The King of Lies by John Hart

at the car.
    “Don’t go,” she said.
    I didn’t turn around. She put one hand on my shoulder, the other on the side of my neck, where heat still burned. She laid her face upon my back, and I hesitated. I wanted no one thing in my life more than to stay, but she wanted too much. Truth was not my friend.
    “Please don’t make me beg,” she said, and I knew how much the words cost her. But I didn’t turn around; I couldn’t—one look at her and I would stay. And I wanted to; that’s what killed me. If possible, I would never leave, but I needed my anger. I couldn’t give it up.
    “I’m sorry, Vanessa. I shouldn’t have come at all.”
    She didn’t try to stop me as I got into the car. I backed away without looking at her. I drove too fast, wheels loose in the gravel. I kept my eyes down and didn’t look up until I was almost to the bend in the road. Then I saw her in the mirror, on her knees in the dust, face buried in her rough farm-girl hands. She looked small. She looked crushed.
    My anger drained away and left me shaken to the core. She was the only woman I’d ever loved, and this was all she had of me, a palmful of dusty tears.
    Sweet Lord, I thought. What have I done?

CHAPTER 9
    I  stopped at the paved road, as sick as if I’d just stepped on a baby bird. I couldn’t bear to think about what had just happened, but it was in me now, inescapable. I felt her tears, her fingers, so light on my neck, and the plane of her cheek against my back. I reached for something solid: the wheel, the dash, the clock that read just after four. I took a deep breath and put the car back into gear. Then I remembered Detective Mills and our three o’clock meeting. Somewhere between cheating on my wife and destroying the woman I loved, I’d forgotten about it.
    I stepped on the gas. The road ran black beneath me. I recognized a song on the radio and wondered when I’d turned it on. I punched at the button as hills rolled past on greased tracks and farmland fell away. Trailer parks and strip malls sprang up to follow me as I drove back into town, the smell of sex on me like a scarlet letter. I called the house to see if Barbara was there and hung up when she answered. Her voice was like syrup, and I considered speaking, just to see if it would sour; but if so, it would sour with questions I was not prepared to answer. I needed to calm down, get a grip. Chill the fuck out.
    At the office, I used Ezra’s shower to rinse sin from my flesh and wondered how many times he’d used it for the same purpose. Never, I thought. Ezra knew women but never knew guilt. Did I envy that in him? No. I nourished my guilt for the soul that it implied, and as I left, I gave Ezra’s safe the finger. Fuck everybody. I needed some Work time. Maybe I’d get a dog after all.
    Outside, I made it to my car before I saw movement from the corner of my eye. I spun around.
    “I saw your car.” It was Douglas, the district attorney. He looked tired, his eyes puffy above a nose the color of old wine. He looked at me strangely and I wondered if he’d been drinking. “You didn’t answer my knock, so I waited.”
    I said nothing. For some reason, my heart refused to slow down. He walked across the ten feet that separated us, stopping just before he got too close. His eyes moved over me, taking in my wet hair and disheveled clothes. I felt heat in my cheeks but couldn’t stop the flush. Douglas was a hard man to lie to. “Everything okay?” he asked, shoving a piece of gum into his mouth.
    “Yes,” I said, finding my voice. “Yes.” I knew I was repeating myself.
    “I ask because I just got off the phone with Detective Mills. She says you’d better be dead already. It’s the only excuse that she’ll accept.” His eyes glittered more than twinkled and I realized they were his black eyes, his courtroom eyes. “Are you dead?” he asked.
    “Close,” I said, and tried a smile that died on the vine. “Look, I’m sorry about not meeting