The Good Liar(64)

When I started envisaging Tom’s tongue trailing over someone else’s skin, I got out of the shower and wrapped myself in the oversize bathrobe like a hug. I kicked the blankets Tom had slept in into the corner. I didn’t need any more reminders of him. I picked up my phone. There were messages from the kids with questions about missing soccer equipment, whether something was in the laundry. My mother asking if we were having a good time, Kaitlyn wondering if we could meet for lunch on Monday. I’m shocked at the gall of that now, knowing what I know, but then I was happy to hear from her. I almost called her to talk about what had happened because I needed someone else’s voice in my head other than my own.

Tom brought back coffee, a bag full of freshly made bagels, and a container of fruit. We sat at the small table in our room in silence. He tried to speak, but I raised my finger to my lips and he fell silent. I couldn’t eat, could only sip at my coffee, which tasted bitter and scalded my tongue. I felt as if I needed to hollow out my insides with a spoon, to remove every extraneous thing. My wedding band was tight on my finger. I twisted it off. Tom watched me do it, his eyes wide, wanting to ask if this was some greater symbol, if this was the end. But I silenced him again with a look, and then I brought out the laptop and rebooked our flights home. We dressed and packed quickly, and Tom took our luggage downstairs to check out while I did a last sweep of the room.

I stood in the doorway in my belted trench coat, looking at the ruin of the bed, the dirty windows that couldn’t block out the iconic view. I shoved my hands in my pockets, balled into fists, and came up against the rough edges of a piece of paper. I pulled it out. It was the certificate Tom had given me the night before, the star he named after me, his big romantic gesture, which I would’ve been delighted with a few days ago but now felt like a cheap joke.

I tossed it in the trash.



I go upstairs, leaving Kaitlyn in the living room, and admonish Cassie again to stay in her room. “No texting, no outside communication,” I say.

“But what’s going on?” Cassie asks. “That’s Aunt Kaitlyn, isn’t it? How can she be here?”

I almost tell her to hush, Henry might hear, but what’s the point? There’s no way to keep this secret in my own house. Besides, things have been dicey with Cassie ever since I told her and Henry that things between her father and me were rocky before he died. “Not the best” was the euphemism I used when I explained why I was leery of the press, of people finding out our secrets. I didn’t tell them about the affair or give them an explanation of why we were in trouble, just that we were. I told them we hadn’t figured everything out yet, that we were still in the process of trying to figure things out when he died.

Cassie hadn’t reacted when I’d told her, but two days later, she’d flown into a rage over a book she thought I’d moved in her room, and I knew what it was about.

“Aunt Kaitlyn?” Henry says, coming into Cassie’s room. “She’s alive? But does that mean . . . Dad’s alive?”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, honey. I don’t . . . No, Dad’s not alive.”

Henry starts shaking. “But if Aunt Kaitlyn is, then he has to be, too. Their offices were on the same floor. And I read this thing on the Internet about how it was all some big hoax, anyway, because if it had been a gas leak, then the building wouldn’t have blown up that way and—”

“You’re so stupid, Henry!”

“Cassie!”

“But it’s true. Why do you even read that stuff?”

I put my arms around Henry. He feels cold, chilled. I rub my hands up and down his back, trying to warm him up. “Henry, Cassie, please. Not right now. I need to talk to Aunt Kaitlyn and find out what’s going on. I promise I’ll tell you as soon as I know, but it’s very, very important that we don’t tell anyone she’s alive or here or anything like that, okay?”

“You’ll tell us everything?” Cassie says. “Ha! Like you told us all about you and Dad fighting?”

“No, not like that. And this isn’t a good time for this.”

“You always say that. It’s never a good time.”

“Will you just give me this, Cassie? Please?”

“Why?”

That stops me. Why is it important to keep Kaitlyn’s secret? Do I need another to add to the pile? But there’s a reason she’s at my house and not her own. And then there’s what she just told me about Franny, which, if true, is a whole other problem, one I can’t even wrap my mind around.

“Because she hasn’t had a chance to talk to her family yet, and they can’t find out like this, that their mom’s not dead. Imagine if Dad were still alive and you read about it on the Internet.”

“But he is alive,” Henry says. “He has to be.”

“No, Henry. I’m so, so sorry, but he isn’t. Remember? We saw him at the funeral home.”

Henry’s whole body is trembling now, either from remembering the awful sight of his father in a casket or the new, new reality that his father’s still dead, maybe both. One of the “miracles” of October tenth—Tom’s body had been intact, and his parents had insisted on an open casket. I was too tired to fight with them, so I caved. But when we’d walked into that tamped-down room and seen his waxy form in the coffin they’d picked out, I’d felt sick to my stomach. Cassie had run from the room, and Henry went so white I thought he’d faint. When we passed Tom’s parents on the way out, I couldn’t help but glare at them. Was this how they wanted to remember their son? If they knew the truth about him, would they feel any differently? But I already knew I could never tell them the truth, that Tom’s secret was mine to keep now, even though death had parted us.