Page 16 of Lies He Told Me

I look around. The dining room, overlooking the patio, seems undisturbed. There are a few nice things in this room, including an ornate chandelier, but nothing you’d expect a burglar to snatch and grab.

“Lulu!” I call out. “Lulu, honey, c’mere!”

Kyle puts out a hand. “Marcie, step back onto the patio. You can’t be inside. We’ll look for your dog, I promise. Big dog? Small?”

“Small. A Cavalier King Charles. Wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Okay. Now please go outside.”

This time, I obey. I head back onto the patio not far from the barbecue grill, the lid now closed after last night’s impromptu cookout from who-knows-who.

I hear voices in the backyard, a man and a woman in conversation. Two more cops, I see, as they come into view, joining in the search inside the house. “You probably shouldn’t be so close,” the female officer says to me. “Why don’t you go back to your car?”

They head inside, radioing their presence to the other officers. I stay where I am.

Someone was inside our house. Someone walked through our house, touched our things, invaded our private space.

With nothing else to do but make myself crazy, I check my phone. Diane, my client, has texted me, saying she hopes everything’s okay at my house and asking about next steps in the dispute with her ex. She must feel like that old white male judge has no idea what her and her kids’ lives are really like. She’s right about that. Now we’ll have to appeal, which will cost Diane more money, even after I cut my fee, which I always seem to be doing —

The patio door opens, causing me to jump. I realize how nerve-racked I am.

Kyle steps out, holding Lulu in his arms. She breaks into a combination whine and yodel as I take her, her whole body trembling.

“She was down in the basement by the boiler,” he says. “Trying to get away from the sound of the alarm, I think. It’s all clear inside, Marcie. Nothing taken, as far as we can see. Nothing disturbed, either. Your boy has an iPad on his bed. Your daughter has a laptop in her room. There’s jewelryin your walk-in closet. Those are the first things a burglar would take. My guess, nobody ever got inside. Not past the door. They heard the alarm and decided to try another house. They want something quick and easy.”

“But how did they get in?”

“Door must have been unlocked.”

“Could they have picked it?” I ask.

Kyle makes a face. “Picking a lock takes a lot of effort and time. If the door was locked and they really wanted in, they probably would’ve smashed one of the door windows, reached inside, and unlocked the door. My guess, this is some random guy who was going around trying doors till he found one that opened.”

I look at him, start to speak but don’t.

“What?” he asks.

I shudder at the weight of the statement that was on the tip of my tongue. Saying it aloud makes it seem more real.

“I don’t think this was random,” I say.

THIRTEEN

THE OTHER OFFICERS FILE out. I profusely thank each of them. You take cops for granted until you need one. Kyle stays, especially after my last comment to him.

I walk back into the house, putting down Lulu, who follows me. Kyle follows me inside, too, stays by me as I do a check of the entire house. My nerves are still rattled, but the sense of danger is gone, replaced with a mounting sense of violation. I enter every room, the kids’ bedrooms, these sacred, safe, warm places where they sleep and play and study and dream of their lives. Wondering if some creepster invaded their private space, touched things, wanting to disinfect every nook and cranny to remove the taint. I check for anything amiss, anything moved, anything disturbed, anything missing.

All the while feeling ever so grateful that an armed police officer — that Kyle, in particular — is escorting me.

We end in the last room upstairs, the master bedroom.Nothing out of place, no reason to think the creepster invaded this private area.

“You said you don’t think this was random,” says Kyle.

“Some … weird things have been happening,” I say.

I give him the rundown. Kyle doesn’t speak, but his facial reactions to the various odd and borderline disturbing things only reinforce my concerns.

“You think of them individually, and how inconsequential they are, and you blow them off. I mean, my coffeepot in my dryer? Who would go to the trouble of sneaking into my house to do that? And Lulu — maybe somehow she got out and back in.”

---