The Good Liar(43)

“Yes way. What do you want, money? Is that what this is about?”

“I’m just doing my job.”

“Bullshit. This isn’t a story. Me in my bathrobe is not a story.”

“Of course it is. You might not like it, but it is. Why else do you think they sent me here?”

“Were you here last night?”

“What?”

His surprise seems genuine. While his shape is similar to the man I saw through the window, jumping over my hedge as he ran away, I’m guessing he’s not stupid enough to come back here after escaping the cops.

“Give me your card.”

“Why?”

“I want to buy the photos.”

He gives me that look again, the one that tells me I’m completely naive.

“Come on,” I say. “What’s the harm?”

He fumbles for a moment, then hands me a card. CARL HILTON. PHOTOGRAPHY FOR ALL OCCASIONS.

“You should leave it,” he says.

“We’ll see. Now get, will you?”

“Mom!” Cassie calls from across the street. “What the hell?”

I turn around. Cassie’s holding her phone straight out from her body like an accusation, a look of shock and hurt on her face.

Carl snaps another picture.



“Okay,” I say twenty minutes later, after I’ve gotten Carl to delete the picture of Cassie after pointing out that she’s underage and barely dressed. “Family meeting.”

Henry groans. Cassie’s still clutching her phone to her chest like she used to hold her special blanket.

“Why does it have to be a ‘meeting’?” Cassie asks. “Why can’t we just have a conversation like a normal family?”

Family meetings were always Tom’s thing. I thought they were a bit corny, but he took them seriously, so eventually I did, too.

“Come on,” I say. “You know the rule.”

“If someone calls a family meeting, we all have to attend!” Henry says. His voice is on the verge of cracking, and I wonder if he’ll end up sounding like Tom. He already stands and walks like him; from behind, he’s a carbon copy except for his hair color. It’s disconcerting, sometimes, when I see him suddenly, when I’m not concentrating. A bit of rage rises up without my being able to stop it. Another thing to hate Tom for, a list that’s too long.

“That’s right. Let’s go.”

They follow me into the living room. We each have our assigned seats. Henry’s is the wingback chair Tom and I found on one of our first furniture outings. It’s covered in a green chintz fabric whose hues match the modern striped rug we found several years later. Cassie’s is the love seat I brought with me from college, re-covered in a dark gray. I take the sectional, making sure to place myself squarely in the middle, using my body to fill the void Tom left.

“So you’ve seen the picture,” I say. “I went to dinner with Teo last night, Henry.”

“Cassie told me.”

“You said nothing happened,” Cassie says.

“Nothing did.”

“You kissed him.”

“I did. He kissed me, and I didn’t stop it.”

“I like Teo,” Henry says with a bit of defiance.

“We all like Teo,” I say. “But this isn’t about him. This is about us. And about what happened last night.”

“This is such bullshit.”

“Cassie. Enough.”

“Who was that guy outside, Mom?” Henry asks. “Was he the same guy who tried to get in the house?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why did he do that? Why do they care?” Cassie asks.

“It’s because of that photograph. The one Teo took.”

“That’s right, Henry. The one Teo took. You know how much attention that photograph brought me. Us. People are interested in our family. I wish they weren’t, but they are.”

“It’s so stupid,” Cassie says. “Like we’re these celebrities because our dad died.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“Can’t you make them stop?”

“It’ll go away eventually—soon, probably, now that the memorial’s over.”

Cassie crosses her arms over her breasts. “How come you didn’t try? I mean, you, like, say you don’t like the attention, but you’re on all these committees, and you’re in that documentary, and if you wanted them to go away, why didn’t you just say no to all that stuff?”

Cassie’s words are crushing. She sounds exactly like my inner voice, the one I’ve only been able to respond to with because, because, because.

“I thought it was the best thing to do given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances, Mom? We’re not the only family who lost someone.”

“There are things . . . I was worried that if I didn’t go along, they might come looking.”

“Who might come looking? For what?”

“The press. Journalists.”

“Why? And who cares? You have the most boring life ever.”

I smile. “I wish I did. I wish there was nothing to find.”

“Do you do drugs, Mom?” Henry asks, looking serious, all those school assemblies having an impact.