Page 10 of Lies He Told Me

David’s parents died in a house fire in Youngstown, Ohio, when he was four years old. Having no siblings or next of kin, David was placed in foster care. He had three “families,” so to speak, before he turned eighteen.

“Were you scared in the water?”

“In the river when Mr. Peterson’s car went in? Yeah, sure, Linc, I was scared. But you know what kept me going?”

Lincoln shakes his head.

“Knowing that you and Grace and Mommy were waiting for me. Knowing that I’d never leave you guys.” He gives Lincoln another kiss on the cheek. “Never, ever.”

Careful,warns Cautious Mom, the gremlin on my other shoulder, who competes with Chill Mom.Don’t make promises you can’t keep. What if you have a brain aneurysm or get hit by a truck andpoof,you’re gone?

But David doesn’t go to such dark places. He sees the world in bright, vivid colors.

I walk into the master bedroom. David comes in, too. Ihear the click of the lock on the bedroom door. I know what that means.

“Grace isn’t down yet,” I say.

“She’ll be in her bathroom for half an hour at least.” His hands slide underneath my shirt. I feel myself reacting. David gets me. He gets me like no man ever has. “Say yes,” he says, “and I’ll give you the best ninety seconds of your day.”

“Oh, the faux modesty.” But he’s right about one thing — if we wait for optimal conditions, we’ll be too tired to do it. Lock the door, make it quick and quiet, and if Grace knocks, make up an excuse. “Okay, sailor,” I say, whipping down the comforter to climb into bed.

We both see it, to his left and my right, through the bedroom window overlooking the backyard. A burst of flickering light. A flame.

Fire.

FIVE

“STAY WITH THE KIDS,” David says, rushing out the bedroom door, but I’m right behind him down the stairs.

When we hit the first floor, we see the flames outside, on the patio leading into the backyard, the wispy orange threads just sneaking into our view through the glass french doors. Exactly what’s on fire back there? A tree? A bush? The deck railing? If it’s the deck railing, the whole thing will be in flames in a matter of seconds —

I’m racing through options — we don’t have a fire extinguisher,Why don’t we have a fire extinguisher,there’s a hose out back attached to a sprinkler, we could unhook it and use that, where’s my phone, I left it upstairs, we have to call the fire department —

David whips open the doors and bounds onto the patio, looking to his left, doing a double take. Just as I’m reaching the patio myself, David says, “What the fuck?”

I look to my left. The grill. Our Weber grill, the old-fashioned, egg-shaped, charcoal-burning kind David prefersover the fancy gas ones. The oval lid is popped open, and flames billow out from the core — charcoal, freshly lit on fire. Like …

Like someone’s starting a cookout.

“What the fuck is right,” I whisper.

David jogs down the rear walkway of our house, then pivots and heads into the backyard. Me, I can’t take my eyes off the grill, the flames already subsiding as the charcoal begins its slow sizzle to a white-hot char.

David hustles back to the patio, out of breath. “Whoever did it took off,” he says.

“But why — who would …” I look at him. “Should we call the police?”

David shrugs. “And say what? Someone snuck behind our house and started a barbecue?”

“It’s a trespass,” I say, but David’s right. The cops would chalk it up to a teenage prank, a modern-day version of the ding dong ditch game we used to play as kids, ringing someone’s doorbell and running. And they’d probably be right.

“Well, I’m sure Kyle would be happy to rush right over,” says David.

“Oh, stop. Seriously, what is this — just stupid teenagers?”

“I mean, I guess so.” David paces around the patio, our table and chairs still intact, undisturbed. He walks along the rear walkway again, returns to the backyard. “It’s kind of … hostile, though, y’know?”

“I was going to say creepy. We’re upstairs putting down the kids, and they’re out here dumping charcoal into the grill, pouring lighter fluid, and lighting a match?”

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