The Liar

“Don’t say that. I shouldn’t have said that.” She had to brace a hand on the table.

It wasn’t empty. And the first thing that caught her eye was a stack of banded money. Hundred-dollar bills.

“Ten thousand each, and oh God, Callie, there’s so many of them.”

Now her hands weren’t just unsteady, but shook as she counted the stacks. “There’s twenty-five of them. There’s two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, cash money in here.”

Feeling like a thief, she flicked an anxious look at the curtain, then shoved the money into the attaché.

“I have to ask the lawyers what to do.”

About the money, she thought, but what about the rest?

What about the three driver’s licenses with Richard’s photo? And someone else’s name. And the passports.

And the .32 semiautomatic.

She started to reach for the gun, pulled her hand back. She wanted to leave it, couldn’t say why she didn’t want to touch it. But she made herself lift it, remove the magazine.

She’d grown up in the Tennessee mountains, with brothers—one who was now a cop. She knew how to handle a gun. But she wasn’t carrying a loaded gun with Callie around.

She placed it and the two extra mags in the attaché. She took the passports, the licenses. Discovered Social Security cards under the same three names, American Express cards, Visas. All under those names.

Was any of it real?

Had any of it ever been real?

“Mama. Let’s go, let’s go.” Callie tugged on her pants.

“In a second.”

“Now! Mama, now!”

“In a second.” The tone, sharp and firm, might have had Callie’s lip quivering, but sometimes a child had to be reminded that she didn’t run the show.

And a mama had to remember that a three-year-old had a right to get tired of being hauled all over creation and back every damn day.

She bent, kissed the top of Callie’s head. “I’m almost done, I just have to put this back now.”

Callie was real, Shelby thought. That’s what mattered. The rest? She’d figure it out, or she wouldn’t. But Callie was real, and over $200,000 would buy a decent minivan, pay off some of the debt, maybe squeeze out enough for a down payment on a little house once she got steady work.

Maybe Richard hadn’t meant to, and she didn’t know what it all meant, but he’d provided for his daughter’s future after all. And he’d given her room to breathe, so she’d think about the rest later.

She hauled Callie up, shouldered the bag, gripped the attaché as if her life depended on it.

“Okay, baby girl. Let’s go have a tea party.”

3

She opened up all the rooms, turned the heat back up, even switched on the fireplaces—all seven of them.

She bought fresh flowers, baked cookies.

The time spent on her laptop researching the best way to sell a house, and fast, had suggested cookies, flowers. And as the realtor had decreed, depersonalizing.

Keep it all neutral.

As far as she was concerned, the place was as neutral as they came. She didn’t find the big house welcoming, but then she never had. Maybe with softer furnishings, warmer colors—it might have felt like a home.

But that was her sensibility, and hers didn’t matter.

The sooner she unloaded the damn place, the sooner that section of the crushing debt lifted off her shoulders.

The realtor arrived armed with flowers and cookies, so Shelby figured she could have saved her time and money there. She’d brought what she called a staging team with her, and they swarmed around changing the placement of furniture, displaying more flowers, lighting candles. Shelby had picked up a dozen scented candles, but decided she’d keep that to herself, just return them or keep them, depending on what seemed best when this was all said and done.

“The place is immaculate.” The realtor beamed at Shelby, gave her a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. “Your cleaning crew did a terrific job.”

Shelby thought of her midnight scrubbings and polishings, and only smiled. “I want it to show well.”

“Believe me, it does. Short sales can be tricky, and will put some potential buyers off, but I’m confident we’re going to get offers, good ones, and quickly.”

“I hope you’re right. I wanted to say, I’ve got someone coming in Monday morning to see about the furniture, but if anyone who comes in is interested in buying it, any of it, I’m going to price it to sell.”

“That’s excellent! There are so many wonderful pieces. I’ll make sure we let people know.”

She took a last critical look around herself, thought of the gun, the papers, the cash she’d locked in the safe in Richard’s office.

Then she hefted the big bag she habitually carried.

“Callie and I are going to get out of the way. I have errands to run.”

And a minivan to buy.

•   •   •

HER DADDY MIGHT NOT have approved that she didn’t buy American, but the five-year-old Toyota she’d found through CarMax got high ratings on safety and reliability. And the price was right.

The price got better when she made herself haggle—offering cash. Real cash.

Her hands wanted to shake as she counted it out—half now, the rest when she picked the car up the next afternoon—but she bore down hard.