Page 72 of The Five Year Lie

He was the first person to arrive at the scene when my panicked mother found my father slumped over his desk five years ago. He stayed with her after the paramedics took him away. Then he became her liaison to the police during the brief investigation of his death.

“Todd Barski,” he says, rising to shake my hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Ariel.” He’s a white guy, probably a few years older than I am. Sandy hair, square jaw. Probably gets a lot of female attention.

Not from me, though. I mumble a half-polite reply, but I’m trying to figure out why he’s here. “Is there a problem?”

They exchange a glance that makes the whole moment even more awkward. “I asked him to stop by,” my mother says eventually. “I had a question about the day your father died. Remember that story Ray told us the other night? About the five-year-old texts?”

Gosh, Mom, you have no idea. “Sure.”

“Well, I got one of those, too,” she says quietly. “It was a doorbell notification with a man on it that I didn’t recognize.”

“Really? You didn’t say anything.” And I’m still not sure where this is going. “You get those all the time, though. Delivery person, maybe?”

“Maybe. But he wasn’t in uniform.” She picks at her manicure. “I just wanted Officer Barski to see it, in case it was meaningful.”

“In what way?” I ask.

“Your father’s death was investigated,” the cop says gently. “And ruled to be an accidental overdose. But the dose he took was pretty large, and we did wonder where he got it.”

“Oh.”I’m trying to read between the lines here, and it isn’t easy. “So the photo might be hisdealer?”

When I say that word, my mother recoils. Officer Barski doesn’t flinch at all, though. “The man in the photo is not familiar to me,” he says carefully. “It’s not a great photo.”

Interesting.And yet he’s still sitting here.

Although my family has a long history with Portland law enforcement. My grandfather was a captain back in the day. These days the Portland PD is a Chime Co. partner force. And my family has donated equipment to the department, and money to their charitable causes.

In other words, if my mother calls the station with a question, Officer Barski is going to drive right over here and kiss the dowager’s ring.

“Let me see this photo,” I demand, because it’s the only way I’m going to figure out what has my mom so spooked.

The policeman reaches for his phone and unlocks it before offering it to me.

I look down, and the floor drops out from under me. It’s not even a good photo—just a dark shot of a man in a baseball cap. Oneof his hands is presumably on the doorknob, while the other shields much of his face from the camera.

But holy shit. It’s enough. And I nearly sway on my feet.

The photo is Drew.

“I was at the butcher’s when I got this,” my mother says. “He looks somenacing, and I panicked, thinking this man was letting himself into my house. But then I noticed the flowers. I haven’t put mums on the porch in years.”

“Mums,” I repeat stupidly. Sure enough, there are flowerpots visible in the frame.

“So I knew the photo was a glitch. But then when we learned the date... from the radio.” She shakes her head. “This man was in our home on the morning your father died. And I don’t know who he is.”

I fight to keep my expression neutral, and then I make myself hand the phone back to the cop, as if I haven’t just seen a ghost.

Even though his eyes were hidden by the baseball cap, I’d know that rugged chin anywhere. And the set of his shoulders. That’sDrew. Or Jay Marker. Take your pick. And he washereon the day my father died?

Holy. Shit.

“Do you recognize him?” the officer asks.

“Nope.” I look him square in the eyes, hoping I don’t look as rattled as I feel. “Sorry. I didn’t live on the property back then, though. So I’m probably not the right person to ask. And I have to get back—my son is asleep upstairs.”

“Did he have fun at the fair?” my mother asks.

“Absolutely,” I say, setting the keys down on the table. “Thanks for letting me take the car. Good night.”