Page 64 of Lies He Told Me

Exactly. He was hoping to keep all his secrets just that — secrets.

“He thought you might do something rash,” she says.“That you might insist on running. He thought you were safer not knowing.”

That was part of it, I’m sure. The other part — he thought I might leave him if I knew the truth.

“What’s done is done,” I say. I don’t have time for hindsight or sorrow or regret or anger. Not now. Later.

“I take it he’s in surgery for a while?” she asks. “That’s why you’re going home?”

I nod.

“Do they have a prognosis?”

“They don’t know.” I try to block out that fear, shove it into a separate compartment of my brain and lock it up. If I let everything that scares me affect me, I’ll become paralyzed. If I let myself be consumed by my feelings for this woman who has shared secrets with my husband, I won’t be able to function. I can’t let that happen.

I need to learn what she knows. And, more important, what she doesn’t know.

“When did it end?” I ask. “Your and David’s … ‘relationship,’ should I call it?”

“About … three years ago. He sent me packing.”

“Why?” I ask. “Why’d he do that?”

She shrugs. “He said he just wanted to be alone with his family.”

I think back. Three years ago. Yes, that makes sense.

Three years ago was when we decided to build the new house, when I pointed at the FOR SALE sign on the vacant lot at 343 Cedar Lane and said,Here. This is where we should build it.

“And yet you’re back,” I note.

“We … kept in touch over the years. I guess it’s hard to let go completely.”

A light rain falls, pitter-patter, pitter-patter on the windshield. I look out the window and see that Camille is driving in the direction of my house. This time of night, with no traffic, I’ll be home in less than ten minutes.

“The police think David is Silas Renfrow, that you’re his girlfriend, and that you helped break David out of that detention facility in Rockford,” I say.

“I know. I already had a nice visit from that ex-boyfriend of yours, the sergeant.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing,” she says.

“What are you going to tell him now?”

A smile briefly plays on her lips. “Nothing. I made a vow, and I’m going to keep it. Why? What doyouthink I should tell him?”

“Nothing.”

She pulls the car over to the curb, puts it in Park, and turns to me. “Did they get a video of the shooting?”

I nod. “I saw it.”

“Do they know who shot him?”

I shake my head. “He wore a ski mask. A bala-something, they called it.”

“A balaclava? Right. But … how’d it go down? Was it a hit? What I mean —”

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