The Liar

“It was Callie’s first Easter, and the first professional photographs. I’d wanted a family photo done, after she was born, but Richard never had time. So this was special. She—Tate—she took one of the two of us, and I sent it to my parents, special. She’d taken her bonnet off—Callie—and her hair’d gone everywhere, like mine would. I hadn’t gotten to the salon to have mine straightened the way Richard liked it. It’s a favorite photograph of mine.”

She rose, took it from the mantel. “This is the one we had taken that Friday before Easter.”

“She sure looks like her mama,” Landry commented.

“When it comes to Callie,” Forrest put in, “Shelby remembers.”

“I guess that’s true. Especially the firsts.” She set the photo on the mantel again, sat back beside Forrest.

“Oh!” Struck, she came half off the sofa before Forrest nudged her back again. “I wrote it in her baby book. I wrote about the photographs, and put one of them in there. I can get it.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary, for now, Ms. Pomeroy.”

“It’s not easy to admit you were stupid,” she said carefully, “that you were duped. I never knew he was stealing, he was cheating people, and I was living in that fancy condo, I had all those clothes, and someone to help with the work because he stole and he cheated. I can’t go back and change it. Should I get the hair clip? I know just where it is. You could give it back to whoever he stole it from.”

“We believe he stole the hair clip, one of the watches you sold, and other items valued at approximately sixty-five thousand dollars from Amanda Lucern Bryce, of Buckhead. Her daughter found her on Saturday afternoon, April 14, 2012.”

“Found her?”

“She’d fallen—or been pushed—down the stairs of her home. Her neck was broken in the fall.”

The blood drained out of Shelby’s face as she stared at Boxwood. “She’s dead? She was killed? Richard . . . He was in such a good mood. He made Callie laugh. I’m sorry, I need a minute.” She rose abruptly on legs that shook. “Excuse me.”

She rushed to the powder room, just leaned over the sink. Her stomach pitched and roiled, but she wouldn’t be sick. She would not be sick.

She would fight that off. She only had to breathe. Only had to take a few minutes and breathe, then she could deal with what came next.

“Shelby.” Forrest rapped on the door.

“I just need a minute.”

“I’m coming in.”

“I need a damn minute,” she snapped when he opened the door, then she just walked into his arms. “Oh God, oh God, Forrest. He took us out to lunch. He left that woman lying there, the one he stole from, and he came home and went to bed. Then he took us out to lunch. He ordered champagne. He was celebrating. He was celebrating, and he’d left that woman lying there for her daughter to find.”

“I know it. I know it, Shelby.” He stroked her hair, swayed with her a little. “One day it would’ve been you. I know that, too.”

“How could I have not seen what he was?”

“You didn’t. And you’re not the only one who didn’t. Nobody thinks you were part of this.”

“You’re my brother, of course you don’t think so.”

“Nobody,” he repeated, and drew her back to look in her eyes. “They have to do what they do. You’re going to look at pictures of stolen articles, of people he stole from. You’ll tell them whatever you know. That’s all you can do so that’s what you’ll do.”

“I want to help. The clothes on my back, Forrest, the clothes I put on my baby. It makes me sick knowing where they came from.”

“Tell me where the hair clip is. I’ll get it.”

“The top right drawer of the vanity in the bathroom I share with Callie. I have a box in there. All my hair clips are in it. It’s mother-of-pearl with little blue and white stones. I thought it was fake, Forrest. I never thought—it’s a hair clip, so I never gave it a thought.”

“Don’t worry about it. If you don’t want to talk to them anymore now, I’ll tell them you’re done.”

“No, I want to tell them whatever I know. Whatever I know I didn’t know. I’ll go back in now.”

“When you’ve had enough, you just say.”

“I want it over.”

She went back, and once again Landry stood.

“I’m sorry,” she began.

“Don’t apologize. We appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Pomeroy.”

She sat, picked up the tea. Too much of the ice had melted, but it was cool enough, and wet enough. “Did he kill other people? Do you know?”

“It’s possible.”

“He was never violent with me or Callie. If he had been . . . that would have been different. He didn’t pay much mind to her at all, and less and less to me. He’d say things, cruel things sometimes, to me, but he was never violent.”

Carefully, she set the glass down again. “I never saw what he was. If I had I would never have let him near my baby. I hope you can believe that. Callie’s going to be home in about an hour. If we’re not done, I need us to go somewhere else, or wait until tomorrow. I don’t want her to hear any of this. She just turned four.”

“That’s not a problem.”