Page 33 of Lies He Told Me

“Sure, yeah. I just — let me make one phone call.” He disappears from the kitchen not two minutes after arriving.

Dinner is almost over, then the kids will help me — or at least they’re supposed to help me — clean up.

“Grace, put away your phone,” I say, catching her whileshe’s supposed to be wiping the table. “Did you practice piano?”

“Yes.”

“No, she didn’t,” says Lincoln.

“Hey —”

“Yes, I did,genius.”

“Hey!”

I jump at the sound of David’s voice, surprised both by his reappearance and by the harshness of his voice. He points a finger at Grace. “No ‘genius’ comment.”

“Calling someone a genius is an insult?” she protests.

“When you say it like that, of course it is, and you know it! Cut it out, Grace!”

“Fine.” She puts down her phone. “Next time I’ll call him an idiot. Would that be better?”

“Grace,” I say.

“Don’t get cute, young lady.” David slams his hand down on the kitchen island with awhomp. “I’mnotin the mood for cute!”

“Okay, wow, okay,” I say. “I think we’ve covered it.”

David turns to me. We’ve made a point of not stepping on each other when addressing the kids, not undermining the other’s authority. But he’s never been physical with his anger. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him hit or slap something when he’s mad. And over this? The kids have pushed things way further than this before.

“Grace,” I say, “apologize to Lincoln for calling him genius. Do it now.”

David takes a step back, blows out a breath of air, glancingat me again. “Whatever,” he snaps. He turns and walks out of the kitchen again.

While Grace fumbles out an apology to Lincoln, I follow David, about to climb the stairs. “Let’s go get some air,” I say. “Go for a walk.”

He turns back to me. “Now? It’s, like — there’s at least three inches of snow outside.”

“Yes, now,” I say. “You and I need to talk.”

“It’s … not a great time, Marce.”

“No, David,” I say, steeling myself against the shiver running through me. “It’s long past time.”

THIRTY

CAMILLE HOLDS A CUP of ginger tea as she stands by the picture window in her fifth-floor apartment, overlooking the downtown. She is careful not to brush against the telescope mounted on a tripod by the window, positioned just so.

She carefully moves her eye to the eyepiece. David’s house, a good half mile away, looks peaceful right now, a few inches of freshly fallen snow clinging to the rooftop, the snow in his yard glistening in the landscape lighting. Most of the downstairs is lit up. She catches a glimpse of the son, Lincoln, passing by a window, tossing a football in the air.

She adjusts the focus, looking through David’s bedroom window, then zooms the focus back out to the entire house, even most of the yard.

This morning, David left before six. Marcie got the kids out the door and went to work, setting the house alarm before doing so. After school, Grace had her dance lesson,Lincoln his soccer practice. David just got home a half hour ago.

Camille puts down the tea and pulls a blanket over her shoulders. The heat in this apartment isn’t great, and some cold air escapes by this window. Her phone buzzes. It’s her best friend, Zoe. She considers not answering but punches the green button.

“Feeling any better?” Zoe asks.

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