The Liar

“I won’t be long,” Shelby repeated, and got out before her mother suggested she change her clothes.

•   •   •

GRIFF HADN’T SHOWERED off the day, because he’d decided the day wasn’t done. Even after Matt left, he kept at it. He broke briefly—let the dog out, fixed a sandwich, let the dog in, but kept focused on the work.

He’d finished the closet, and thanks to Matt, the interior was drywalled, had its second coat of mud. So he focused on the window seat he’d designed for the double windows looking over the backyard. It’d be a nice place to sit—with convenient storage beneath.

He saw the room, finished, pretty clearly. And even if that image irritated him half the time, he would damn well stick with it.

He made a habit of sticking.

Once he had the closet sanded, the window seat finished, the trim finished, all the room really needed was paint and a good clean. Well, some punch out—outlet covers, light switch covers, and he figured—and had wired for—a ceiling fan with a light kit.

Had to find the right one, one that worked with his image of the room.

Maybe he’d play around online tonight, see what he found.

Then there was the small en suite. That he’d tackle next, and probably within the next evening or two as he had the time.

He had music going, heard nothing else until Snickers began to bark. When the dog scrambled out of the room, raced downstairs, Griff pulled out his earbuds.

He picked up his hammer, tested its weight, and started out with it. He heard the knock then—he really needed to do a doorbell—and though he doubted the laptop invader would bother with a knock, he glanced out the landing window.

And saw Shelby’s van.

Emotions rolled up, conflicting, contrasting. Pleasure—God, he’d missed just looking at her face. Annoyance. Whose fault was it he hadn’t seen her face? Puzzlement, as it wasn’t like her to drop by after nine at night. Relief, tremendous, that she had.

He set the hammer down on the steps, walked the rest of the way down, where the dog barked and wagged at the door.

He opened the door and wondered how he managed to keep his heart from just falling at her feet.

“I hope it’s all right I came by,” she began. “I wanted to talk to you.”

And he wanted to pluck her right off the ground, feel her hang onto him while he kissed them both brainless.

“Sure.”

“Hey, Snickers. There’s a good dog,” she soothed as she bent over to rub him. “Look how he’s grown already. Maybe we could sit outside. It’s such a nice night.”

“We can do that. You want a drink or anything?”

“No, don’t bother. You’re working—you smell like sawdust and sweat, in a good way.”

“Just fiddling with a couple things. I could use a break.”

He stepped outside, gestured to one of the chairs.

“I know you’re mad at me,” she began as she sat, and kept rubbing the dog, who plopped his forefeet on her knees. “And you were clear as to why.”

“Okay.”

“I tried to explain my reasons to you, but I don’t think you understand.”

“I understand,” he countered. “I just don’t agree with your reasons.”

“You haven’t lived my life, Griffin. One that brought federal agents to the door.”

“I heard about that, and I heard they were grateful for your cooperation.”

“Forrest.”

“He wasn’t passing on state secrets. Plus, they talked to me.”

“They . . .” Her hands stilled; her head whipped around. “They came here?”

“Just for a chat. It’s also not a state secret you and I have spent time together since you got back. It wasn’t a problem.”

Her eyes sparked, flashed. Temper, resentment, frustration—he saw the mix clearly enough.

“Why can’t you see it’s a problem for me that they’d come here, ask you questions about something you didn’t have anything to do with?”

“You haven’t lived my life, either, Shelby. They knew about the laptop business, so they followed through. The way I look at it, having the locals and the feds involved in this is only a good thing.”

“He killed someone.”

“What?”

“They didn’t tell you that, and Forrest didn’t choose to impart that information in his reports to you?”

“No, and don’t be so snotty about it. Your brother’s my friend,” he continued before she could toss something else at him. “He doesn’t report to me. He talks to me.”

She had been snotty about it, she admitted, but . . . Put it aside, she ordered herself, and say what needed saying.

“Richard killed a woman, in Atlanta. Or she fell down the stairs, it’s not altogether clear, while he was stealing from her. He left her there, just left her dead or dying on the floor and walked away. That’s who I thought I married, that’s who I had a child with, that’s who I lived with for nearly five years.”

“That’s hard on you, and I’m sorry about it. But what he did, who he was, what he was? It doesn’t have anything to do with me. It doesn’t have anything to do with you and me.”

“It has everything to do with me, so that means it has to do with you and me. Why can’t you see that?”