The Better Liar(45)

    I pulled up Gmail—davetherover was automatically logged in. Finally, something useful.

I scrolled through. He didn’t sort any of his email except insofar as Gmail did it for him; his header read “Inbox (1,891).” The unread emails were mostly reminders—from himself and from innumerable mailing lists. Pick up Eli 4:30 pm. Your credit card statement is now available. Join us at Albuquerque’s annual beer and wine tasting event!

I clicked on one of the emails he had already read, from a woman named Cadence.


OK, we’re doing it this way because its easier and none of u text back >:/ Pls fill in your availability n reply with what you wanna bring :) me n sonya are bringing sangriaaa surveymonkey.com/?poll/?938882220



Dave had replied:


wd like to bring 1 wife 1 baby and 1 gallon posole. is joa bringing karaoke? I want to make mama sing gasolina



Joachim replied:


imma tell her u said that



Cadence replied:


u both uninvited bye



I clicked back through his inbox. His sisters, Cadence and Maria, emailed him a lot, and he had a dull intermittent correspondence with several friends who sent him pictures of their lives in other countries. Scattered throughout were people emailing him links to Clickhole articles or YouTube videos.

Six hundred emails back, it finally occurred to me to click Chats, and suddenly I found an avalanche of archived conversations between Dave and people who appeared to be women he worked with. He used Hangouts even more than Messenger. “Erin” was mostly trading HuffPo-style news articles and occasional snickering about coworkers who didn’t show up in the chats. “Sarah” was the next most frequent name, chatting him several times a week about her boyfriend and her rescue dog—the stuff about the boyfriend was coyly sexual in an attempt to shock Dave, but he only ever replied with “lol” or earnest advice, which made me laugh.

    There weren’t any chats with that woman, Elaine. Finally I searched her name. A few mentions of her in the chats with Erin and Sarah, but nothing else. A tiny line of text at the bottom of the search read: Some messages in Trash match your search.

I clicked View messages.

Sixteen deleted messages with Elaine’s name in them. They were mostly confirmation emails from something called Shekel. I clicked on the first one.


Congratulations! You’ve successfully paid Elaine Campbell $355.00. She will be able to redeem your payment in 3–5 business days.



Three hundred fifty-five dollars? I clicked on the next email.


Congratulations! You’ve successfully paid Elaine Campbell $320.00. She will be able to redeem your payment in 3–5 business days.



What the fuck?

I went through the rest of the Shekel confirmations. They stretched back a little over a year. A hundred here, two hundred there. Three hundred or more for the past three months.

There were two Hangouts conversations in the Trash as well. I clicked on the first one.


me: did messenger send you a gif 5 times in a row

Elaine: haha I didn’t see this earlier

No why?

me: it’s freaking out for me imma try it again



    That was the end of the conversation. I clicked on the other one.


Elaine: I left my phone at home today I’m so bored

me: haha you’ve gotta revert to gtalk like the rest of us Olds

We don’t have fancy emojis here u must express your feelings in the form of ugly yellow blobs

Elaine: —this one’s a sad face

me:

Elaine: that’s work inappropriate

Can you keep a secret?

me: Absolutely not

Elaine: no im serious

Come here





* * *



—

I sat back in the chair.

Had Leslie gone through Dave’s email? Had she looked in the Trash folder?

Why the fuck was he sending Elaine so much money?

I searched the rest of the computer, then the rest of the house. Nothing in the bathroom, in the closet, in the underwear drawers, in the bedside drawers, in any of Leslie’s jewelry boxes. The baby’s room had toys, diapers, gift receipts from friends, and a stained UNM sweatshirt. I went back downstairs and looked in the garage, but the only thing I found was Dave’s weed in an old tin can behind the toolbox. I gave up, rolled myself a joint, and ordered a pizza.

I was on my third slice of tomato-and-olive, high as shit (whoever Dave was buying from was not fucking around) when it occurred to me that Leslie had another place she could be keeping her secrets.

Somewhere Dave never went.





31


    Robin


The first time I ever got high: Marisol Borrego’s birthday party in the year 2004. My father was working and Leslie had no car, so I walked from school to the Borregos’ house, sweaty and red-faced by the time I arrived. I wasn’t there to see Marisol—she was one of those children who clung to childhood even into puberty, dragging dolls onto the playground and covering her ears when the older girls talked about sex. Her birthday party was more of the same: pin the tail, Barbie napkins, cupcakes with plastic animal figurines baked in.

I took an extra cupcake and put it in my purse, then asked Mrs. Borrego where the bathroom was. She pointed. I went into the hallway and began pushing doors. A bathroom, a closet, Marisol’s bedroom, and finally, near the end, her brother’s. Kevin was lying on the bed with headphones on, eating Bugles.