Page 53 of The Five Year Lie

Larri slows way down as we approach Lowden, where antiquated redbrick buildings line the banks of the Androscoggin River. It’s the kind of old mill town that fell into a slump after the textile factories died off a century ago.

We pass two halal butchers and the Mogadishu Variety Store. A pair of Black women in African dress and colorful headscarves push strollers down the street. A white man on a bicycle rides past us, a live chicken in the bike basket in front of him.

“Huh,” Larri says, glancing at her GPS. “This town is interesting.But the farther we go, the seedier it gets. It looks like the street where I grew up in Mass—all these triple-deckers.”

She’s right—the apartment buildings loom close to the sidewalk. There’s barely a six-foot strip of lawn in front of each one. None of them has a garage at the side; they’re too crowded together. And each one has a panel of doorbells, indicating a multitude of small apartments above.

Larri makes the last turn onto Shawmut Street.

This is it. “Go slow, okay?”

“Of course.”

But as we creep down two blocks in a row, my heart sinks. We’re almost to the end of the street, and none of these buildings is dark red, like the house in Drew’s photo. And the roof shapes are all wrong. Unless... “Stop,” I say suddenly.

Larri stomps on the brake.

And there it is—the only house on Shawmut Street with a peaked roofline against the sky. It’s painted slate blue now, but there’s a round plaque on the triangular peak, depicting a circular arc of clasped hands.

“Is that the place?” Larri whispers.

“Yep,” I say with forced nonchalance, even as my skin tingles.

Drew lived here.After all the lies he told, I don’t know why I feel so certain. But I do.

“Am I coming with you?” Larri asks as she parks at the curb.

“Sure.” I’m already climbing out of the car, taking in the house. There’s a porch, with kids’ toys spread out on it. There’s no car in the driveway, but some of the upstairs windows are open.

Maybe one of those was Drew’s bedroom. Did he sit up there dreaming of the future?

I have chills as I cross the street and climb the porch. There’s adoorbell camera, because they’re everywhere. I press the little button and wait.Whoever you are, please come out and talk to me. I need answers.

I’m standing maybe fifteen feet below that plaque from Drew’s photo, in front of Drew’s front door. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.

Footsteps echo inside, and then the front door swings open to reveal a young woman. She’s in her late twenties, I think. White, a baby on her hip. Her T-shirt readsLOWDENCOOPERATIVE PRESCHOOL. “Hi?” she says, looking mildly confused.

“Hi, I’m Ariel. I think my old friend Ernie Miller used to live here...”

“Oh.” Her face falls. “Yes, I think you’re right, except...” She hesitates.

“He died. I know that, but I wanted to pay my respects.” And now I realize I should have brought some flowers as a prop. “Except I don’t know where he’s buried. Did you know Ernie?”

She looks relieved. “I’m sorry for your loss, but I didn’t know him. We bought this house from his estate. He was well loved on this block. I don’t know where he’s buried, though.”

“Do you know who else we should ask?” Larri presses.

The woman’s gaze moves past us and lands on a three-decker across the street. “Knock on Mr. Ossman’s door? The bottom floor right there—” She points. “I’m sure he and Ernie were close. They were both active at the community center.”

“Thank you for your help,” I say quickly. “We won’t keep you any longer.”

Larri and I say goodbye and then hurry off the porch to cross the street.

“This just might work,” Larri says under her breath as we walkaway. “And you’re good at this. You’ve got that whole rich-girl, nonthreatening vibe.”

“I’m very threatening,” I tease, but my heart is galloping. I feel close to Drew, which makes no sense. But he was here. He probably crossed this same street dozens of times to approach this same neighbor’s door.

I don’t know why I feel so certain. But I do.