Page 101 of Lies He Told Me

I turn to him. “Really?”

“No. I just wanted to see the look on your face. Her name is Emily. Get over yourself.”

I punch his arm. “Not nice, sir. Hey, what about the father of the child?”

“Still married to his wife. Sounds like Camille’s given up on him. She’s raising the baby herself.”

The kids run up ahead and jump into the car.

“On another note, I hear there might be a taker for the pub property,” Kyle says. “Maybe they’ll take down that damn Hemingway statue.”

Yes, there is a taker, someone looking to start another restaurant. I’m negotiating through a lawyer and a trust — considering that I’m “dead” and all. And they won’t take down that statue until I say so. Because within the base of that statue, hidden from view by the shrubbery, is a secret compartment that opens only via a tiny handheld remote that David left me in the safe-deposit box. That hollow interior currently holds the sum of around fifteen million dollars — the entirety of the twenty million David stole, less what he spent over the last fifteen years between building our house and slowly laundering some through his business, with me oblivious to the whole thing, letting him handle the financials. Eventually, when we sell that property along with the pub, I will have to do something about that money.

For now — well, I took a little bit with me just to get adjusted here. What I do with the rest of the money, I’m unsure. I’ll be generous with charitable donations. I will stash away some for the kids’ college education and maybe keep a little for the family. After all, it kinda feels like “hazard pay” for me, too.

“I could see it,” Kyle says, riding in the front seat, hiselbow out the window, as we drive to our apartment building. “I know I’m a hometown kid, but I could see it, living somewhere like this.”

Is that more than a casual comment? Sure feels like it. But I won’t follow up. Not now. All my attention, my entire focus at present, is on two beautiful and promising kids who seem to be finally coming out from under a major shock to their systems. They’ve had good days and bad. Today was a good one. The best I can do right now is try to fit as many days under “good” as possible. And hope and pray for the arrival of that day when mourning turns to loving memories, when tears turn to smiles. It will come. It’s hard to imagine it, but I know that day will come. The kids will be okay. Never the same, always with a piece of their hearts missing, but okay.

So that’s it. That’s how I lost David. There were moments when I didn’t know how we’d carry on without him. But we will. We hit rock bottom six months ago. It’s nice, at least, to feel like the path we’re on leads to a good place, a place that’s real, a place we will eventually call normal.