The Good Liar. Laura Caldwell
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prevent anyone from seeing inside his office, day or night, whether he had the lights on or not. And so he stood, legs apart, knowing he was invisible and dreaming of invincibility.
This was not the only unit Roger owned in the building. His home was an even bigger condo one floor down, filled with the trappings that would make most New Yorkers happy—incredible space, hardwood floors, exposed brick. When the upstairs unit had come up for sale seven years ago, Roger had purchased it. He was proud that he could afford it. He loved that, as a member of the Trust whose stock was rising, he no longer had to go into the New York office every day.
But desires, once met, tend to evolve and grow. And Roger had begun to believe that he wasn’t destined to be just a cog in the wheel of the Trust, but rather a driving force. He began to crave—in a hungry, insatiable, almost voracious way—wealth and greatness. His own personal brand of greatness.
As Roger watched the traffic stream by on Fifteenth Street, he wondered where those desires had come from. Raised in a suburb of Pittsburgh, with a teacher mother and a veterinarian father, his family was comfortable but not exactly ambitious. He went to Penn for undergrad, where he got a joint major in biology and Spanish. And when he was recruited for the Trust two years out of Penn medical school, he was thrilled. His surgical residency had made him question whether he really wanted to practice medicine. The malpractice premiums were going up and fellowships tougher to land than ever. There was too much gore and not enough upside.
In his early years with the Trust, it had never occurred to him that someday he might want to take over the organization, that someday he might want to take the group in a very different direction. He was in Brazil then, and he had Marta. But then Marta died. And that gave him an incredible toughness. The Trust had also given him confidence. Really, the Trust required confidence from its operatives in order to do their jobs. To compensate for the loss of Marta, he worked harder and harder. Eventually, over the years, which had taken him from Brazil to Chicago and then New York, his confidence grew to a point where he sensed he might assert his own vision, rather than that of his superiors.
And now, his loft office and his loft apartment no longer satisfied him. The view of the inelegant Fifteenth Street frustrated him. He wanted a palace with a rooftop garden and twenty-four-hour staff and mural-painted ceilings. He wanted a driver outside, always at the ready. He wanted two other homes—one mountainside in Aspen, one ocean-side in St. Barts. He wanted a private jet to take him to these homes, and he wanted to own that jet.
But the Trust, at least the way it had always been, was not going to bring him those things. And so Roger had been biding his time while his stock slowly rose. He’d helped spearhead the Juliet Project in Chicago, becoming an integral part of the process, and finally he’d become an integral part of the Trust. He cultivated relationships with members and contacts around the world, even when he didn’t need to do so for a particular mission. Now that he was a ranking board member, now that purist members like Michael were stepping down, and others had been helped in that direction, he was going to take the Trust toward his vision and his desires. The Juliet Project was just the beginning.
The phone rang. Roger glanced at the display, which scrambled incoming numbers according to a code developed by the Trust and further personalized by each individual member. It was the call he’d been waiting for.
He answered it with a polite, “Yes.”
“The apartment has been searched,” said a man’s voice.
Roger checked his watch. “It’s 11:00 p.m. there. What took so long?”
“A dinner party in the building. We wanted to make sure no one saw us entering.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re certain?”
“Of course.”
“I want it cleaned out, just to be sure.”
“Not a problem. We’ll have it done within two hours.”
“Thank you.”
Roger turned, walked to his desk in the corner and hung up the phone. The desk was merely a maple table, minimally adorned with a few stacks of papers, all of which would be placed back in the safe when he was finished for the day. And then what would he do with his evening? he wondered. Maybe he would call one of the women he dated (and slept with) who knew little about him?
He had hoped the phone call would give him reason to celebrate. He hoped the evidence they were searching for would have been discovered in the apartment and that anything that could shed light on the Trust and its role in certain events would have been destroyed. Trust only worked if it worked in secret. That was true whether it operated his way or the way it had for decades. And so he would always protect the secrecy of the Trust. No matter what it took.
But there was no reason to celebrate right now. That would come. Roger walked around his desk, took a seat and continued working.
13
St. Marabel, Canada
“T ell me about the first boy you kissed.” Michael said as we strolled St. Marabel’s long main promenade on a Tuesday evening.
“What?” I punched him lightly on the arm. “You don’t want to hear about that.”
“I do. I want to know everything.” Michael tucked my other hand tighter into the crook of his arm, and I nuzzled against his shoulder, unbelievably content.
It was June, when the days were getting longer and the summer had only begun to show itself, just like my new life, my new marriage, my new home of St. Marabel. St. Marabel, so far, had not disappointed. I adored its main street with its steep mansard roofs and brightly painted shutters over dormered windows. I loved the bistros protected by striped awnings, the little boutiques that stayed open until eleven at night, the galeries d’art. I liked the sight of vacationers moving languidly from store to bistro and back again. I loved the sound of French being spoken around me, buffeting me.
“Michael, I can’t tell you about my first kiss,” I said. “That’s the kind of thing people tell each other when they’re dating, not when they’re married.”
He made a stern face. “What kind of ridiculous statement is that? And besides, I will always be dating you. ”
“We’re married.” I loved the sound of it.
“But still courting.” Michael steered me onto a side street that curved its way around an old stone building. The scent of chocolate and pastry permeated the air. “So tell me about the first boy you kissed.”
I inhaled deeply, breathing the scent of the pastries and the cool, earthy smell that came from the cobblestones. “Maybe my first kiss was with you.”
“You were married before, my dear.”
I waited for the pain in my abdomen that always came when I was reminded of my relationship with Scott. But it didn’t hit. Not even a pinch. “Just because I was married doesn’t mean I kissed him.” I said this teasingly and felt a burst of relief that I could make a joke about my first marriage.
“Hmm, excellent. So I’m the first.”
“Yes.”
“I like it,” Michael said.
Suddenly, there was a rapid staccato sound from somewhere up the alley.
Michael swung me around and shoved me hard against the side of the building.
“Ouch! Michael, what—”
“Get down,” he barked in a low but insistent tone.
I did as he said and dropped to a squat, my heart thumping fast.
Michael spun around and faced the alley, one arm reaching behind to protect me, the other reaching toward his waist.
Two teenage girls ran past, their high heels clicking on the stone. Michael sighed,