The Good Liar(3)

My family—the Graysons—is the “lucky” family. Though my husband, Tom, was killed instantly in the blast (one hopes, and one will never tell our children otherwise), we were able to recover his body; bury him; and, ostensibly, through the generous support of the Initiative, move on. One of the “unlucky” families—the Rings, who are fighting for their compensation—is the flip side of the coin. And then there’s Franny Maycombe.

But more about her later.

“I’m not sure I want to do this,” I tell Teo as his hand rests on the index card that’s supposed to represent me. His nails are short but neat, in contrast to my own, chewed down by my worry.

“Why not?”

“Isn’t it someone else’s turn in the spotlight? We aren’t the only family who’s been compensated. Why not use one of the others?”

I turn from him and catch my reflection in the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. I’m wearing black slacks and a simple gray sweater. My blonde hair’s two months past a cut, but I’ve been told to leave it as is till we finish filming, “For continuity,” Teo’s production assistant told me. As if a couple of inches of hair could make me unrecognizable from the woman in that photograph. If only.

“I understand how you feel,” Teo says. “But we need you in this film.”

I inch over to the glass, getting as close as I can to see if panic sets in. Another side effect: ever since I missed that meeting, whenever I’m at any height above a few feet, I feel as if I’m standing on a cliff and there’s a hand on my shoulder waiting for an opportune moment to shove me off. And sometimes, even, as if I might jump.

“Why, exactly? And don’t say because I’m the face of this tragedy. Please.”

I touch the pane. It’s cold today, and the glass burns my fingers. I pull my hand away. My fingers have marred its clear surface, which now holds a perfect print of my index and middle finger. If I jumped, floating down like the lazy flakes that have started to fall from the dark clouds gathering above, they’d have something to identify me by.

Teo moves behind me.

“Because you’re the heart of this story, Lily. I can’t imagine telling it without you.”

Lily. It’s what Tom used to call me. Had I told Teo that, or did I just look like a Lily to him? A placid flower floating in a pond, providing a counterpoint to the bullfrogs?

“I’m not the heart of anything,” I say. My voice is wavering, unconvincing.

I need to work on that, too, my therapist says. I shouldn’t live with so much uncertainty, or project it, either.

“I wish you could see what I see,” Teo says, resting his hand on my shoulder.

I lean against it, letting him hold my weight for a moment.

“Ahem.”

His hand’s gone so suddenly I almost fall.

“Yes, Maggie?”

Maggie is Teo’s production assistant. Twenty-five, slender, and dressed in an outfit my fifteen-year-old daughter, Cassie, would beg me for if she saw it, she looks at Teo territorially, even though, at forty-two, he’s technically old enough to be her father. I wonder, not for the first time, whether something’s going on between them or if he’s just the object of her fantasies.

“Franny Maycombe’s arrived,” she says.

I guess we’re getting to Franny faster than I’d planned.

I catch Teo’s eye and shake my head.

“Can you ask her to wait?” he says. “We’re not quite done here.”

“Of course,” Maggie says. “I’ll let her know.”

“I thought you were close with Franny?” Teo says when Maggie’s out of earshot. “What’s up?”

“I’m just tired. It’s a lot right now with the memorial and everything, and Franny . . .”

“Can be needy?”

“Yes, frankly. Not that I blame her.”

I turn back to the window. Teo lets me take a minute. A beat.

“Are you still okay to do your first interview tomorrow? After the memorial?”

“I suppose you’ll be filming all that, too?”

“I will.”

My eyes meet his in the glass. What does he see when he looks at me? I don’t feel like the woman on the cover of all those magazines. What’s that song? “Pretty on the Inside.” I used to feel that way. Now . . .

“And after,” I say. “You’ll come to the house?”

“Yes.”

I guess there’s nothing left to do but face it.

I nod my agreement. “Is there a back way out of here?”





Chapter 2


A Farther Shore


Kate

A country away, Kate Lynch lay in a bed in Montreal that still felt alien to her, staring at the patterns on the ceiling cast by the light from the street lamp. The clock next to her glowed brightly. A minute ago, the time had changed to twelve o’clock. And so there it was. October tenth. The day she’d been dreading for months was finally here.

She knew it would be a day full of memories. Some unbidden, some forced upon her. Five hundred people don’t die in America without incessant news coverage. All the anniversaries would be marked. But this anniversary, the first anniversary, would be the subject of special attention. As would anyone connected to it.