“All the more reason for you to leave here,” Derek says.
We discuss a plan over scrambled eggs and toast and decide that after Derek helps me lug my stuff out to the car, we’ll drop by the Saratoga Arms. According to the website, check-in is two o’clock, but perhaps I can finagle something earlier. I just don’t want to force Derek into playing bodyguard for a huge chunk of my day.
I grab a quick shower while Derek has another espresso, and then it’s time to go. I take a last look around the house, making certain I’ve left nothing important behind. Part of me should probably feel stricken about leaving, but I don’t. This place never really felt like a home to me.
“Wait,” Derek says as I start to unbolt the kitchen door. “Let me check outside first.” He steps out into the driveway, searches the area, and then nods for me to follow. It’s overcast out, and the air is raw, like on an April day rather than a June one—fitting weather, it seems, for the state my life is in. Though Derek has given the all clear, I can’t help but look around anxiously, wondering if someone has eyes on us.
Once my car is loaded, Derek suggests I pull out first and he’ll follow close behind until we reach Broadway. At this hour on a Sunday morning, the streets are nearly empty.
We both park in the designated side street lot and enter the building from the front, up the steps of a long white porch. The lobby is a small, oak-paneled space with a desk, a staircase rising behind it, and a stand stuffed with brochures for local attractions. Off to the right is an inviting parlor. There’s not a soul in sight at the moment, and it’s only after ringing a bell on the desk that a buxom blond woman, around fifty, hurries into the lobby and greets us warmly. When I say I’m hoping a room will open up before two, she announces, to my surprise, that there’s one ready and she’s more than happy to let me check in.
“We had a cancellation late yesterday, and there’s no point in making you wander around downtown at this hour. You won’t find a darn thing to do on a Sunday morning other than eat too many blueberry muffins.”
I thank her profusely, and after I handle the paperwork, Derek and I retrieve one of the roller bags from my car. As we mount the steps of the porch again, I notice that Derek looks perturbed.
“Something’s on your mind,” I say.
“I don’t like the fact that the front desk isn’t always manned. It doesn’t seem like the best place to be.”
“I’ll have to be cautious. At this point I don’t have a choice.”
His soft green eyes meet mine. “You could stay at my place—in my spare room. No one would ever suspect you’re there.”
His comment almost knocks me over. I’m not sure exactly how to read it.
“That’s really generous of you, Derek, but this is probably the best spot for me for right now.”
“Do you promise to hang in your room and keep a low profile?”
“Definitely. I’ve got about ten books stored on my iPad, to say nothing of a book proposal I’m supposed to be finishing.”
I’m not being straight with Derek, though. I don’t have any intention of hanging at the inn, at least for the morning. After we’ve said good-bye and promised to talk later, after I’ve unpacked a few items in my room, I text Guy, informing him that I’d like to meet. It’s finally time for me to face him. What I’m going to do, I’ve decided, is confront him with what I’ve learned and watch how he responds. I know Guy’s deceived me, and yet I’m not sure of anything beyond that. Embezzling money—and risking the chance of prison—sets you apart from the mere liars of the world. It means you’ve dared to cross a dangerous line, and that there might be other dangerous lines you aren’t afraid of stepping over. Like murdering someone. I have to find my way closer to the truth.
Within seconds he’s texted back: “Of course. Why don’t I swing by the house in fifteen?”
“I’m taking a walk,” I write back. “Let’s meet in Congress Park. Near the main entrance.”
For at least a minute there’s no response. I’m sure my suggestion has aroused suspicion. Then just, “Sure.”
I grab my umbrella in case there’s a downpour and start out. Congress Park is seven or eight blocks away, at the other end of downtown, and it should take me less than fifteen minutes to reach there. Despite the hour and the weather, there are now clusters of tourists meandering down the street, window-shopping and sipping coffee from cardboard cups.
With each block I cover, my unease intensifies. In only a matter of minutes, I may know the truth about Guy. And about my life as well. Please, I pray, let him be nothing more than a dirty rotten liar.