Page 1 of The Lie Maker

One

“He could have someone out there,” the man said, pulling back the front window curtains a tentative inch. “Watching the house right now.”

He was careful not to step directly in front of the glass as he peeked outside. It was raining. Streetlights reflected in the puddles. He ran his fingers nervously through his thick, dark hair. His handsome features were undercut by the fear in his eyes.

He wasn’t used to being afraid. He was unaccustomed to the role of prey.

“He’ll have found someone else to do his dirty work,” he said. “Jesus, when are they going to get here?” He looked at his watch. “They’re ten minutes late. What the hell’s keeping them?”

He’d been directing his comments to his wife, a reedy, auburn-haired twig of a woman who looked ready to break into several pieces. She’d made several trips back and forth to the kitchen, trying to keep busy.

“Do you think they’ll want coffee?” she asked.

“They’re not going to want any goddamn coffee,” he snapped.

She took a seat on the flowered couch, crossed her right leg over her left, then her left over her right. Some movement on the stairs caught her eye, and she spotted the nine-year-old boy sitting on one of the upper steps, watching from between the railings. A tear running down his cheek.

“Go upstairs,” she told the boy.

“I want to say good—”

“Go to your room and close the door,” she said, flinging her arm, pointing up. As she brought her arm back, she wiped a tear from her cheek.

The boy sniffed and retreated from view, waited until his mother was no longer looking his way, then resumed his position. From where he sat, he could see the front door, the three suitcases sitting there, his father still watching the street. His mother was up again, walking around the couch, going into the kitchen. He could hear the rattling of cups, silverware.

When she reappeared, her husband was still standing near the window.

“Get away from there,” she said.

He let the curtain fall and stepped away.

“It’s not too late, Rose,” he said. “The two of you can still come. They’ve prepared the documents, in case you change your mind.”

She stood behind the couch, her hands resting atop the cushions, as though using it as a barrier. Her jaw hardened and her eyes moistened.

“If you’re desperate for company, why don’t you take your father?” she said. “Maybe he’d like to start all over again with you. He’s all alone.”

“I can live without ever seeing him again. It’s been years. But the three of us, we belong together. Once I walk out that door, once they put me in the car, that’s it. It’s not safe, staying behind. If he can’t get to me, he’ll come after you.”

“And what would be the point of that?” she asked. “To get back at you? You’ve already washed your hands of us. And we certainly won’t be able to tell him anything. You could be in Timbuktu for all we know. They can pull out all my toenails if they want, but I won’t be able to tell them a thing. We’ll take our chances. Your new friends, they’ll keep an eye on us.”

He took a step toward her, his face pleading. “I know I fucked up, that it’s my fault, but we could start over. You, me, our son.”

“He has his friends.”

“He’ll make new friends!” the man said. “They’re not moving me to Mars.”

“No, more likely Butthole, Nebraska, running a bowling alley or picking up trash.”

“It’s better than being dead.”

She bit her lip. “Is it?”

“And I don’t have to take some menial, mindless job. I’ll find something... challenging. Meaningful.”

She rolled her eyes as he took another look at his watch. “Christ, where the hell are they? What if—”

The lights went out.