The Good Liar(70)

“It’s totally fucked up.”

“You could also say that.” Linda smiles at me. “Cecily, I can’t begin to imagine what you must be feeling right now. Hate, regret, anger, confusion I’m sure are all a part of it, but I sense there’s something more. Something more immediate that’s pulling at you.”

“She wants me to help her.”

“Help her how?”

“Help her with her plan to expose Franny.”

Linda looks at her hands. For a woman who presents as so calm, so in control, they’re a wreck. Bitten nails, ragged cuticles.

“Does she need your help? Couldn’t she simply come forward and expose Franny?”

“But then she’d be exposed, too. And the girls and Joshua would know what she did.”

“Which is worse than what they think now?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a tough position she’s put you in.”

“It’s a ridiculous position to be in.”

“But you’ve made your choice, I think. That’s why you’re telling me instead of speaking to the press. Or simply telling Joshua yourself.”

“I couldn’t do that. Am I wrong?”

“What does your heart tell you?”

“It feels like it isn’t working properly.”

“I think your heart is working fine.”

“Sure, right.”

“Look at the love you’re displaying now, Cecily. For Joshua, for his children, even for Kaitlyn. It may come at a cost, but you should be proud of that heart.”

I know her words are a compliment, something that should warm me. But I don’t feel warm.

I feel cold and sick, sick in my heart.



On my way downtown, after I beg off work, I try Franny again. The call goes right to voice mail. I try again, then leave her a message. I’d appreciate it if you’d call me, I text. It’s important. I wait for the bubble to appear, but the screen stays blank. Perhaps she’s turned it off. Or maybe she’s reconciled with Joshua and doesn’t want me to know. I start to dial his familiar digits, then stop. I can’t talk to Joshua right now, not with Kaitlyn hiding in my basement, and I have no idea what to say to him or how I’ll react when I hear his trusting voice.

I’m heading downtown to meet Teo. When I texted him from the therapist’s parking lot, I wasn’t sure he’d agree to meet me. Not after the way we left things last time. But I have a lure, one I was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to resist, and I was, sadly, right. I use it right off, not wanting to find out if my own request would be sufficient. I can’t take any more rejection right now, not even that of someone who’s rejected me already.

When I get to the coffee shop around the corner from the Compensation Initiative, Teo’s already sitting at a table, though I’m ten minutes early. He’s wearing his trademark outfit, that smooth path he’s created through life.

He stands when I get to our table.

“Let me help you with that.”

He takes my coat and hangs it on a hook on the wall, then returns with a large cup of coffee for me.

“You take it black, right?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Fine.”

I take a sip. It’s too hot and scalds my tongue, which seems about right for today.

Teo fiddles nervously with his napkin. He has a muffin in front of him, carrot I think, but he hasn’t taken a bite.

“How are things with you?” I ask, feeling, like I did weeks ago, as if we’re in some well-mannered drama where we should be wearing period costumes.

“Fine. Busy.”

“How’s the documentary coming?”

“Chugging along. Obviously the news about Franny and Joshua is going to put a different spin on things.”

If only he knew.

“You didn’t see that coming?” I say, thinking of Julia.

“Frankly, no. She was still calling him Mr. Ring half the time in her sessions with me. And he’d skipped our last few appointments claiming he had work conflicts, which, in retrospect, I should’ve realized meant more than that he didn’t want to talk to me.”

He sounds frustrated, defeated.

“Do you ever think about giving it up?”

“What? Filmmaking?”

“Documentaries. I remember reading once about how you can spend years of your life on something and in the end, there’s no story there.”

“That can happen.”

“Not in this case, though.”

“If anything, there’s too much story.”

“Is that even possible?”

He shrugs. “It can be hard to keep three narrative threads balanced. And right now, I have two threads mixing, and though I have no idea what it is you’re about to tell me, I suspect things are going to get more complicated from here.”

“Oh, the tangled webs we weave.”

“Said the spider to the fly.”

“Interesting choice of response.”

“Nah, I just couldn’t remember the rest of that line.”

“Somehow, I highly doubt that.”

I try another sip of coffee. It’s cool enough, but I can’t taste if it’s good or bad given my scalded tongue. When did every little thing in my life start feeling like a metaphor?