The Liar

Her pulse jumped. She actually felt the leap in her throat. “What do you mean?”

“Jake Brimley, with the Social Security number he used, died at the age of three in 2001. Richard created the identification, or paid to have it created.”

“You mean . . . he used that name, but he wasn’t that person?”

“That’s right.”

“Who was he then? God’s sake, how many names can one man have?”

“I can’t say—I don’t know,” Forrest corrected. “We’re working on it. I’ll do what I can to find out, Shelby. I figure you’d want to know, one way or the other.”

“I would. I don’t know how I can put it all away until I know. Did you find anything else out about the murder?”

“As a matter of fact, we had someone come in today. She was in the parking lot—in the backseat of a car with another individual. An individual not her husband. While they were busy doing things that put a layer of steam on the windows, she heard a loud pop. The timing’s right for it to be the shot. She surfaced from her activities long enough to notice someone get into a car, drive off just a few seconds later.”

“God, she saw the killer?”

“Not really. She thinks male, but she wasn’t wearing her glasses at the time, so didn’t get a good look. We wouldn’t have that much if her conscience hadn’t gotten over on her guilt. What we’ve got is probably male, getting into a dark car, possibly an SUV. No make, model or license, but she thinks black or dark blue, and shiny. Struck her like a new car, but she can’t say for certain.”

“What about the man she was with? Didn’t he see anything?”

“I didn’t say she was with a man.”

“Oh.”

“Which is part of her problem with coming forward. We’ll just say the other individual was very busy below window level at the time, and didn’t see anything.”

“All right. And Harlow?”

“Nothing there yet. You be careful driving over there to Griff’s, Shelby. Text me when you get there.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Forrest.”

“If you don’t want me calling when you might be . . . busy, text me when you get there. I’m going to see if I can mooch leftovers.”

“They’re out back,” she called out as he strolled toward the house. “Daddy’s got Callie a bubble maker.”

“Yeah? I believe I’ll get me a beer and get in on that. Text me.”

16

She stopped at the head of the short lane that led back to the old Tripplehorn place, freshened her lip gloss, took a critical look in the visor mirror.

All right, no more dark circles, and not all the color in her face came from the little pot of cream blush her grandmother had urged her to sample.

Her hair, windblown as it was, added a casual touch. Wasn’t it best to stay casual? she asked herself.

And took a breath.

She hadn’t been on a date—a real one, and whatever she’d said, this was a bona fide date—since she’d flown off to Vegas with Richard, to get married.

Or so she’d believed.

She’d dated plenty before that, of course, she reminded herself, through high school and into college. But it was all so vague and blurry with the enormity of the in between the then and now.

And he was fixing her dinner, which made it a sort of serious date, didn’t it? She made herself think through the enormity, back to the blur. She couldn’t think of a single time a man had fixed her dinner.

Maybe it didn’t make it serious. Maybe once you got past the high school and college years, it was just something people, adult people, did now and then.

And she was making far too much of it either way.

She made the turn, bumped her way down the narrow drive—obviously something he hadn’t bothered to fix yet—then just stopped the car again and looked.

She’d always loved the charm of the old place, the way it tucked into the green, spread a bit toward a sheltered stream.

She only found it more charming now.

He’d cleaned up the exterior, and what a difference. She thought he’d likely power-washed the old stone—repointed it, too, so it stood in various shades of brown and gold on its roll of a rise among the trees.

And he put in spanking new windows, added a set of doors in place of the broken windows on what she assumed must be the master bedroom due to the addition of a covered porch with bronze-colored iron rails.

He’d left most of the wonderful old trees, the maples and oaks, their green deepening toward that deep summer shade, and put in a couple of dogwoods, bloomed off now and still tenderly green. Clearing out the scrub and weeds along the foundation had to have been hard, sweaty, even miserable work. Whatever time he’d put in had paid off as young azaleas and rhododendrons swept color at the stone’s skirts, while older ones, wild ones, splashed more back in the green shadows.

He was doing some sort of terracing on the far side, following the rise of the land with partially finished stone walls that mimicked the tones of the house. She imagined it finished, and filled with native shrubs and flowers.

Too charmed to be nervous now, she left her van beside his truck, gathered the potted mountain laurel she’d picked up as a host gift and walked to the wide front porch.