The King of Lies Read Free Page B

me. It was as if I’d come to believe that no blood flowed in her—that’s how cold she’d appeared to me. She squeezed my hands as her eyes moved over my face and picked me apart. Then she pushed back against the cracked and yielding vinyl.
    “So,” she said. “How are you taking all this?”
    “I saw the body,” I replied, appalled by my own words. In spite of what I’d said to Douglas, I’d not planned to tell her this.
    “And . . .”
    “He was dead,” I said, ushering in a silence that lasted over a minute.
    “The king is dead,” she finally said, her eyes immobile on mine. “I hope he’s rotting in hell.”
    “That’s pretty harsh,” I told her.
    “Yes,” she replied flatly, and I waited for something more.
    “You don’t seem surprised,” I finally said.
    Jean shrugged. “I knew he was dead,” she said, and I stared at her.
    “Why?” I asked, feeling something hard and sharp coalesce in my stomach.
    “Ezra would never detach himself from his money or his prestige for so long. Nothing else would keep him away.”
    “But he was murdered,” I said.
    She looked away, down at the decomposing carpet. “Our father made a lot of enemies.”
    I sipped my beer to buy a few seconds. I tried to make sense of her attitude.
    “Are you okay?” I finally asked.
    She laughed, a lost sound that had no connection to her eyes. “No,” she said. “I’m not. But it’s got nothing to do with his death. He died for me on the same night as Mom, if not before. If you don’t get that, then we’ve got nothing to say to each other.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “You do,” she said, an edge in her voice that I’d never heard before. “As far as I’m concerned, he died that night, the second Mom went down those stairs. If you don’t see it that way, it’s your problem, not mine.”
    I’d expected tears and found anger, but it was directed at me as much as at Ezra, and that troubled me. How far down separate paths had we traveled in so short a time?
    “Look, Jean. Mom fell down those stairs and died. I feel that pain as much as you do.”
    She barked another laugh, but this one was ugly. “‘Fell,’” she echoed. “That’s rich, Work. Just fucking rich.” She swiped a hand across her face and sniffed loudly. “Mom . . .” she began, then faltered. Sudden honeysuckle tears appeared at the corners of her eyes, and it occurred to me that until now I had seen no emotion in her, not since we’d buried our mother. She pulled herself together, raised unapologetic eyes.
    “He’s dead, Work, and you’re still his monkey boy.” Her voice strengthened. “His truth is dead, too.” She blew her nose, crumpled the napkin, and dropped it on the table. I stared at it. “The sooner you come to terms with the only truth that matters, the better off you’ll be.”
    “I’m sorry, Jean, if I’ve upset you.”
    She turned her gaze away and directed it out the window, where two starlings squabbled in the parking lot. The momentary tears had gone; without the sudden color in her face, you would never have known she’d been upset.
    I smelled garlic and suddenly two pizza boxes appeared on the table. I looked up to see the manager, who ignored me and spoke to Jean.
    “It’s your favorite,” he said. “Sorry.” Then he turned and walked back to the kitchen, taking most of the garlic smell with him.
    “I’ve got to go,” Jean said flatly. “Delivery.” She pulled herself out of the booth, jiggling the table and sloshing my beer. Her eyes didn’t meet mine, and I knew that my silence would send her away without another word. But before I could think of something to say, she had scooped up the boxes and turned away.
    I fumbled for my wallet, threw a couple of singles on the table, and caught her at the door. When she ignored me, I followed her into the sun and to her time-ravaged car. I still didn’t know what I wanted to say, however. How dare you judge me? . . . Where