Page 97 of The Lies We Tell
The following morning, after an exhausting afternoon giving statements and speaking to detectives, I convince Saint that he should absolutely take Rae grocery shopping. I’m fine here.
In fact, I feel liberated by sharing what happened.
I didn’t think I’d feel that way.
But now I have a plan of my own.
I checked Saint’s phone while he was in the shower and grabbed Iris’s number.
They left half an hour ago, and I’m stalling. I take a deep breath and video dial.
A man with long wild hair answers, shirt off. He looks at me like he can’t place me, but I remember him. He’s the man who saved my life. “Fuck me,” he says.
“Hey, Spark.” Unexpected emotion catches in my throat. I don’t know why. I was feeling invincible only moments ago. “Thank you. For saving my life.”
There’s a long pause. So long, I wonder if it’s deliberate, to get me to hang up. “If I’d known where it would lead, I might have thought twice.”
Relief floods me when he speaks. “From what Saint has told me about you, I doubt that’s true.”
He raises an eyebrow. “He shouldn’t still be using that name.”
Like a rock in the river, Spark is solid. Steadfast. But I hope one day I can wear him down enough to accept my thanks. “And you don’t need to know his real one. I need to talk to Iris.”
“You two need to stop calling me.”
I shrug. “Technically, I called Iris. Is she there? I thought I could ... help.”
Spark tugs his hand through his hair, pulling hard. “One second. But make her cry, and I’ll hang up on you.”
“What I want to talk to her about are things I couldn’t speak to Saint about for weeks. Let me help her. If I can.”
The frown on his face turns to sadness. And I swear to God that if I didn’t know better, I’d say the threat of tears hangs in his eyes. “Feisty little chicks,” he mutters. “Be the goddamn death of me. Give me a minute.”
The camera points up at the ceiling as he walks to another part of the house he’s in. Upstairs. I hear soft words of comfort, asking if she needs more pillows, asking if she’s in pain, asking a million questions before he asks if she wants to speak to me.
She must have agreed, because I see her face appear on screen. I bite down the gasp. Her face is a mess of scratches and bruises.
I put my hand to my own cheek. “It took a couple of weeks for mine to get back to normal,” I say before I even introduce myself.
Her eyes fill with tears, but she puts her hand out to someone off screen. I assume it’s Spark. “I’m okay.” Her voice is hoarse and raspy. Mine was too after all the screaming. “I need some privacy.”
He obviously tries to refuse.
“I know. I love you too. But, please ...”
Her eyes track him off screen, and I hear a door close.
“Hey,” she says. “I’m Iris.”
“I just realized. We’re both flowers. I’m Rose. How are you feeling?” Saint would probably be mad I trusted her with the truth of my name. But the woman has dealt with enough without deceit from me.
Iris shifts herself up in the bed. “Numb.”
Cold creeps down my spine. “I remember that feeling. Then it would try to process in my dreams. One night, I was having a nightmare, and I screamed so bad, Saint had to come and wake me. I scared him as much as I scared myself.”
“I keep seeing his face in the moment before he slapped me.”
“The one with the slicked-back hair? Joseph Hosea?”
