The Liar

Should she use this money here to pay off one of the smaller credit cards, just get it gone? Or should she apply that money to one of the big ones, cut the interest payment down?

As much as she wanted to say two down, ten to go, it made more sense to cut down the interest.

Carefully she made the payment online, the way she’d taught herself, logged it onto her spreadsheet.

Four hundred and eighty-six thousand, four hundred dollars down. Only two million, one hundred and eighty-four to go.

Not counting the next bill that came in from the lawyers, the accountants. But at the moment, hell, that seemed like chicken feed.

The phone rang, and seeing Donna’s name on the display, she snatched it up.

Maybe.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Shelby, it’s Donna. I know it’s a little late, but I wanted to let you know we got a good offer on the house.”

“Oh! That’s such good news.”

“I think the lender’s going to approve this. You know it can take weeks, even months, but I’m going to do everything I can to push it through. It’s the family I told you about, from the first open house. They really love the house, and the location is just what they wanted. And one more thing—she hates the furniture.”

Shelby let out a laugh, lifting her face to the ceiling, cutting loose. “She really does?”

“Absolutely hates it. She told me she had to look past it, pretend it wasn’t there, to really see the house, the layout. He’s nervous about the short-sale aspect, but she wants it, and he’s willing to go that route. And I think if the lender counters, asking for closer to their asking price, this buyer will come up.”

“Oh my God, Donna.”

“I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves, but you should celebrate, at least a little.”

“I feel like stripping naked and dancing all over this damn house.”

“Whatever works.”

“Maybe just the dancing part. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Fingers crossed, Shelby. I’ll contact the lender first thing in the morning. You have a good night.”

“You, too. Thanks again. Bye now.”

She didn’t strip naked, but she did bring up the satellite radio. She hit with Adele, danced around the office, picked up the lyrics, let her voice loose.

She’d had ambitions once, aspirations, dreams. She’d be a singer—a star. Her voice was a gift, and she’d tended it, used it, appreciated it.

She’d met Richard through her voice, when he came into the little club in Memphis where she was lead singer with a band they called Horizon.

Nineteen years old, she thought now. Not old enough to buy a legal beer in the club, though Ty, their drummer who’d been a little bit in love with her, used to sneak her a bottle of Corona when he could.

God, it felt good to sing again, to dance. Other than lullabies, she hadn’t used her singing voice in months. She rolled through Adele, straight into Taylor Swift, then fumbled with the remote to mute the volume when her phone rang again.

Still smiling, still dancing, she answered.

“Hello.”

“I’m looking for David Matherson.”

“I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong number.”

“David Matherson,” he repeated, and rattled off the phone number.

“Yes, that’s this number but . . .” Something lodged in her throat. She had to clear it, grip the receiver tight. “No one by that name lives here. I’m sorry.”

She hung up before he could say anything else, then hurried to the safe, carefully entered the combination.

She took the manila envelope to the desk, and with stiff and shaky fingers, opened it.

In the envelope she kept the identification she’d found in the bank box, the ones with Richard’s face smiling out.

And one set of identification was in the name of David Allen Matherson.

She didn’t feel like singing anymore, or dancing. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she was compelled to check all the doors, check the alarm system.

Despite the waste of electricity, she left a light burning in the foyer, left the second-floor hall light on. Rather than go to her own bed, she slid in with Callie.

And lay awake a long time praying the phone didn’t ring again.

•   •   •

THE FURNITURE COMPANY sent a crew who packed up two guest rooms, the foyer, and the dining room, where Shelby hadn’t had a meal since Richard’s accident. After some haggling, she’d agreed to sell the master bedroom suite to the private buyer.

She wiped out the time payment, paid off a second credit card.

Two down, ten to go.

The house felt even bigger and less friendly with so much of the furniture gone. She had a nagging itch at the base of her spine to get gone herself, but there were details yet, and they were her responsibility.

She had an appointment at one-thirty with the book buyer—made at that time so she’d have Callie down for her nap. She tied her hair back, put on the pretty aquamarine dangles her grandparents had given her for Christmas. Added some bronzer, some blush because she looked too pale. She changed the thick socks she liked to wear around the house for good black heels.

Her grandmother claimed heels might pinch the toes some, but they boosted a woman’s confidence.