The Good Liar(63)

FM: What? Why would you do that?

TJ: It’s standard background procedure.

FM: What gives you the right?

TJ: You did, actually. When you signed the release to do the documentary, you gave us permission to speak to any member of your family who would agree to speak to us.

FM: No one told me about that clause.

TJ: You had the contract for two weeks. You were encouraged to speak to a lawyer, to have them review it.

FM: I couldn’t afford to do that.

TJ: I’m sorry, you should’ve said.

FM: I wish you hadn’t done that.

TJ: Spoken to Sherrie?

FM: Yes. She . . . she said bad things about me, didn’t she?

TJ: I wouldn’t say that exactly—

FM: She’s always been a liar. And she hates me. You know that, right? I told you. I just told you how mean she was to me.

TJ: That doesn’t quite add up—

FM: I knew that if she had the chance, she’d find a way to screw this up for me.

TJ: Screw what up for you?

FM: My life. She just wants me to be miserable because she’s miserable.

TJ: Again, I don’t think that . . . Don’t you want to know what she told me?

FM: It’s just all going to be lies. She’s a liar. She has been since we were kids. Always saying I was the one who hit her or took her toy or whatever. You name it. The names she would call me.

TJ: Yes, the subject of names did come up.

FM: What do you mean?

TJ: You tell me, Franny. Or should I say Eileen?





PART III





Cecily It took me six hours to get home on October tenth. When the immediate threat was cleared, they started running the trains, one at a time, packed to the gills as if we were in Tokyo. Police in riot gear checked each of us as we got on, searching through our purses, verifying IDs. It took forever and reminded me of a book I’d read years ago called Jessica Z., about a young woman struggling to find her place in a world where acts of terror had become quotidian. Was this just the beginning, a complete shift in the way we had to live now, or was it simply a gas explosion as the rumors on the platform said?

When the doors to the train finally closed, I realized Teo was still with me. I hadn’t thought about it as we shuffled through the line, but it was doubtful we were going to the same place.

“Is this your train?” I asked.

“Close enough.”

“You didn’t have to come with me.”

“Sure I did.”

Our arms were by our sides, our hands inches from touching. I laced my fingers through his. My hand had spent so much time in his that day, what did a few more minutes signify?

The train rattled past our changed city and on and on until it was out. It was a one-stop shop, the police officers told us on the purple line, running all the way to Linden, which meant we went right through downtown Evanston without stopping. It was unbearably hot and eerily quiet. No one was speaking; they were buried in their phones, hitting “Refresh” on their news feeds. I couldn’t bring myself to look. I didn’t want to know the details, how many dead, how many missing, who else I knew who wasn’t coming home. I didn’t want the confirmation that Tom was where I knew he was; his failure to answer any of the messages I’d sent him after Cassie’s question was all the confirmation I needed. I kept my phone in my pocket, my eyes fixed on the back of the person standing in front of me, and tried not to think too much about what I’d have to face at home.

When we got to Linden, Joshua was there. He was standing in front of his minivan, one of a long line waiting like parents in a school pickup line. He was scanning the crowd, up on his tippy-toes, not wanting to miss anyone. I dropped Teo’s hand and waved at him frantically.

“Joshua! Over here.”

Our eyes locked for a moment, but then he continued his scan.

And that’s when I knew. He wasn’t there for me. He was there for Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn! She was as lost as Tom.

My knees buckled.





Chapter 29


The Least Complicated


Cecily

Tom and I never spoke about the texts again. When I woke up the next morning in our hotel room, he was gone. He’d left a note—out for a run, then coffee, I’m sorry—and didn’t return for several hours. When I could drag myself out of bed, I climbed into the large marble shower and stood there until it felt like I was drowning, as if every pore in my body was waterlogged, my skin turning into an angry prune. I still didn’t know how to process what had happened, but I felt dirty, contaminated. I wanted to scour every inch of skin off my back, and my insides out, too.

As I scrubbed and scrubbed, I started to question everything that had happened in the last six months between us. All the times I’d cuddled up to Tom in bed. The times when we’d had sex. The small intimacies every couple has. Was it all tainted now?

Was six months enough? Should I go back a year? Two? How much of my life did I have to readjust? Tom didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. I didn’t ask so many things. The lack of details was killing me, and yet I knew better than to make a list of particulars, because Tom would tell me, and then instead of speculation, I’d have facts. Somehow I knew the facts would be worse than anything I could imagine, even though I had a good imagination.