The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [60]
“That’s funny. I’m actually thinking about laughing at that.”
“Of course you are. You’re trying to get on my good side. Classic Benedict Arnold move.”
I shake my head, amazed at just how much the joke burrows under my skin. “Clemmi… you know I’d never betray you.”
She turns to me. A small appreciative grin lifts her cheeks. “Beecher, why’re you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Besides these past few months of emails, I haven’t spoken to you in fifteen years. You were cute in high school—in that quiet, smart, scared-of-me way—but we didn’t stay much in touch. Plus at your office, you’ve got the head of security ready to pin you for murder. So why’d you come here? Why’re you being so nice?”
Holding the wheel, I stare straight ahead, pretending to watch the road. “She was my fiancée.”
“Huh?”
“Before. You asked before who Iris was, and I said she was my girlfriend. She was my fiancée. The one. We sent out invitations. The table seating was done. On one night with a few cheap margaritas, we even started picking baby names. And yes, there are worse things, but when it all fell apart, it felt like she strangled and killed my entire life. Everything was dead. Anyway, I figure after all the honesty you’ve shown me, you at least earned that back.”
“So she did dump you for another guy?”
“Don’t push. We’re not being that honest yet,” I say.
She stays with the rearview, her head slightly swaying back and forth, like she’s whispering an imagined question to someone.
“I’m not a DJ,” she finally blurts.
“What?”
“For the radio station—I’m not a DJ,” Clementine says. “I sell ads. I’m just an ad sales rep. I-I thought you’d—I sell on-air ads for soft drinks, car dealerships, and in Virginia, we do a ton for places that help people addicted to chewing tobacco.”
“But you told me—”
“I always wanted to be a DJ—I did it once for a few years at a community college’s radio station. But for the past ten years, I’m just—I used to be a peacock; now I’m just a feather duster.” Looking over at me, she adds, “I’m sorry for lying to you, Beecher. When we were first emailing, you said you had this perfect job at the National Archives, and when you asked me what I did, I wanted you to—I didn’t want you to think I was a failure.”
“Clementine, I’d never think—”
“And the lies just flowed, didn’t they? Instead of an ad rep—shazam!—I was magically a DJ with the life I’d always dreamed for myself. And the worst part was how fast the bullshit came—flush with all the details, and all the old jazz we play, and…” She won’t look at me. “I’m like him, aren’t I? The imagined life… I’m a natural liar, Beecher. I am.”
“Then I guess I shouldn’t believe that either.”
It’s a good joke, but it doesn’t help.
“I thought the worst part would be seeing Nico,” she explains, “but the real worst part, now that I finally have—is how much of my life now sadly makes sense.”
I’m all set to argue, but before I can say a word, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I can’t ignore this one.
“Where are you?” Tot asks the moment I pick up.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I ask, knowing that tone and wondering if he found the videotape.
“Y’mean besides the fact that you’re out fawning over some girl you barely know, who you’re just stupidly smitten with?”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“Sure it’s not. You’ve got a beautiful girl in a pristine automobile. It’s not a guess, Beecher. It’s science.”
“Tot, can you please stop saying things that make me want to hang up on you?” I plead.
“Actually, no—especially when you hear this: Still no sign of the video, but I was able to track down your man Dustin Gyrich,” he says, referring to the guy who checked out Entick’s Dictionary every time President Wallace visited the Archives. “And, oof… it’s a doozy, Beecher.”
“What? He’s got some kinda record?”
“Oh, he’s definitely got a record,” Tot explains. “I started digging backwards through our pull slips, and from what I can tell… well…” Through the phone, I hear Tot roll his tongue inside his