Page 78 of The Lie Maker

That was definitely going to be a problem. Earl had already spent more than half of it paying off several debts.

“Maybe there’s something else I can do,” Earl said.

Which explained why Earl was now sitting in his car this evening, parked half a block down the street from Jack’s place.

Earl didn’t feel good about what he was about to do. In fact, he felt downright shitty about it. He might not have been the best stepdad in the world, and he knew he should have given Jack a share of the proceeds when he sold his mother’s house, and yeah, he had a lot of nerve asking Jack for money, but this—this crossed a line.

And while what he was about to do presented a moral challenge, at least it didn’t present a physical or technical one. Breaking into Jack’s place would be easy.

Almost two years ago, Jack had given Earl a key to his place. That had surprised Earl at the time, since he hadn’t thought Jack trusted him all that much. But Jack led a pretty spartan existence, so there wasn’t much worth taking. He’d used some of the money he still had from selling his first two books to go to Europe to do research for his third. He’d wanted to set some of the novel in Paris, and believed if he spent three weeks there he’d get a real feel for the place. Rented a small apartment in the Marais district and lived like a local. Hung out in cafés. Took long walks. People-watched.

Jack asked Earl to check his place once a week, bring in the mail, email him if there were any bills that had arrived that Jack could pay online while he was away. He might have asked Lana to do it—they were seeing a lot more of each other by this time—but he had invited her to join him on the trip. Jack, perhaps foolishly, had never thought to ask Earl to return that spare key.

So Earl was able to let himself in.

Earl tried to convince himself it wasn’t Jack he was betraying, but his father, Michael. That bastard didn’t deserve any special consideration. Look at the mess he’d left for Earl to deal with. Raising another man’s son, or giving it his best shot, at least. That should have been Michael’s role, but no, he had to run off and hide somewhere with a new name and a new life. Lucky him.

Earl didn’t know whether to believe Jack when he said he hadn’t seen his father since his departure. But even if he was being truthful, it didn’t mean that Michael had never been in touch. A birthday card, an email, a letter? Something that would offer a clue to where Michael had gone. Maybe there was some tidbit of information like that hidden somewhere in the apartment. It was worth a shot, especially if it kept Cayden from doing something that would make Earl wish he had a better medical plan.

He was waiting outside Jack’s place when he saw him come out and stand on the sidewalk. Moments later, a small Toyota with an Uber logo on the windshield stopped at the curb and Jack got in.

Earl wondered how long Jack would be away. He made a call.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Jack, it’s Earl.”

“Hey,” Jack said. He sounded underwhelmed to hear from him. “What’s up?”

“I’m running an errand later in your neighborhood and wondered if you wanted to grab a bite or anything.”

He hoped that didn’t sound too suspicious. After going the better part of a year without getting in touch, here he was reaching out for the third time.

“Can’t,” Jack said. “I’m heading downtown to Lana’s.”

“No sweat, another time,” Earl said, and ended the call.

Shit, that was too abrupt, he told himself. Should have dragged it out some, been more conversational. But Earl was so eager to get this search over and done with that once he knew Jack would be gone for a while, he wanted to get started.

He let himself into the building, climbed the steps to the second floor, and entered Jack’s apartment.

Where to begin.

Earl had to give Jack some credit. His place was incredibly neat. No dirty dishes in the sink, no crumbs under the toaster, items in the refrigerator neatly arranged. In Jack’s bedroom, Earl found underwear neatly folded in drawers, jeans draped over hangers, no dust bunnies under the bed.

Earl hoped what he was looking for was as simple as a piece of paper. Something with a phone number or an address scribbled on it. Maybe even in some kind of code.

Where would you hide a slip of paper?

Earl looked at the shelves that took up most of one wall in the small apartment. They were loaded with books.

Hundreds.

At first, Earl speculated that such a note, if it existed, would be tucked into a book whose title hinted at what was hidden within its pages. He scanned the spines, looking for titles that jumped out at him. When he spotted a copy of Dad, by William Wharton, he shouted “Aha!” and pulled it out. But leafing through the pages produced nothing. Next, he tried Not My Father’s Son, by the actor Alan Cumming. No joy there. Maybe “father” or “dad” wasn’t the right keyword. He riffled the pages of Still Missing, by Chevy Stevens, Gone, by Lisa Gardner, Vanished, by Joseph Finder.

Nothing.

Fuck, he thought. He was going to have to check every last one. He took the books off the shelves in lots of six or seven, depending on how thick they were, quickly leafed through them, then placed them back exactly as they were. It took the better part of an hour, and at the end he had nothing to show for it.

---