Page 107 of The Five Year Lie

He heads for the elevator, his mind spinning.

Ray is more dangerous than Edward. He’s smarter.

This is bad.

As the elevator doors part in the lobby, he slips his hand into his pocket. There are two IDs in there now. His—because he lied about leaving it in his desk. And Ray’s—because he unclipped it from the man’s belt loop when he frisked him.

He has an hour, maybe two, before Ray realizes it’s gone.

He’d better make the most of it.

36

ARIEL

I love my friends, but I’m not in the mood to hang out with Larri, Tara and Zain tonight.

On the other hand, I’m not in the mood to cook dinner. So I’m still weighing my options when I pick up Buzz from a playdate in our neighborhood.

His friend’s mom greets me with a precise retelling of everything the kids did and ate since she picked them up from preschool at noon. It’s a struggle to keep my focus on her earnest description of organic cheese and crackers and an art project involving homemade play dough.

“That sounds lovely. Thank you so much for having him,” I say when she’s done.

“He can come back anytime.” She gives me a smile. “He always says thank you and helps clean up. Buzz is a delight.”

“I’m so happy to hear that.” And it’s true. He’s all the best parts of me and none of the ugly ones, and I certainly don’t deserve him.

I would never say that out loud, but I’m privately, guiltily delighted anytime anyone praises my child.

“Tomorrow is the picnic,” Buzz says on our short walk home. “You’re bringing the watermelons, right?”

“Yep. Hang on—did Dicey’s mom ask you to tell me that?”

He looks up. “She said you needed a reminder.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I don’t know if I’m more angry that she recruited my four-year-old or that she’s probably right. “Okay, Buzz. Thank you.” We turn up the driveway. I’m just about to ask him how he feels about tacos at Larri’s when I notice the door to my apartment is ajar.

I stop walking. It’s not my imagination. That door is standing open a few inches. “Mom?” I call.

“Ariel?” Her voice comes from inside her own house, though, not mine.

Taking Buzz’s hand, I open her door and stick my head inside the kitchen. “Hi! I had a question about borrowing the car tomorrow. But can Buzz visit with you a sec? There’s something I need to do.”

My mother steps into view. She’s wearing a red linen dress and carrying her handbag. “I was just headed out to meet Ray for a cocktail and dinner.”

“Just for a minute,” I say firmly, looking her directly in the eye.“Please.”

“Sure, honey.” Her expression is confused, but she goes along with it. She sets her bag on the counter. “Tell me about Dicey’s house, Buzzy. What did you do?”

He starts talking, and I slip outside and head for my door. I give it a nudge with one knuckle. The door swings open, and I take a sharp breath when I see the mess inside.

My eye lands on the tipped-over trash can, and my first thought isRaccoons?That’s who thrashed garbage all around our garage once when I was a kid.

But no. Raccoons don’t open every single kitchen cabinet. And every drawer.

“Hello?” I call, like a fool. But the silence inside my place has the weighty quality of abandonment. And flies have already found the garbage. I think it’s been this way for a while.

I step through to our little living room, which has also been tossed. The sofa cushions are helter-skelter, as if someone wanted to be sure there was nothing concealed beneath them. The books are toppled on the shelves, with some on the floor.