Page 17 of The Lies I Told
“It was good to see everyone,” Marisa said. “Why’d you invite that group?”
“I thought it would be fun to go down memory lane.”
“You hate memory lane.” She dusted the everything seeds from her bagel onto her napkin.
“It wasn’t my birthday. It was yours.”
“Right. Well, thank you for the effort. It was nice.”
I picked up my purse and walked to the framed black-and-white pictures. Each time I’d come into the apartment while Marisa was in the hospital, I’d stopped and stared at them. Moody and distant, like Marisa. And they whispered a message that always taunted me. “You should have another show.” I turned, found Marisa cupping her mug in both hands, staring at the images. “Not still stressing about the missed ten days, are you?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Why?”
“They hold secrets. And you know how I hate secrets.” Marisa’s light tone barely skim coated over the frustration fracturing the words.
“There are no secrets. There was your art show. You had three prewedding planning appointments the week leading up. And then a wedding the Saturday right after. The accident was the following Friday evening. There was nothing to miss but work.”
“I sold one of my prints that week. To whom, I don’t know.”
“There was no entry in your Venmo account.”
“It was a cash deal.”
I walked to the door, opened it. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
“Dinner with David and me soon?”
“Of course.”
I stepped into the hallway, and as Marisa closed the door, I said, “See the doctor. Take more pictures. Lock the door.”
The door closed, followed by a click, the twist of a dead bolt, and the scrape of a chain. “Satisfied?” Marisa said.
“Yes.”
But I wasn’t. Not even close.
7
MARISA
Saturday, March 12, 2022
10:00 a.m.
Today’s wedding was going to be relatively simple. It was a courthouse elopement. Neither wanted any pregame photos, just the two of them rushing down the courthouse steps and then driving off in his vintage red Corvette.
I swallowed the last of my coffee and hurried to the shower. Out barely a minute later, I towel dried my hair. As much as I missed my long locks, I didn’t miss the drying time. And shorter hair made me look different enough that I wasn’t always seeing Clare staring back in the mirror. Maybe I wouldn’t be in such a rush to grow it back out.
I dressed in my “uniform”: black slacks, a turtleneck, and boots. I checked my cameras, which I’d charged yesterday before the party, and double-checked my bags for extra battery packs, tripods, and all the bells and whistles.
Grabbing my purse and keys, I stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut. As I turned to go down the stairs, I spotted the growing pile of empty boxes gathered by the other apartment door. For severalmonths, I’d had this floor all to myself, and I liked climbing the stairs knowing it was all mine.
As if my thoughts had set off an alarm bell, the door opened, and a tall man backed out of the apartment, dragging a big box filled with trash. When he turned, I stopped short, recognizing the outdoorsman / office-work guy from J.J.’s Pub last night. Alan.
