Page 92 of 56 Days
And then there was the woman from the Westbury, the one who’d given him a cigarette, who it turned out was not only living here buttalking to Ciaratoo, and since Sunday night he could add the envelope situation to the list.
It was all getting too much. He was maxed out on lies.
And he absolutelyhatedtelling them to Ciara.
So he’s going to stop now.
When he hears her keys clink out in the hallway, Oliver stops pacing and turns to face the doorway, ready to faceher.
He rubs his clammy palms on his thighs, takes a deep breath. His right leg refuses to stop shaking.
He will kiss her, he thinks. And hold her. Just for one minute more.
And then he’ll tell her everything.
Almosteverything. The broad strokes. If he can manage to get any words out from behind the lump in his throat.
There’s something I really need to tellyou.
He’ll start there, he thinks.
But when she walks into the living room, it’sherwho says those words tohim.
She made her decision on the walk home: she has to tell Oliver about Laura.
She got away without telling him what Laura said the night of the fire alarm, but since the bloody woman seems intent on a confrontation, and since she could tell Oliver that she’dalreadyconfronted Ciara...
He’ll know then that Ciara’s been lying to him, and that will be that.
But Ciara needs more time with him as the woman hethinksshe is, so she needs to get in there first.
She lets herself into the apartment, setting her keys down on the hall table as the door swings shut behind her.
The place is quiet and the door to the second bedroom is closed; she assumes Oliver is in there, still working.
The safest option, she thinks, is to play dumb. Tell him what Laura just told her. Ask him what the hell it means.
And tell him whatshejust toldLaura, making like her first instinct was to protect him, to lie for him even, and therefore—hopefully—reaffirm her trustworthiness.
The problem is that she has absolutely no idea how he’ll react.
Her eyes flick to the keys. Thefront-doorkey could scratch someone, maybe, but—
What is she doing?
This isOliver, for God’s sake. He’s not going to hurt her.
But then again, thisisOliver.
Ciara shuffles out of her jacket and hangs it from one of the hooks in the hall. She pauses for a moment to lean forward and rest her head against the soft, familiar material of the sleeve, closing her eyes and steeling herself for what she’s about to do, for saying the things she knows she has to say to him.
It’s only the truth. Considering how well she’s been doing telling him lies, this should be easy.
Ciara goes to theliving-roomdoor—
Her breath catches in her throat.
Oliver isright there, standing in the middle of the room, apparently waiting for her, looking tense and ill at ease.
