Page 111 of The Lie Maker

Somehow, he managed to get to the hotel without having a head-on collision. He left the car sitting out front of the hotel, the engine coughing and sputtering even after he’d turned off the ignition and removed the key. A bellman raised his hand, ready to offer assistance, but Earl ran past him into the lobby. He stood in the center of it and did a slow turn, checking out everyone who was there.

None of them looked like Lana. Then again, what did she look like? Christ, how was he supposed to find someone he’d never met before?

He decided to head for the bar. That seemed the most likely place where she might meet someone. But as he was heading that way, he caught sight, in his peripheral vision, of someone leaving the hotel that he thought he recognized.

Not Lana.

Cayden.

From the back, it could be him. Tall, broad shouldered. And he was walking with a woman, chatting with her as they exited the building.

He started to run. His knees, which he’d somehow fucked up running down his apartment stairwell so quickly, were screaming in pain, like someone had run a sword through each one of them. No matter.

Once outside, he looked to the right, back toward downtown, then the left, toward the water. Where the hell had they gone so quickly? Where could they have—

Hang on.

A black van was idling about sixty feet away, the driver’s side facing him. He thought he’d caught a glimpse of Cayden and the woman walking around it.

Limping speedily, he went for the van. When he came around the back of it, he saw Cayden supporting the woman, as though she were on the verge of passing out, as he helped her into the van through the side door.

“Lana?” Earl shouted. “What are you doing with her?”

Cayden got her into the van, stepped back, and turned to see Earl standing there.

“What’s going on?” Earl demanded. “Where are you taking her?”

By way of an answer, Cayden reached into his jacket, brought out something dark and shiny, pointed it at Earl, and shot him straight through the forehead.

Sixty

Jack

“I’m trying to tell you,” I said. “Gwen works for the program. You wouldn’t know her because she never handled your case, but it has to be a big department. Just because you don’t know her doesn’t mean anything.”

Dad looked at his phone, picked it up, looked at it, put it back down again.

“What?” I asked.

“I’m thinking,” he said. Again, he picked up the phone and put it down. “Fuck it.” He picked it up, entered a number, then put the phone to his ear and waited. After about twenty seconds, he said, “It’s Cliff. I need to talk to Stan.”

He ended the call and put the phone back onto the table.

“Your guy,” I said.

Dad nodded. “Maybe he can clear this up.”

“What are you thinking?” I asked him.

He drew imaginary little circles on the table with his index finger. He watched his finger go round and round, then expanded the pattern into a figure eight.

“I don’t know.”

“You look worried.”

“I’m trying to figure it out.”

“I’d call Gwen if I could. But I forgot and left the phone in my apartment.”