The Lies We Tell
Page 32
Now the man isn’t the only one looking.
“Shhh,” someone says.
I take a step to the left, but I keep listening.
“Kay never did know how to handle money,” the woman in the middle whispers. “Chess always kept it out of her reach.”
“She’s right,” the woman in the plastic headdress agrees, “and it wasn’t just the money. Chess controlled a lot of things. He brainwashed Christina. And Kay and me? We hardly spoke when Chess was alive. He made her cut ties from so many of her friends, and her interests—You remember what a great singer she was?”
“I think,” whispers the woman in the middle, “he was afraid she’d go back to Johnny Senior.”
“Did anybody call Johnny Senior?” the woman on the end asks basically everybody.
At that, nearly all the folks in front of us bristle.
“Shhh!” more than one someone says.
I step left again.
The women go quiet; the preacher drones on.
After another minute the woman next to me whispers, “Kay did her best.”
From the other side of the gravesite, a man begins to wail, and I can picture the scene: Johnny Junior rocking, crying, ears covered, fears again realized.
I step left again, and I turn to go.
Halfway to my car, partially hidden by the trunk of another big old elm tree, I see Robyn Leone. I go over.
“Paying your respects?” I ask. Paying is probably a touchy word, but I’m not here to sympathize with her.
“I am.”
“It’s a pretty no-frills deal. Rumor is, Christina had to foot the bill. I’m guessing that was a tough blow, seeing as how the money she was due may as well have been set on fire.”
“I am cooperating with the authorities.”
“I know you are, and I appreciate that. And I’m sure Detective Kanellis appreciates it.” I round the other side of the tree trunk and look back on the funeral. “I understand Kanellis put together quite a case—Sergeant Iverson says there’s enough to interest the Feds. It’ll be big. Probably take down Complete Care, and Legacy, and Wyoming Corporate Services. Did you know they’ve got hundreds of shell LLCs tucked away in just one little residential house out there in Cheyenne? It’s a place for fake companies to hide money and protect the people stealing the money, too. But, they bust that place open, and I bet Novak will see some time. And Dr. Adkins, and on down the line.”
“And on down the line,” she says, like she’s already been sentenced.
“I feel bad for the family. I’m sure you know how stupid angling over money seems when it comes down to losing someone. I mean, once they get the original will sorted—did Kanellis tell you that Kay actually revoked the new trust? That she took a pen to the paperwork and voided the whole thing before she died?—anyway, they’ll get some money. But I don’t think you can pay down guilt. Do you?”
Robyn doesn’t answer. She looks out at the gathering of friends and family one last time, and then turns to leave.
And, having inadvertently said my piece—I do the same.
34
George throws Isabel’s birthday party in September—two weeks late, but his first chance since signing the lease on the apartment.
I buzz the door and climb the steps to the third floor. I’m pretty well healed, and the relapse is over, but I’m still out of breath by the time I reach the landing—my own fault; admittedly, I haven’t spent these last months getting anything into shape besides my attitude.
I knock at the door though it’s cracked open, Isabel presumably gated or otherwise occupied somewhere inside. I take off my shoes—still flats, thank you very much—and hang my coat on the door hook with a few others.
I straighten the bow on Isabel’s present—lately, she’s as interested in unwrapping things as she is in the things she’s unwrapping—and linger in the hall for a moment, readying myself. Sometimes, these days, she is interested in me. Sometimes not.
“Hey, G,” George says, coming around the corner from the kitchen. He’s got tomato sauce on his shirt, a clue as to what we’re having for the birthday dinner. He gives me a hug and then I’m sure I’m also wearing it.
“Hi, Georgie.”
“How was it?”
He’s talking about my first day back at the Job; I didn’t spend these last months in a rush to return there, either. But, “It was good. Walter is ever patient in showing me the virtual ropes.”
“I never thought you’d take a desk.”
“We all have to settle down sometime, right?”
“Where you going to settle, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Tom thinks the buyers are going to ask for a short escrow, so I’ve got to decide soon. Maricarmen says I can stay with her, but she’s already got her grandson and his kids there. I don’t know. I’ll probably rent somewhere for a while. Maybe closer to the office.”
“The office, huh?” He’s not asking about the office.
“Yes, George. The office.” I try not to smile while I straighten the gift’s bow again. “Where’s Isabel?”
“Rick and Janine have her out on the back porch. I’m grilling.”
“You got a grill?”
“Just a little hibachi. But it’s a nice night, you know? And I’ve got a back porch. And, I’m so fucking sick of eating noodles that I thought we’d celebrate her birthday, too, have some steaks.”
“Sounds great.”
He steers me past the kitchen and into the living room-slash-dining room. “I’ve just got to get the potatoes going and I’ll be out.”
I approach the sliding door, and my reflection—my smiling face.
Rick opens the screen and steps inside. “Regina,” he says, like he hasn’t seen me in a year. He opens his arms and takes me in. “Feeling good? Looking good.”
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
“Mama!” Isabel says, jumping up and down outside the door. She looks taller than she did last week.
“The birthday girl awaits,” Rick says, stepping out of the way.
“Hi, Spaghetti!” I open the screen and she bum-rushes me, arms around my legs.
“Mama!”
“Look what I have,” I say, about the gift, but she ignores it and raises her arms; she wants me to pick her up.
“Hi, Regina,” Janine says, and takes the gift so I can take Isabel.
“Mama Gina,” Isabel says, her little brain starting to connect the appropriate dots. She puts her arms around my neck and rests her head on my chest. I hug her some more, knowing it’s only a matter of time before I’ll just be Gina.
“Isabel’s got a little something for you, too,” Janine says, and takes my gift inside, giving us time.
“What do you have for me?” I ask her, “Kisses?” I start to give her a hundred of them.
Isabel shrieks with joy. “Nest!”
“Oh, Spaghet, there’s no nest here.”
“Nest,” she insists, and points at the other side of the deck. There, crammed between railings, sits a dove’s nest built from two lawn chairs and some pillows I gave to George along with Tom’s old couch.
“You’re right,” I tell her, and I get choked up, because she’s too little to have come up with the idea. That makes George a hero. Finally.
I climb in. It’s not as big as mine—yes, I still have it and yes, I get in to it on my own once in a while—but this one will do. This one will do just fine.
Isabel climbs in and snuggles against me and I feel her little heart beating as we look up at the night sky, the city lights our ceiling. I wonder who she will ask when she wants to know about the stars.
“See an airpane?” she asks, her words both more and less understandable to me.
The apartment building isn’t on a flight path, but there just happens to be a plane up there, lights winking as it leaves O’Hare.
“There’s one!” I say. “Where’s it headed? California? Atlanta?”
“Home,” Isabel says.
�
�Home,” I repeat. She’s starting to understand the word; I wish I could explain how much more complicated the concept becomes with age.
“Jezebel goes home…” I start, and then from inside, I hear Rick and my brother saying hello to Ray.
Took him a while to find a parking spot.
“Where you go home?” Isabel asks, and I realize she isn’t so interested in Jezebel. The memory of our time together is fading; soon I’ll be the one described in stories.
“My home is not far from here,” I say. “But you know, no matter where I am…” I put my face against hers and smell her hair and whisper in her ear, “I’m with you.”
“I like purple,” she says, trying to replicate the sentiment.
I think of Kay St. Claire, who liked blue. Whose mental capacity was reduced to a toddler’s. Whose family broke apart, whose life was ruined. Who was probably lucky to forget.
But who still remembered love.
I hope it’s love that remains, when life peels away. I hope that it’s love.
I look over and I see Ray standing there, inside the sliding door. Looking at us. Smiling.
I smile back. I say to Isabel, “I like purple, too.”
ALSO BY THERESA SCHWEGEL
The Good Boy
Last Known Address
Person of Interest
Probable Cause
Officer Down
About the Author
THERESA SCHWEGEL was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. A Loyola University graduate, she received an MFA in screenwriting at Chapman University. She is the author of four novels; her debut, Officer Down, won the Edgar Award for Best First Novel and was shortlisted for the Anthony Award. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Also by Theresa Schwegel
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE LIES WE TELL. Copyright © 2017 by Theresa Schwegel. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photographs: woman © Mark Owen / Arcangel Images; warehouse © JPRichard / Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request
ISBN 978-1-250-00178-8 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-02244-8 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781250022448
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First Edition: July 2017