The Good Liar(38)

My hand reaches for the doorknob. I find its cool surface and ease open the door. Out in the hall, I think I can hear breathing, but that might be my own. I get to the door to Henry’s room before I freeze in fear. I feel like I have Sophie’s choice. How can I protect both my children at once? How could I ever choose between them?

Another click from downstairs, and I hear a muffled curse. Instinct drives me to Cassie’s room. She’s the easiest to wake. She’s lying on her back, her arms splayed above her head, her phone still clutched in her hand. I shake her gently. Her eyes flutter open.

“What—”

I place my hand across her mouth as I lean down and whisper into her ear. “I think there’s someone trying to get in the house. Don’t say anything. Follow me to Henry’s room. Bring your phone.”

Her eyes are wide with fear, but she nods. She looks so young and vulnerable in her too-small T-shirt and the matching bottoms that graze her calves. We hold hands as we cross the hall. We stop as we hear something tapping against the glass. Cassie’s shaking so hard it feels like she’s vibrating. I tug her hand, pulling her into Henry’s room and locking the door behind us. I grab the chair from his desk and tilt it under the door. Cassie sits on the floor next to Henry’s bed, huddled into the space between his nightstand and the bed frame. Henry couldn’t be more oblivious, snoring gently, his covers pulled up to his chin the way he’s always done ever since he was a tiny thing.

I sit next to Cassie on the floor and pry her phone from her hand. She tries to speak, but I shake my head. The battery’s low, but there’s enough to make a call. I can’t help but notice the text on her screen from Kevin. Sleep tight, it says.

My fingers shake like they did a year ago when I texted the kids to let them know I was alive as I tap out 911. I press the phone against my ear, turning the volume low. The woman who answers asks me to state the nature of my emergency.

“Someone’s trying to break into my house.”

“I’ll need you to speak louder, ma’am.”

“Someone. Breaking in. My. House,” I hiss. “Send the police.”

“Ma’am . . . are you there, ma’am? Do you need the police?”

I call up the keypad and press the number one, loud and long.

“Is that one for yes, ma’am?”

I press again.

“Are you in danger?”

Another press.

She asks me if the GPS system is showing the correct address, and I confirm it.

“I’m dispatching a unit to your house immediately. Keep this line open.”

I gather Cassie to me and lean her head against mine. Where earlier tonight her smell was foreign, adult, now it’s an echo of her as a baby. The 911 woman speaks, reassuring me, but nothing will comfort me until I know my children are safe.

I can’t hear anything now. Is he in the house? Does he have a weapon? What, what, what does he want?

Cassie and I stare into each other’s eyes. I do my best to convey both the seriousness of what I’m feeling and the assurance I need to. We’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay. If I think it a million times, can I implant the suggestion in my daughter’s mind? Can I make it come true?

Cassie reaches down and takes the knife from where I’ve stashed it in the waistband of my pajamas. I shake my head as she removes the blade from its sheath. She nods back, makes a slight stabbing motion with it. It must be the nerves, but I want to laugh.

I put my hand around her wrist. We cannot do this. We cannot try to defend ourselves.

I speak into the phone. “Please hurry.”

“Ma’am? Did you say something?”

I press one again.

“Hurry,” I say as loud as I can without disclosing our location if he’s in the house. “Please.”

“They’re two minutes away, ma’am.”

I sound my acknowledgment as something flashes through the window. Is that a . . .

I spring to my feet and pull the chair out of the way.

“Mom! What are you doing?” Cassie says in a harsh whisper.

“It’s okay. The police will be here in a moment.”

I open the door as more lights flash. I can hear the whine of sirens approaching. I run down the stairs, suddenly unafraid, the adrenaline winning. In the kitchen, I find what I knew I would when I saw the lights: a man with a camera standing on the other side of the glass.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I scream.

“Say cheese,” he says loudly enough for me to hear him as his flash goes off once again.



After the police have left without catching the guy, the kids have been soothed with cocoa and calming words and are back in bed, and the alarm is on, which I forgot to do earlier, I try to settle into my own bed without much success. What the hell was that all about? Why are people so interested in my life? It’s not like I went around asking for any of it . . . The photograph, the publicity, the status as the poster child for a tragedy I wish I had nothing to do with. I tried to bat it away, and I hate how it makes me a target. Take last night at the restaurant with Teo. A simple moment that should’ve been private, between us, was fair game to some passerby.

I even wanted to turn down the money until my mom talked me out of it. But I’ve used it for the kids—paid off the mortgage and the debts from the restaurant that never was, topped up their college funds, created a trust. I work as hard as I can on the Compensation Committee to make sure that as many deserving families as possible get their due. And yet, it’s never enough. I still feel like a fraud, a fake, a prop in my own life.