SIXTY-FOUR

SIXTY-FOUR

MY CHEST BURNING, I slide into the passenger seat of the Jeep driven by Camille Striker, a woman who has known David longer than I have, who has known a different person from the one I've known, who has known about me all along while I didn't know about her.

She is wearing a flannel shirt with a winter vest over it, but even through the thick clothing I can see that she's a workout fanatic. Her features are soft, though — long eyelashes and a tiny nose.

"You're in danger," she says. "Your family's in danger. Where are your kids?"

"Sleeping at home, with a police car outside my house and a cop sitting inside."

"Okay, good, good." She blows out a breath. "Good."

"I appreciate your concern, but it would have been nice if someone had let me in on the news a little earlier." My sarcasm isn't helping matters, but it's better than putting my hands on her throat, my first instinct.

She starts driving. "The police must be looking for me," she says. "I thought we should talk first." She glances over at me. "I suppose I should say I'm sorry."

"I don't need your apology."

She nods. "Well, for what it's worth, I told him to tell you. All along, I wanted him to tell you. But David — he made a decision. When all this stuff was happening to you guys — someone moving things around in your house, putting a dead rat in your son's Halloween bag, stealing your dog, all that — David figured they were seeing how he'd react. They weren't sure he was their guy. He looked so different than he did before."

That much I can believe after seeing the photos of him I found in the attic. He went from a chubby, brown-eyed, curly-haired kid, with ears that stuck out cartoonishly, to a bald, physically fit, blue-eyed man with his ears pinned back. A lifestyle change and some plastic surgery did wonders for him.

"So he figured his best play was to act like he didn't know what was happening," she continues. "To play dumb, basically. He figured if he ran, if he took you and the kids and fled town, it would be confirming their suspicions. He'd have to be on the run forever."

"He thought he could bluff his way through it."

"Actually, it probably was his best move. The only mistake he made was not telling you."

Exactly. He was hoping to keep all his secrets just that — secrets.

"He thought you might do something rash," she says. "That you might insist on running. He thought you were safer not knowing."

That was part of it, I'm sure. The other part — he thought I might leave him if I knew the truth.

"What's done is done," I say. I don't have time for hindsight or sorrow or regret or anger. Not now. Later.

"I take it he's in surgery for a while?" she asks. "That's why you're going home?"

I nod.

"Do they have a prognosis?"

"They don't know." I try to block out that fear, shove it into a separate compartment of my brain and lock it up. If I let everything that scares me affect me, I'll become paralyzed. If I let myself be consumed by my feelings for this woman who has shared secrets with my husband, I won't be able to function. I can't let that happen.

I need to learn what she knows. And, more important, what she doesn't know.

"When did it end?" I ask. "Your and David's … ‘relationship,' should I call it?"

"About … three years ago. He sent me packing."

"Why?" I ask. "Why'd he do that?"

She shrugs. "He said he just wanted to be alone with his family."

I think back. Three years ago. Yes, that makes sense.

Three years ago was when we decided to build the new house, when I pointed at the FOR SALE sign on the vacant lot at 343 Cedar Lane and said, Here. This is where we should build it.

"And yet you're back," I note.

"We … kept in touch over the years. I guess it's hard to let go completely."

A light rain falls, pitter-patter, pitter-patter on the windshield. I look out the window and see that Camille is driving in the direction of my house. This time of night, with no traffic, I'll be home in less than ten minutes.

"The police think David is Silas Renfrow, that you're his girlfriend, and that you helped break David out of that detention facility in Rockford," I say.

"I know. I already had a nice visit from that ex-boyfriend of yours, the sergeant."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing," she says.

"What are you going to tell him now?"

A smile briefly plays on her lips. "Nothing. I made a vow, and I'm going to keep it. Why? What do you think I should tell him?"

"Nothing."

She pulls the car over to the curb, puts it in Park, and turns to me. "Did they get a video of the shooting?"

I nod. "I saw it."

"Do they know who shot him?"

I shake my head. "He wore a ski mask. A bala-something, they called it."

"A balaclava? Right. But … how'd it go down? Was it a hit? What I mean —"

"I know what a hit is, thank you. And no, it wasn't a hit. He was talking to David. David made a move for the man's gun, and it went off."

Camille shakes her head with a hum. "That sounds like David."

Those words slice through me. Another woman, a complete stranger, talking about my husband in such intimate terms.

"But it doesn't make sense," she says. "They had him tonight. The guy had a gun pointed at David. Why not just pull the trigger? If they've finally figured out that David is who they think he is, if their suspicions are finally confirmed — just pull the trigger. That's how the mob usually works. No conversation. No last words. No explanation. Just wham-bam and get the hell out of there. But that didn't happen. Why would the shooter possibly want to speak to David?"

I shrug my shoulders, like I have no idea. But of course I do. And now I've learned something important.

Apparently, David kept secrets from both the women in his life.

Camille doesn't know about the money.