Page 3 of The Lie Maker

The man turned to pick up his bags and saw that his son, dressed in pale-blue pajamas, had reached the bottom of the stairs and was standing there mournfully. The boy’s cheeks were wet with tears and his arms hung limply at his sides.

“Hey,” the father said, ignoring the bags and kneeling down in front of the boy.

“Sir,” the agent said, “we need to move.”

“Just... a minute,” he said over his shoulder, then turned back to the boy and gripped him by the shoulders. “So, you’re going to be okay, you know?”

The boy sniffed.

“I need you to be strong for your mom. You’re the new man of the house, you realize that, right?” He forced a smile. “I know you can do it. Because you’re tough.”

The boy said something, his voice no more than a whisper.

“What’s that?”

“I want to come with you,” the boy said.

“You can’t, sport. Your mom doesn’t want to come, and if that’s the way it has to be, you’re better off with her.”

“When will you come back?” the boy asked.

The man felt something swell in his throat. “Just know that I’ll be thinking about you, all the time, every minute of every day. That’s a promise.” He smiled ruefully, brought his voice down to a whisper. “Maybe I’ll check in on you from time to time.”

The boy sniffed, looked his father in the eye and asked, “Why can’t you just tell them you’re sorry?”

He smiled. “I wish it was that simple.” Still on one knee, he said, “Let me give you a little going-away gift. Something to remember me by.” He reached around into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. A simple billfold made of brown leather. He opened it up briefly, exposing a couple of bills. A ten and a five.

“There’s a few bucks in there,” he said. “Enough for some comics or ice cream or something.”

He took his son’s hand and placed the wallet in it. The boy studied it, like it was some strange, unidentifiable artifact.

“What about your driver’s license?” the boy asked.

“They’ll get me a new one of those. New Social Security card, too, probably even a library card. Along with my new name, whatever it turns out to be.”

“You won’t be Dad anymore?”

The man looked as though he might crumble. He took a moment.

“I’ll always be Dad,” he said. He folded the child’s fingers around the wallet. “You hold on tight to it, just in case. You never know, maybe one day I’ll come back for it.”

“Sir.” The agent was getting antsy.

“Gotta run,” the man said, pulling the boy into his arms and giving him a squeeze. “I love you, sport.” He held the boy in his arms for a good ten seconds before standing. He tousled the boy’s hair, gave him a thumbs-up, and turned to face the agent.

His voice breaking, he said, “Let’s do this.”

His wife remained by the window and made no move to give him a farewell embrace. She mouthed “Goodbye.”

“Okay, then,” he said, grabbing one bag with each hand, which left one on the floor. He looked at the agent, as though expecting a hand. When she didn’t move, he managed to tuck the third under his arm.

“So, anyway,” he said to no one in particular, and stepped out into the rain. The agent followed, and the wife closed the door.

She looked at her son. “Off you go. I’ll come up and see you in a minute.” She went into the kitchen, where she could be heard opening and closing the fridge, followed by the sound of ice cubes being dropped into a glass.

Instead of heading for the stairs, he went to the front door, quietly opened it, and ran out into the rain. He caught up to his father just as he was about to get into the back seat of the lead car.

“Wait!” he cried.

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