The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [126]
“Naomi, tell me why you’re really here.”
She bites at her bottom lip, then finally looks up, standing from the steps. “You flew across the country with barely seven hours’ notice. The animal horn is still missing. I was worried you were coming here to meet up with Ellis.”
“How do you know I wasn’t?”
She motions to her phone. “I just got the call. They found Ellis’s body. In Michigan.”
I nod but don’t reply.
“And that weird gun he had that I wrecked at the library? With the hemlock? They matched it to what was in Timothy’s blood. Oh, and we also found a twenty-thousand-dollar payment in Timothy’s bank account. From a fake name they think was Ellis.”
She kicks at the concrete. We all have our own secret identities.
“Y’know, I still think your father—I don’t care what kinda rosy picture you painted in his plea deal—I still think he got into this for the wrong reason.”
I don’t argue with her. But she doesn’t understand.
“Don’t think I don’t understand,” she adds. “My son? He was an orphan, too.”
“Naomi, please spare me the rah-rah.”
“I’m just saying, if his parents came back, I wouldn’t blame him for wanting to find out who they really are. It’s not a weakness, Cal. I mean, most people don’t really want to know their parents. They just want to know themselves.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It will when you think about it,” she promises. “I’m a mother. We’re not wrong.”
I can’t help but grin. I head up the covered walkway toward the car. But Naomi doesn’t follow.
“So whatever happened with the Book of Lies . . . or Truth . . . or whatever you named it?” she calls out. “Y’ever figure out what the story was with those old comic strips from Jerry’s wall?”
I spin around and see her staring at Joanne Siegel’s closed door.
“No. Not really,” I tell her.
She stays locked on the door.
“Yeah . . . me either,” she finally says, following in back of me and leaving Joanne Siegel behind.
I nod a thank-you. She pretends she doesn’t notice.
As we reach the end of the breezeway, the sun bakes us from overhead.
“Just tell me one last thing,” she adds. “You really traveled three thousand miles just to see Jerry Siegel’s widow?”
“Yeah. I did.” I turn to Naomi. “Though I thought you didn’t know who I was meeting with?”
This time, she’s the one who’s silent. But the smile on her face says it all.
“By the way, about your son . . .” I start. “Y’ever tell him what you do?”
“With what? With work?”
“With anything. Does he know what your job is? What you fight for?”
“He knows I have a gun. That’s enough to impress him.”
I shake my head. “No. You need to tell him. Tell him your stories.”
For a moment, she makes a face, loading up the quick comeback.
But it never comes.
“I will,” she says, brushing her dyed brown hair from her face.
We both cross the small grass patch that leads to the cul-de-sac. “So how do you explain to your boss that the animal horn is still out there, and you’re coming home empty-handed?” I ask.
“Empty-handed? I got a nibble on Ellis’s old phone records. There’s a judge in Michigan I’m gonna go say hello to,” she says. “And you know judges just hate wearing those PlastiCuffs,” she adds, already starting to wave good-bye. “Just remember, though, Cal: You only lose what you cling to.”
“That’s nice. That Native American?”
“Buddhist,” she calls back, ducking into her white rental car.
Her tires howl, she takes off, and I’m left standing in the empty cul-de-sac as the wind shoves my white hair back, revealing my face.
Serena won’t be here for at least a half hour. I’m alone. All alone. And for once, I think that’s how it’s supposed to be.
On my far right, between two other apartment buildings, I spot the edge of a dock and a few bobbing boats.
Before I even realize it, I’m walking toward it.
Jerry’s father had it so damn right. There’s the life you live and the life you leave behind. But what you share with someone else—especially someone you love—that’s not just how you bury your past. It’s how you write your future.
Following the nearby path and a few pelicans, I head