Page 100 of Lies He Told Me

That’s the right question. And the answer is easy. Butmaybe not so easy. Because it suddenly occurs to me that, with Silas and Blair both dead, the only living person who knows about the money is …

Me.

“Long story,” I manage before breaking into another coughing spasm.

“We can talk about it later,” he says. “You’ll need to rest. Just be glad you survived.”

I nod, take a couple of deep breaths. Never again will I take for granted the sweet joy of breathing, the simple act of inhaling oxygen and expelling carbon dioxide.

“Or did you?” he says.

I look at him with a question.

“Maybe you didn’t survive, Marcie Bowers.”

I don’t catch his meaning. But he fixes his stare on me, raises his eyebrows.

“Oh,” I say. “Right.”

EPILOGUE

ONE HUNDRED SEVEN

I KILL THE ENGINE, the boat coming to a rest on the bobbing water. Our dog, Lulu, jumps off my lap as I get up and head to the back of the boat, reach down to the hitch, and start pulling the thick rope toward me.

Slowly but surely, the fancy red-and-black tube float in which Grace and Lincoln are nestled moves toward the boat. Grace, her wet hair blown back by the wind, her cheeks sunburned, is beaming. Lincoln raises his skinny arms in the air around his life vest. (Life vests are our friends.) Lulu, she just barks at them until they climb aboard.

“Had enough for today?” We’ve been at it for nearly two hours, Captain Marcie driving the speedboat in zigzags and circles, the kids squealing as they get tossed around the lake.

Which lake? I’m not supposed to tell. Let’s just say that where we live now — well, it’s warm and lush and green. We don’t live on the beach, but we are close to this lake.

Inside the boat, the kids dry off with towels and sip from juice boxes, comparing notes on their favorite parts of the last two hours, while Lulu tries to lick the water off their legs. Me, I sit in the front of the boat, watching the sun’s reflection off the rippling water, enjoying the warm breeze.

I wish he could be here with me. That was the plan, someday, to retire on a lake to a quiet life with children and grandkids. I will think of that every day now. David still comes to me, but only in dreams. I wake up with a wet pillow and a hollow feeling.

I start the engine, the quiet hum as I slowly edge the lever forward and drive toward the dock. The slow rides along the lake are my favorite part of where we live. The apartment we’re renting — well, it’s not much to look at, and the AC is dicey, but the kids think the elevator is cool, and the view from the fourth floor is something to behold, beautiful and serene. I could do with serene for a while.

A man is standing at the dock as we approach. You might think I’d react with fear. I thought so, too — that I’d be jumpy, suspicious of every stranger, guarded in every interaction, flinching at shadows, living in constant fear that our new cover will be blown. But paranoia has not followed me here. For one, I was declared dead from complications after my spill into the Cotton River. There was an official press release, news coverage, even a funeral — a joint memorial service for David and me — in Hemingway Grove.

And two, from what everyone can tell, Michael Cagnina is not hunting for us and never was. He’s old and sickand doesn’t want any part of anything that could send him back to prison. Cagnina wasn’t behind what happened to my family. It was all about an FBI agent who never got the twenty million he was promised for disclosing the location of the secret detention center and an assassin who wanted a cut of the action in exchange for helping him track it down.

“That’s Sergeant Kyle!” Lincoln shouts, joining me at the wheel. “Right? Isn’t that him?”

Indeed, I see as we get closer, that is Kyle on the dock. I bring my hand to my forehead and salute him. He salutes back and waits for us as I tie off the boat in our docking space.

“Howdy, stranger,” he says, squinting into the sun. I’ve become so used to seeing him in his uniform, buttoned-up and alert, that it’s a bit startling to see the T-shirt and sandals.

I give him a quick hug. Nothing that might give him ideas.

“You staying the night?” I ask him as we walk to my car.

“Nah. I’ll probably drive back to the convention tonight. I have to speak on one of the panels early tomorrow. It’s a two-hour drive from here.”

That’s probably for the best. Kyle holds up a phone, showing me a newborn with an anguished look on her face. “Camille had a girl,” he says.

I take the phone. “She’s adorable.”

“She named her Marcie.”

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