Page 52 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
I want to say “she remembers you,” to see how he responds. But I control myself.
“Her name was different then. She went by Lexi. Lexi Lincoln.”
I almost add that she’s a few years older than his brother, but I don’t want to do that over the phone either.
“Lexi Lincoln,” he repeats slowly.
“Yes.”
Even if he didn’t recognize her when he saw her, her name must ring a bell if the town is as small as they’ve both said it is.
He says nothing. I wonder if we’re about to tip over from lies of omission to lies of commission. Then he removes any question.
“Oh, right. I do know that name. She’s a good bit older than me.” He pauses. “I have a vague memory that she has some emotional problems. I don’t know the details, but I wouldn’t take anything she says at face value.”
It’s simply not believable that he would remember her name and not the fact that someone tried to carve her up. Especially not when it happened three days before his father killed himself. He’s lying.
I rein in my emotions and say, “Well, it was kind of her to let me sleep here. The cabin’s going to be really cold.”
“You could have built a fire.”
I ignore this and chirp, “I made great progress on the book—until the power went out, at least.”
“That’s fantastic, Em.” His voice is suffused with happiness for me. Sheer, uncomplicated joy. It makes me feel gross for doubting him.
“Thanks.” Then I remember. “Oh, did you ever hear back from Tyrone—about the man I saw?”
“I did.”
I’m silent, waiting for him to elaborate. But the pause stretches out long enough to be awkward before he says, “He’s grateful we let him know.”
There’s something he’s not telling me. I know it in my bones. And for the first time, I feel safer being away from him than with him.
I tell myself I’m not being fair to him. I’m emotional from all the wine and soul-baring. It’s not reasonable to expect him to bring up his brother on this phone call spontaneously or share what happened to Lexi or his dad.
I fake a loud yawn and say, “Well, I’m pretty sleepy. I just called to say good night.”
“I love you more than life, Emily.” His voice thrums with energy.
“Love you, too. Good night, Tristan.” I wonder if he senses the emptiness in my response.
I nestle the phone in its base and sit on the edge of the bed. The call I’d hoped would assuage my concern has increased it. And I’m forced to ask myself, how well do I really know my husband?
Twenty-Nine
Tristan
* * *
When I hang up with Emily, I’m keyed up, worried Alex will tell her about my family and she’ll draw the wrong conclusions. I really don’t like the idea of them spending time together. This damned storm could send my house of cards tumbling.
I pull up the weather map and am gratified to see the snow is changing over to rain. Rain means it should be warm enough for Em to return to the little cabin tomorrow and keep her distance from her host. I exhale, relieved. The less Emily interacts with Alex/Lexi/whatever the hell she’s calling herself, the better.
It’s not that I don’t have sympathy for what she went through. Believe me, I do. But I’ve built an entire life around plausible deniability, and the thought of losing it now is unbearable. I know what my brother did, but I don’t know. Alex Liu knows.
Tate stopped short of telling me point-blank that he attacked Lexi and killed Dana. And I’ve clung to that. The only crime Tate didn’t at least obliquely reference was killing Cassie. Of course, I haven’t seen him since that night in Kansas, or I’m sure he would’ve.
But, he didn’t need to. Once I saw the photograph of Emily that ran with the newspaper article about Cassie Baughman’s murder, I knew two things: My brother killed Cassie, and Emily had been the intended victim.
