The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh
Forty-Seven
Saylor
Everything is unraveling.
I almost blurted the truth to Celeste in the park, an indication of just how rattled I am. Nothing is going right, I don’t have the money yet, and with every passing day I feel like I’m drowning in deceit.
I barely make it inside when my cell rings and as soon as I see an unknown number on the screen my hands start to shake.
He said he wouldn’t call yet. That he’d give me some time to gather the funds.
I could ignore it but he’ll keep calling and I’d rather speak to him now, with Lloyd not at home.
I answer on the third ring, knowing he won’t like being kept waiting.
I hear the crackle of static before he asks, “What took you so long?”
My bladder convulses at the sound of that electrically distorted tone I sometimes hear in my nightmares. I wish I knew who was doing this. I’ve listened for clues, hoping for a phrase or word to jog my memory, but nothing. Heck, I don’t even know if it’s a man, the voice is so heavily disguised.
“I was vomiting. Food poisoning.” The lie slides glibly from my lips like so many others before. I want him to feel sympathy for me. He won’t.
“Do you have my money yet?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Not hard enough. Maybe I should pay you a visit? Introduce myself to that dopey husband of yours? Tell him how it really is? Then make a call to your parents’ church? I’m sure their loyal followers would be very interested to hear about their fallen angel.”
Nausea washes over me and it has nothing to do with an unexpected bout of second trimester morning sickness. This idiot can tear my parents’ world apart if I let him.
“I told you this is going to take time. That kind of money can’t materialize out of thin air.”
“How much have you got?”
I can’t tell him zero, that I’m counting on my blackmail scheme to pay him off. So I conjure another lie. “Five grand.”
“So why is it in your bank account and not mine?”
“Because I can’t make a withdrawal of that amount without Lloyd asking questions. Don’t worry, I’m good for the fifty grand.” I hope he can’t hear the terror in my voice.
“You have another month and then I’m done. Got it?”
Four measly weeks? I’m pressuring as much as I can but it still doesn’t feel like I’m any closer to the money.
“I need more time—”
“A month and that’s final.”
He hangs up, leaving me staring at my cell, my stomach still churning with dread.
There’s another way out of this. Tell the truth.
And ruin my family in the process.
But I can’t do it. They’re innocent in all this. I’m the one who made a mistake. I’m the one who needs to fix it.
I’ve contemplated going to the police and after this latest phone call I’m tempted. But a police investigation won’t make what I’ve done go away, it will bring it to light and my folks will get humiliated in the process and lose everything they’ve worked so hard for. No matter how discreet the police are, stuff like this has a way of making it to the press.
I am so screwed.