed, and the bed was neatly made, but nothing about how I’d gotten there felt right.

Random dots could be connected a thousand different wrong ways.

Playing devil’s advocate, maybe David really had driven through my parking lot tonight because Brit had given him something to pass on to me. Maybe he didn’t see my car, so he kept going.

It happened. All logical. Made sense.

Don’t borrow trouble.

But my identical twin had been murdered. I could’ve died in a car accident two months ago minutes from David’s townhome.

I dialed Detective Richards’s number. The call went to voice mail, and I could almost imagine him rolling over, glancing at my name on his phone, and cursing as he turned away.

“This is Detective Richards.” In the recorded message, his enunciation was clear, concise. “Leave a message at the tone.”

“Detective Richards, I just wanted to run something by you. A person no one’s ever thought about. Call me when you can.”

I hung up, walked into the kitchen, and grabbed a seltzer from the fridge. It cut through the dryness in my mouth and was far more hydrating than the coffee. It didn’t have the kick of wine, and right now, I’d kill for a bottle or two, but the seltzer was what I could have.

Reaching in my pocket, I pulled out the shiny new First Meeting coin and did something I’d never done before. I called my sponsor, Mark.





45


HIM

NOW

Saturday, March 19, 2022

10:00 p.m.

Outside your apartment building, I stared up at the light from your corner unit. You’d not been home tonight. Where had you been? You went to your meeting on Seminary Avenue today and stayed longer than you normally did. Most times when you made a meeting, you were late, rushing in five minutes after the start time. But today, you’d been early, waiting at the door when the meeting coordinator, a tall, lean guy in his midthirties, got there to unlock the door. You’d helped him with one of the bags in his hand, you’d shared a joke, and you’d vanished inside. You’d stayed past the regular end time and walked out with the same coordinator. He’d hugged you, held you close.

The longer your body lingered close—too close—to his, the more my anger grew. Whatever was going on between you two looked like it was far beyond the realm of professional, and I didn’t like it one bit. Many men who went into counseling weren’t the most mentally healthy individuals. They carried their own demons that they struggled to control. Someone like that would think nothing of taking advantage of a pretty woman who’d had a rough couple of months. It wasn’t right.

I should’ve been the one taking care of you. I should’ve been the one to take you home from the hospital and nurse you back to health. The accident had been just that. An accident. I’d not meant to hurt you. I would never have done that.

But your sister had been a guard dog at your hospital room, keeping a watchful eye on anyone who came and went. And when you were discharged, your sister took you to her own home and kept you there for a week.

When you finally returned to your apartment, I’d kept a close eye on you, but I’d not approached. I wanted to make sure your amnesia was indeed permanent. And if your memory loss was the real deal, I needed to plan for our second chance.

I’d screwed up the first time. Been too anxious. Too ready to show you how much I loved you. And you’d freaked.

Just like Clare had panicked all those years ago. I’d not wanted to hurt her, either. I’d loved her. Loved you both.

No, this time, I was going to be very careful. I’d stay close to you and, when the time was right, find a way for us to be truly alone.





46


RICHARDS

Sunday, March 20, 2022

10:00 a.m.

As I stood in front of Marisa’s apartment building, I wondered if I’d lost my fucking mind. I’d let her call go to voice mail, telling myself I didn’t want to deal with her or be reminded of a high-profile case that I’d never been able to solve. I’d less than a week to go. I would leave the job, and my life would move on. Time for fishing off Florida’s Gulf Coast. Let the younger guys take a crack at Clare’s case.