Chapter 18: Row Thirty-Nine

Greer's POV

The lake house had its porch light on, and the smell of onions reached me before I had shut the car door.

I stood on the gravel and counted ten minutes of Rafe behind me.

Then I went in through the kitchen, where the door was open.

Valeria was at the stove in an apron, stirring a pot.

She turned with the wooden spoon in her hand and the old warm smile all over her face.

"You came," she said. "Oh, honey. Sit. It's squash."

"Where's Tate?"

"Michigan City, signing something. He won't be here." She lowered her voice. "I told him I was visiting my mother."

I sat at the table.

She put a bowl in front of me, and I did not pick up the spoon.

"You promised me one thing you never lied about," I said.

"I did."

"Say it."

She wiped her hands on the apron.

"I liked you," she said. "I liked you the whole time. It's why the thirteen years worked. You can't fake that for so long, Greer. People can tell."

It was the truest thing I had heard her say.

It was also exactly what a good liar would say with a pot of soup on the stove.

"That's the thing?" I said.

"It's the only thing."

"Then here is something you didn't know."

I took the folded paper from my coat and laid it flat on the table between the bowls.

It was a color printout of Tate's itinerary, Grand Rapids to Lisbon, one traveler, Sunday.

Beside it, I put hers.

Phoenix, Tuesday, row thirty-nine, a middle seat.

She read the first one with her face smooth.

She read the second, and I watched her mouth.

She did not touch her ear.

She did not touch anything.

"Where did you get these?" she said.

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