In the Company of Liars by David Ellis Read Free Book Online Page B

smells of olive oil and sausage and garlic mingling. She remembers the way he looked at her.
    There are things you don’t know , he said to her.
    She leaves the patio and takes the phone in the living room. She drops onto the couch and dials the numbers.
    â€œMat, it’s me.”
    â€œWhat’s going on? How are you?”
    â€œI’ll tell you how I am,” she says. “I got a visit yesterday from the FBI. That’s how I am.”
    â€œThe FBI? They came to your—”
    â€œListen to me, Mat. Okay? Just listen, don’t talk.”
    They didn’t used to speak to each other like this, but it’s one of the few perks of being charged with capital murder, lots of freedom with your emotions.
    â€œDo not talk to them under any circumstances,” she says. “If they try to make a deal with you, don’t do it. Donot even say hello to them. Don’t even let them in. Just yell ‘Fifth Amendment’ from behind the door.”
    â€œWith me?” Mat asks. “They’re going to talk to me ?”
    â€œThey wanted to talk about you. They wanted to talk about Divalpro. Just let me take care of this. Don’t you dare talk to them.”
    â€œAlly?” Mat Pagone, her ex-husband, sounds out of breath. “Did you talk to them? About—that?”
    â€œNo, and I’m not going to. And neither are you. Just keep your mouth shut and remember one thing, okay?”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œYour daughter needs at least one parent.” She hangs up the phone and holds her breath.

ONE DAY EARLIER
SATURDAY, MAY 8
    A llison is awake, in the fetal position, when the alarm surprises her at six in the morning. She probably managed a few fitful hours in there somewhere, but it feels like she hasn’t slept at all. It’s not the lack of rest but the sense that time has accelerated from last night to this morning. Everything seems to have quickened these last few weeks. Time flies when you want it to stop.
    Yes, she did sleep, because she dreamt. She spoke to Sam. They were in his bed. Allison was saying to him, Can you believe they think I killed you?
    She stretches, considers going for a jog but opts for coffee instead. She makes her own, with an antique percolator she bought a year ago that reminded her of the coffee in Tuscany. There was a time when she waited anxiously for the brew to be ready, when she was eager to move on with her day. These days, there is little to look forward to. She will drink her coffee, listen to classical music, go on the internet later. Sometimes she even reads the stuff aboutherself. Sometimes she will check out the website devoted to her case, freeallison.com , not for the support—they have no reason to think she’s innocent, they’re simply capitalizing on a media event—but out of idle curiosity. Much heavier on the idleness than the curiosity.
    They had planned to go to Italy, Sam and Allison. A trip this spring, before heavy tourism, to less-traveled places like Poggi del Sasso and Gaiole in Chianti. She had already made plans for it, already booked romantic rooms in renovated castles with verandas where they could sit with wine and cheese and watch the sun go down over the breathtaking countryside.
    â€œOh, God.” She wipes the moisture from her cheeks. “Oh, shit. ” The percolator has been whistling for too long. She pulls it off the stove, burning herself on the handle, spilling the entire thing onto the floor, the coffee that she had burned, anyway. She picks up the percolator and slams it against the refrigerator, breaking the lid off.
    She lets out a loud moan, a deep sound she doesn’t recognize, and covers her face with her hands. She is woozy but unwilling to correct the sensation, unwilling to open her eyes.
    â€œThey think I killed you,” she says to him, and actually laughs, a release of nervous tension. “They actually think I killed