Page 51 of Lies He Told Me

You’re doing exceptionally well,she thinks. And it’s getting progressively harder to play dumb.

FORTY-NINE

HE HAS HER. KYLE knows it. He can read it all over her face, no matter how defiant she tries to appear. She’s like a boxer taking blow after blow and not fighting back.

“Tell you what I don’t get yet,” he says. “Why is Cagnina screwing with your boyfriend now? What beef does he have with Silas? Or, asking the same thing a different way — why is Silas hiding from Cagnina?”

Camille is still putting up her best front, but the look of resignation, if not outright defeat, is all over her. She brushes away a strand of hair and looks out over traffic.

He’s not without sympathy here — she’s pregnant, for Christ’s sake, and David is obviously the father — but he doesn’t have time for sympathy. If the mob has come to Hemingway Grove, he needs to know.

“I mean, from my view, Camille — you’d think, after Silas killed all those witnesses against him, Cagnina would want to pin a medal on Silas’s chest. But instead, he’s screwing with him. Toying with him. All that shit he’spulled. Like he’s trying to prompt him or flush him out. He’s trying to do it under the radar, low-key, subtle. The mob isn’t usually known for its subtlety.”

That actually prompts a brief smile, at least a relaxation of her expression. And with that, apparently, a shift in her focus, as if she’s shaken out of a trance.

“I have to go,” she says. “I can’t help you. Talk to David Bowers if you have questions about David Bowers. I’m sorry.”

“No.” Kyle steps in her path. “This has to stop before there’s violence. You’re pregnant, Camille. Do you really want violence right now? Tell me I’m right. Or tell me where I’m wrong. Tell me what I’m missing. Tell mesomethingbefore it’s too late.”

“I’m … I’m sorry, Sergeant. I have to go. I’m sorry.” She pushes past him and heads into the building.

FIFTY

SPECIAL AGENT FRANCIS BLAIR opens an extra button on his flannel shirt, revealing more of the black T-shirt underneath. Checks his cover outfit once more in the bathroom mirror. He looks the part of a trucker, a longtime union guy who’s now a crook, a thief.

He’ll be glad when this is over. All the rigmarole a UC has to go through — living in a different apartment, not his own; memorizing his cover; looking over his shoulder every time he steps out of his cover and returns to his normal life; wondering, every time he enters the FBI building on Roosevelt, whether someone might snap his photo.

It’s been eleven months now, living in this shitbox of a rental unit in Ukrainian Village. The heist is next week. He can’t wait for the sting to go down so he can return to his normal life and just be Special Agent Francis Blair.

Or does he? He looks again in the mirror — a fifty-fiveyear-old man, a guy who should be a special agent in charge by now, or at least an ASAC, but he’s not even asupervisor. Nothing more than a line agent at his ripe old age, a washout, relegated to undercover on a Customs task force, a promising young agent whose career was derailed by a mobster named Michael Cagnina.

He hears his phone buzz — not his cover phone but his real one, plugged into a charger in the small kitchen area. He’s surprised when he sees the name on caller ID.

“Ollie Grafton?” he answers. “How long has it been?”

“Special FX!” Ollie replies.

Right — he forgot that Graf used to use that nickname for Blair, riffing off his initials. They go through some small talk, Graf ribbing Blair about still being in Organized Crime, Blair asking him if he’s worn out the rocking chair yet in retirement down in Chatsworth.

“Listen, reason I’m calling,” says Graf, “seeing as how you’re the only one from the Cagnina team still at the Bureau. There’s a cop from Hemingway Grove just paid me a visit the other day. Followed up with a phone call today. Asking some interesting questions.”

Hemingway Grove? That doesn’t sound good.

“Questions about none other than Silas Renfrow,” says Grafton. “Is that a blast from the past or what?”

FIFTY-ONE

“NO, GRACE,” I SAY into my earbuds as I pull out of the parking lot. It’s Wednesday, and I’m still on edge. “We talked about this. I’m picking you up from school. Don’t walk home.”

“Why not?”

How about because I said so? Does that ever work anymore?

Better than the real reason — I’m freaked about that car watching our house last week around three in the morning. Because I don’t want the kids coming home before I’m there. Because I’d like to have armed escorts follow them everywhere they go until I know what the hell is happening to our family.

“Just … wait for me, Grace. You and Lincoln. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

My stomach aching, and not from hunger, I navigate around some cars in traffic, being more impatient thanusual. I’m halfway to the school when I see flashing lights behind me. A cop pulling me over? Now? Great.

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