Ruin Falls by Jenny Milchman Page A

finish.
    “Two things,” Grayson said. “One took place that day, one a little later. First, when your husband went to check on the children’s belongings—”
    It was Liz’s turn to break in. “He lied. He did take their things with him.”
    Of course he would have. Paul hated waste. Especially when the items to be squandered had been made by what he called overseas slave labor. Clothes so cheap they were painless to replace when outgrown or lost or their wearer just took a sudden dislike.
    “No.” Grayson spoke over the voice in her head. “He was smart enough not to do that. Everything was pretty much left intact, except the doll.” He paused, as if aware that his words would cause pain. “It was that your husband didn’t check in an authentic way. At least that’s how it looked to the officer we sent to watch him. Your husband looked like he knew what he’d find before he went rifling through it.”
    Liz realized she hadn’t blinked. The light blinded her, bringing on a sting of tears, and she forced herself to shut her eyes. “What was the other thing?”
    Grayson hesitated. “An eyewitness came forward. Kind of a strange man; there was a delay before he reported what he’d seen. According to the hotel, he doesn’t speak much outside of his required duties. But he observed your husband escorting the children out in the middle of the night.”
    “What?” Sunlight broke over her, a million flashing pieces. “Who did?”
    Grayson’s breath emerged audibly. “We’ve already checked him out, Mrs. Daniels. An employee of the hotel who was working the night shift.”
    Liz didn’t have to speak; the pressure of her question ballooned in the air between them.
    Grayson paused, checking his notes or maybe the report.
    “His name is Larry Arnold,” he said at last. “He’s a bellhop.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    H ow stupid Paul had been to flip that lock on the top of the door. Liz had been thinking of the mistake as just an unthinking, automatic gesture, the act of a man who spent much of his life in books and research, in his head, rather than staging crime scenes. Or else it had been some kind of telltale-heart tic, an admission to the world of his guilt. But now she wondered if her husband hadn’t in fact made several errors out of naiveté and lack of cunning, and if one of them might actually help her.
    She started the car. The temperature inside had climbed to a broil during her conversation, and Liz’s skin felt slick, her shirt wetted through. Praying she could find her way back along the tangle of roads, she left Matthew and Mary’s farm behind in a yellow storm cloud of dust.
    The hotel staff remembered her at first glance, and appeared both apologetic and relieved when they informed her that Larry Arnold wasn’t scheduled to work that day.
    Liz had dashed inside from the parking lot and her heart was beating fast enough to interrupt speech. “I don’t suppose—would it be possible—can you give me his phone number?”
    The woman behind the front desk traded looks with the man. “Larry doesn’t really talk to strangers.” She rolled her eyes, then seemed to remember why Liz was asking, and quickly looked away.
    “I can call him,” the male employee offered. He tapped a few keys on his computer. “No harm in trying. What do you want me to say?”
    “Ask him—” Liz was attempting to catch her breath while wondering what it was about Larry Arnold that Grayson and the hotel staff all seemed to know. She supposed that she too had sensed something off about the man. “Please ask if he’d be willing to meet with me.”
    She registered the fact that the phone had been answered, and that this appeared to surprise the desk clerk. Also that Larry Arnold seemed to be agreeing to her request.
    Starbucks , she mouthed to the clerk. As she started to run again, she called over her shoulder, “The one in the next mall over.”
    If Liz thought honestly about their lives, Paul had been preparing