Page 102 of Once Upon a Lie

“I want to, but I don’t think I should,” he attempts to clarify. “Does that make sense?”

“Not at all,” I say with a sad laugh.

“I know.” He runs a hand down his face. “Tomorrow, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Teen.”

“Good night, Shane.”

I finish unlocking the door and close it behind me, falling into the wood with my back and letting my head go along with a thud.

It’s an unsettling end to a weird day. I hate it so much I start to cry.

Shane

Monday, November 1

6:00 a.m.

My eyes and chest both burn, and my head hangs forward from my shoulders as though it weighs a million pounds. I stare at the floor and try my hardest to see through the wood planks and into the condo of the woman below me.

I wish yesterday had gone differently. That I hadn’t agreed to go into Honky Tonk Parade, that we hadn’t run into Crew and James, and that I hadn’t had to lie about why I’m doing fake job shit like freelance DIY or why I lost stature with the police department.

I snort.

Fuck. As long as I’m wishing for things, I might as well wish I never agreed to spy on Valentina Cordone in the first place.

Maybe we could have met organically, at her bagel shop or in the park or in the grocery store, and we really could have fallen in love without lies and deceit being the foundation.

Maybe.

I groan. “Fuck.”

I unfurl and take a deep breath, scrubbing at my face with both hands. The sun is barely up, just filtering through the blinds on my bedroom window in broken beams, and I think, at this point, the chances of sleep are long fucking gone.

I amble toward the bathroom and take a piss, brushing my teeth and splashing my face with cold water to put some life back into it, and then stop in my closet to don a fresh pair of jeans and a thermal.

The sound of my phone going off with a message stirs hope just as the collar of my shirt is clearing my chin, and I shove my arms in the sleeves and pull the hem down to meet the waistband of my pants while jogging toward it.

Hope dies as I snatch it off the nightstand and see the sender.

Mike: Meeting at MNPD at seven. Don’t be late.

Summoned again.

These messages from Mike never come at a good time—I don’t see how they could when I’ve managed to get myself in the middle of dating the woman I’m spying on—but this morning’s message in particular feels like salt in an already open wound.

I don’t have anything new to give him in terms of information other than Yeah, she’s pretty pissed at me. And having just realized she’s undoubtedly at work at The Hole Story if the sun is already coming up, with me headed to the fucking police station, I’m not going to get another chance at an apology anytime soon.

I settle for a text message, knowing she probably won’t see it for a while if she’s busy, but hoping it’s at least something to show I’m thinking about her.

Me: I’m sorry for the way I was yesterday. I’ll be busy for a little while, and I know you are, too, but we’ll talk when you get done with work later.

There.

It’s not a Shakespearean love sonnet, and it’s not the whole truth, but it is a small olive branch that says I’m here and willing to try.

I shake my head at myself, grabbing my keys and my wallet and heading for the front door of the condo.