Page 62 of Lies He Told Me
My hands remain over my face, elbows on my knees, as I take all that in. That was his final punch. He wants me to break. Whatever it is I know, whatever it is I suspect — he wants me to spill it. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I’m ready.
“Am I a suspect?” I ask for the second time, this time through my fingers.
“I already told you. I’m still trying to figure that out.”
I draw a deep breath, sit up straight, and pat my knees. “I’m not answering any more questions.” I get to my feet and head for the door.
He steps to the side to block me. “Marcie, no. Don’t be like that.”
“‘Don’t be like that?’ This isn’t high school, Kyle. This isn’t a spat. You’re a cop, and apparently I’m a suspect. I have rights.”
“What …” He cocks his head, looking at me with acombination of frustration and abject disappointment. “What happened to you, Marce?”
What happened to me? What happened is that my husband is hanging on to his life right now, and I’ve just come to learn that he’s not the man he’s always claimed to be. And my entire family is in danger. That’s what happened to me.
“I’m going home,” I say. “When my kids wake up, I need to be there.”
I walk through the emergency department and let them know I’m going home, making sure they have my cell phone for any updates on David. Then I head through the sliding doors into the open air, far chillier than I remember. I don’t have a ride. It would take forever to get a cab or an Uber this time of night. But I don’t want to be around the police anymore. I’ll walk home if I have to.
I’m two blocks away from the hospital, rubbing my arms for warmth at half past two in the morning, seeing my breath hanging in the air, when a car pulls up alongside me. A Jeep whose shape resembles that of the car that was sitting outside my house the other night.
The window buzzes down. I walk over, but not too close, leaning down to see into the car. A woman, about my age, pretty. Long, kinky hair.
“Marcie,” she says. “I’m Camille. Do you know who I am?”
I nod. “I have a feeling I do,” I say.
SIXTY-THREE
KYLE HOLDS THE PHONE against his ear and replays the audio from the 911 call made earlier tonight. A woman’s voice, urgent but calm, businesslike.
“A man’s been shot. He’s lying in the back of Hemingway’s Pub by the interstate. I don’t know the address, but he’s bleeding out. Send an ambulance.”
The call cuts off immediately afterward. The caller doesn’t give her name. No way to be certain, but that voice sure sounds a lot like Camille Striker’s. That would make the most sense; David called her and told her what happened, and she called 911 for him. But he could have called 911 himself. Why call Camille first? A tearful goodbye? Was Camille his true love and Marcie just his cover story?
Did Marcieknowshe was a cover story? No. Couldn’t be. Marcie wouldn’t have lived a lie like that. Not Marcie.
He dials Officer Risely, staying at Marcie’s house for now, watching her children overnight.
“Hey, Sarge.”
“Hey, Ginny. Is Marcie Bowers home yet?”
“Nope. She’s not with you?”
“She left a little while ago. Didn’t want to answer any more questions. Not sure … not sure what to make of that.”
“Want me to take a run at her when she gets home?”
It occurs to Kyle — he drove Marcie here. She didn’t have a ride home. She stormed out so quickly that he didn’t think to ask if she needed a ride.
“That’s okay,” he says. “But do me a favor — keep a squad car outside her house tonight.”
He punches out the phone.
“Sergeant Janowski?”
Kyle turns at the sound of his name.