Page 114 of The Five Year Lie

And I’m too afraid of them to tell this one the truth.

39

FIVE YEARS AGO, AUGUST

The walk home from the bus stop to his apartment takes longer than he expects. His leg is throbbing.

The place is quiet when he unlocks the door for the last time. Ariel is long gone. He left her asleep in the bed this morning when he headed for the gym.

Now he wished he’d skipped the workout to wake up with her one last time.

He pushes that thought away and looks around at his meager belongings. This part of his mission will be depressingly quick.

From the tiny coat closet he extracts his go bag. It’s an ordinary-looking backpack, secured by a crappy little luggage lock. It wouldn’t hold off a pro, but it means that if anyone—namely Ariel—ever stumbled on this bag, she couldn’t easily open it to look inside.

The pack contains two thousand dollars in cash, a prepaid debit card for another two thousand, a change of clothes. His real IDs. His gun and some ammo. Plus a bus schedule—every route to Fayetteville, North Carolina.

He adds his computer, and then a prepaid mailer addressed to a friend from the army—with his notebook inside it.

He grabs his toothbrush from the bathroom. Then he limps to the doorway of the bedroom and stops at the threshold. It’s probably better if he doesn’t even step inside. He can’t take anything ofAriel’s with him. If Edward double-crosses him and has him arrested, he’ll be asked to explain why he has that blob of glass he blew that night they first made love.

The sheets on the bed are still rumpled. If he crossed the room to lift her pillow, it would still smell like her.

He doesn’t, because that will just make it worse. He turns his back on the bedroom, and every one of those memories. For now, anyway.

Sitting down on the futon couch for the last time, he unlocks his phone. He sends a text to the landlord.

Drew: A buddy needs my help. I have to leave Portland in a hurry and I won’t be back. The key is on the coffee table. Apologies for the things I left behind. So sorry for the inconvenience.

He takes the key off the key ring and places it exactly where he said he would.

Then he writes one last text. To Ariel.

Drew: There’s trouble. I need to see you. Meet me in one hour under the candelabra tree. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.

He hitssend.

With his go bag over one shoulder, he leaves it all behind. The key, his clothes, his life.

The door locks behind him as he goes.

40

ARIEL

I wake up in the guest bed with Buzz’s heels pressed firmly into my kidneys. He’s what you’d politely call an “active sleeper.” He nailed me in the head with his elbow at one point in the night, too.

But as I roll over and look at him, I don’t really mind. His dark lashes lie neatly against his baby-smooth skin. He won’t be four forever. All the cuddles I am freely given will dry up like raisins when he hits puberty.

That’s what the parenting books tell me, anyway. Which is why I rarely bother to read them.

He opens his eyes and blinks at me.

“It’s seven thirty already,” I whisper. “I’m taking a shower.”

“Okay,” he says sleepily.

When I return, Buzz has dressed himself in yesterday’s clothes, not the clean ones I brought for him. “Good work,” I say, unwilling to burst his bubble. “You’re ready.”