Page 11 of Lies He Told Me

“Weird and hostile and creepy, all of the above,” he says. “But at least — I mean, at least it was never a threat. It’s a fire, but it’s contained inside the grill. It’s not like it was going to set the patio on fire or anything.”

That’s true. It wasn’t malevolent inthatway. “So … what do we do?”

He shrugs. “You hungry? I could throw some burgers on.”

I shoot him a look. “It was meant to spook us, David. And as far as I’m concerned, it worked.”

David plays with that thought and checks his phone. “Well, it’s only two and a half hours till Halloween. Maybe someone was just getting a head start on the creepy, spooky stuff. I’m sure that’s all it was.”

But his face reads otherwise. That brain of his is turning over and over, trying to connect all the bizarre things that happened today. None of them, individually, cause for alarm. Collectively, maybe another story.

But if something has come to mind, David doesn’t say so. Maybe he has no answers, and maybe there’s nothingtoanswer.

Or maybe he does, and there is.

We all have our secrets, after all. Spouses don’t tell each othereverything.

SIX

FINALLY, AS I STAND before my vanity, toothbrush working, I’m ready to put this ridiculous day behind us. The dog alone — did she leave and return through a closed gate? Was she in our yard all along in the bushes and we missed her? Or did someone take her and return her?

Not to mention the fire and the coffeepot and lunch box and court ID —

My phone buzzes with a text message. The message is from an old acquaintance, a coworker, Howard Shimkus. Well, not so much a coworker as one of the senior partners and top trial lawyers at Millard Halloway in Chicago. The text reads:

Today’s the day. 15th anniversary!

Oh. That’s right. Fifteen years ago. I’d rather forget. I usually do forget, actually, my previous life a more distant memory every year, but then Howard sends me a text on this date, the day before Halloween, as if it’s an annual tradition.

He is correct that today is the day, though the whole thing became public news the following morning, leading the press to label it the Halloween Massacre. Three witnesses in total, all scheduled to testify against mob boss Michael Cagnina at his upcoming racketeering trial.

A debt collector — an enforcer for Cagnina.

A racetrack owner who had helped Cagnina launder money and run a gambling ring.

And Howard’s and my client Silas Renfrow, Michael Cagnina’s top assassin.

All three — along with half a dozen federal marshals — found burned beyond recognition, nothing but torched skeletons, inside the detention center where they were being kept as protected witnesses.

Now close to seventy years old, Howard is in the twilight of his career as one of the top white-shoe defense lawyers in Chicago, and here I am, far removed from those high-powered cases, back living in the town where I was born, chasing deadbeat husbands, handling adoptions and divorces. I am long forgotten to Howard, yet he thinks of me this one time every year.

Maybe that’s because I’m the only other person who knows the truth.

“Who’s that on the phone?” David asks, grabbing some dental floss.

I scoop away my phone. “Nobody,” I say. “Just a nervous client.”

SEVEN

“QUESTION: WHY DOES A woman who graduates summa cum laude from one of the best law schools in the country, then lands a job at one of the top law firms in Chicago, come back to Hemingway freakin’ Grove to live and practice small-town family law?”

Tommy Malone clicks off his handheld recorder and taps the brake as the car in front of his, a green Jeep driven by Darlene Farraday, comes to a stop on the road outside Hemingway’s Pub, left turn signal blinking. The parking lot is pretty full, impressive for a Monday night near midnight. The pub itself is done up well for tonight’s pre-Halloween party. The giant statue of Ernest Hemingway stands front and center on the lawn overlooking the street, a giant witch’s hat propped atop Ernie’s head, the statue surrounded by ornate backlit tombstones and pumpkins.

Fun, he thinks, without being too cheesy. Pretty damn expensive, too.

Darlene’s car turns into the lot. Tommy follows in with his rental. Darlene drives her car around to the rear of the building. Tommy stops much sooner, along the street side of the paved lot.

He kills the engine and waits for Darlene. While waiting, he raises the recorder to his mouth again.

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