Page 132 of The Next Lie

All I remember is Ruben cocking his head in that way he had when he latched on to something and thought himself incredibly bright. He’d squinted at the photos we’d been given, compared them to both children, and chuckled to himself.

“Aren’t you the lucky lady?” He gave Marisol Hart an open-handed slap that had her crashing to her husband’s body. “Take care of this one while I find the younger one. She’s here somewhere.”

“That’s not her?” I pointed to the child he’d just killed, the one I hadn’t been able to save in time. That one would always haunt me.

“Nope.”

“No! No-no-no-please!”

Marisol’s wails were lost as he walked away.

Reva had been silent behind the door as Ruben’s footsteps shuffled closer, his voice crooning, “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

She was a smart child. A terrified child. Mine to bury or save in the space of one breath.

“I don’t know when she did it. After he searched the house, I presume, but before he found her,” I say.

Isabel’s head tilts. “That is not the same answer.”

“Probably because I don’t know when she called the cops, Isabel. I was under the impression she was already dead.”

“Deacon.”

Her voice is gentle. That is when she is most dangerous. She doesn’t raise her voice. She does not need to. Her authority sits in the room like a third presence, older than either of us and far more patient.

“You gave me a timeline,” she says. “Ruben entered. Killed Hart and the girl. And then…somehow…the girl called the police. The police arrived. Ruben fired. They returned fire. Do you understand why I am confused?”

“Yes. It was a confusing night. We thought the child that Ruben killed initially was the specified target. As we later—much later—learned…she was a different child.”

Lie. Lie. Lie. Isabel doesn’t call me on it, though.

“And you were where?”

“Clearing the back.”

“Why?”

“The mother ran in that direction.”

“And did you clear it?”

“Yes.”

“Before or after the police arrived?”

“Before.”

“Then why leave Ruben inside?”

“Because the sirens were close, and Ruben didn’t take direction well once excited.”

“That much is true.” She looks toward the fire again. “He was a pig.”

I say nothing. A pig with a gun and a kill order. A pig I put down myself.

“But useful pigs are still useful,” she continues. “His death cost me.”

She rises then. Slowly. I straighten without meaning to. I hate that she can still pull that from me with movement alone.