Page 83 of Lies He Told Me

I put that document to the side. That leaves a third document — like the first one, just a single page. Only six words.

I read it and reread it. Six words.

Six words that change everything.

The note drops from my hand, leaving me frozen for a moment, silent.

I look around the room, as if there’s anything to see, any clue to what I’m supposed to do next.

I pick up the note from David. It’s ten pages in length. His life story, looks like. I want to read it in full, digest every word, but I have little time, so I flip and scan, flip and scan for the stuff I need to know right now.

… an only child, born in a town near Lake Minnetonka, in Minnesota …

… moved to Naperville, outside of Chicago …

… accounting degree from U of I in Champaign …

… alcoholic, dead-end job …

… suspicious bookkeeping, should have recognized sooner …

…I didn’t know my client was a front for a mobster …

…I had to know, I had to be sure …

…I followed him to the warehouse …

…I didn’t know what else to do, whom to trust …

I slow down for the key parts at the end — what David did once he discovered that his client, an industrial warehousing company, was really a front for the mob. Then I reread those parts, just to make sure, realizing that I’m on a short clock.

And then I make a decision.

I’m going to believe you, David. I’m going to trust you.

I pick up the cell phone, some fancy-looking one, probably a high-end burner phone, and power it on. I get a small signal. I’m in an underground vault. The fact that I can get any signal at all tells me that this is a very sophisticated phone.

Well, here goes. If I do this, there’s no turning back.

I gather up my things. The empty duffel bags stacked flat on the luggage carriers. The new phone, the small handheld remote — remote for what? — and the thumb drive go inside my purse, along with David’s thick ten-page note to me.

I walk carefully back up the stairs, stepping gingerly on my tiptoes. When I reach the top of the stairs, the hallway is empty. I look to my left. The emergency exit. But no. If Ipush through that door, it will scream out an alarm. I won’t get twenty yards.

Maybe a fire alarm. But I don’t see any in this hallway.

The bathroom. I walk down the hallway into the women’s bathroom. It’s empty. I go inside one of the stalls and leave the door to the stall slightly ajar. I put down the toilet seat and sit on it.

And I pull out the phone David gave me. I don’t have a directory of numbers, but I don’t need a directory for this number. I punch the three digits and wait.

“911,”the operator answers.“What is your emergency?”

No more dancing puppet. It’s time for an audible.

EIGHTY-EIGHT

IT’S NOW 10:31 A.M. Blair, standing in the shadows of the gas station across the street from the bank, blows into his hands. Gloves would have been smart.

But it shouldn’t be long now. Marcie’s been inside a half hour.

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