Page 56 of The Five Year Lie

Ossman shakes his head. “Without Amina, and then without Ernie, the story just died. He never got justice for that girl. That cop retired with full benefits the next year.”

“Jesus Christ,” Larri barks. “Why am I not surprised? The old white man gets away with it.”

Ossman makes a noise that’s half-laugh, half-mournful. “If you believe in karma, you should know that Ward died in a boating accident. It only took him a year after his retirement.”

Larri is still not satisfied. “But what happened to the other foster kid—Omar?”

I’m glad she’s still asking questions, because I can’t speak at all.

“He was already eighteen, so he had aged out of the system. He stayed in that house a couple more months until Jay Marker got discharged from the army. Poor kid got hurt over there right after Ernie died. Lost a foot.”

I gasp, and Larri gives me a sideways glance and puts her hand on my knee under the table. And I have to clasp my hands together, because they’re shaking.

“Jay Marker,” Larri repeats. “Sounds like a great guy.”

And now I have a last name.

“He handled Ernie’s will, and selling the house. He helped Omar get a job at the community center.” Ossman makes a gesture toward the center of town. “I see him from time to time playing hoops with the younger boys. I pray for Omar.”

“And Jay?” I croak, trying to keep it together. “Maybe he knows where Ernie is buried?”

“Ah, I haven’t seen Jay in a few years. Not since he sold the house. But I know where you will find Ernie’s grave. I have been there myself many times. Do you have a pen? I will draw you a map.”

Larri fumbles into her own handbag and pulls out her sketchbook and a pen. She and Ossman talk quietly for a few moments as Ossman explains where to go. “You’ve been so helpful,” Larri says. “We appreciate it. And thank you for the tea.”

I make some noises of agreement and rise to leave.

“It is a sad story,” Ossman says, pressing my hand between his. “Ernie had a big heart. And then it plain broke.”

“Yes, I’m so sorry,” I mutter. “Thank you.”

I am a robot as we walk to Larri’s car. I climb in and fasten my seat belt, just like always.

But my heart is slamming against my rib cage, beating with a strange new tune.Jay Marker. Jay Marker. Who are you?

19

FIVE YEARS AGO, JUNE

Drew holds Ariel in bed while both of their heart rates descend back into the normal range. The window is open to the cool Maine breeze. It’s perfect.

For now, he reminds himself. Because he’ll be gone before the leaves turn color.

He shoves that thought out of his head as her fingers stroke his chest. Somehow they’ve already become one of those couples who are always touching each other. He loves the taste of her skin, and the brush of her hair against his face. Half the time they’re alone, he’s pressing his nose into the nape of her neck and inhaling her lemon scent.

It’s easier to be honest in silence. His hands sayI need you, even if he won’t let his mouth.

Ariel is the same, though. She pretends to be someone who doesn’t care that much about anything other than her art—except when she’s in his arms.

They are frighteningly similar to each other—two souls quietly wading through circumstances beyond their control. Both wary of most everyone else.

She trusts him, but only up to a point. She doesn’t always speak her mind, even when he wishes she would. He wants to know what she’s thinking right this minute, as her hands grow still, and herbreathing slows. He wants to know what images sail past her eyes when her thoughts begin to drift.

Loving her hurts. It’s like phantom limb pain—inexplicable but real nonetheless.

Ariel’s breath evens out into sleep. But he lies awake. Again. Staring at the ceiling. Leg aching. Heart aching even worse. He’s the loneliest at moments like this—when Ariel is asleep at his side.

She rolls onto her stomach and sighs, face in the pillow, sleeping with the same dedication she brings to all the other things she loves—glassmaking and heated discussions. Drinking. Sex.