Page 70 of Lies He Told Me

She draws back, chastened. “Okay. Sure; fine.”

“David would want me to work through this as best I can. And that means I may have some things I have to do without the children. So promise me that when I’m not around, you’ll protect the children.”

“I promise. I swear.”

“Good. Now come meet the kids. They’ll like you.”

“You think? Why?”

“Because you won’t talk down to them. They hate that.”

She seems to appreciate the comment. She’s about fortyand soon to be a first-time mother. I know from experience that she’s wondering what kind of mom she’ll be.

“And when does this going-off-and-doing-things-withoutthe-kids begin?” she asks me as we walk.

“This afternoon,” I say. “I have to be gone for an hour or so.”

SEVENTY-THREE

I LET CAMILLE SPEND time with the kids in the children’s room of the hospital before I leave. It’s not age-appropriate for them, this room — it’s more for younger kids, its walls painted with images of barnyard animals wearing goofy smiles. But there’s a TV that occupies them, and it’s better than a regular waiting room. Beggars can’t be choosers in a hospital.

As I thought, Camille’s good with the kids. She’s not a coddler, not sugar-sweet, but sincere and straightforward.

I let out a nervous breath and check my watch. It’s getting close to four. This time of year, that means it will be dark very soon.

Time to go.

The kids aren’t happy about it. I tell them they can see Daddy again if they prefer. But Mommy has to run an errand, just for a little while, and Camille will stay with them.

I head to my SUV, parked on the second level of the hospital’s parking garage. I start it up, back out, and drivetoward the exit. My headlights come on automatically as dusk falls.

The Community Bank of Hemingway Grove is on the other side of town. The parking lot is small, and that’s not where I want to park anyway. I choose a remote location down the street, taking the last spot of on-street parking, located in front of a Japanese restaurant that closed during COVID and is now shuttered and vacant.

But three doors down is a travel store. A little bell rings as I enter. I don’t have much time. But it’s not hard to find the section for luggage, prominently highlighted in the rear of the store.

I buy every oversize duffel bag they have — eleven of them in total — plus a couple of luggage pullers. The saleswoman is so thrilled that she offers to throw in a free travel wallet.

I carry my purchases to my car, where I stash them in the back.

Then I hustle across the street and walk to the Community Bank. I’m there at nearly half past four, just thirty minutes before closing time.

I walk up to the teller. “I’d like to open some safe-deposit boxes,” I say.

She sends me down a flight of stairs to the lower level. A woman is waiting there for me. She asks me if I meant to couch my request in the plural.

Absolutely I did.

“Three safe-deposit boxes in total,” I say. “The largest size you have.”

SEVENTY-FOUR

WELL, THAT DIDN’T TAKE long.

Marcie’s SUV leaves the hospital just after four o’clock. Tommy uses his monocular to see into the vehicle from his spot across the street. As far as he can tell, Marcie does not have her kids with her.

He puts his car into gear and follows her. She keeps to main roads. She drives past the Community Bank — for a moment, Tommy was sure she was turning in there — and ultimately does a U-turn, finding a parking spot a block away on the opposite side of the street.

Where is she going? She’s parked next to a boarded-up restaurant. Next to that is a convenience store and a travel store.

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