Lisa Unger - Sliver Of Truth

If Sarah had saved my message, they’d know there was a bit more to my story than I’d mentioned. But I imagined she would have deleted it, as skittish as she’d seemed.

“So why was Myra Lyall trying to reach you?” said the third guy who’d come in to talk with me. He was older, looked pasty and tired. His belly strained the buttons on his shirt; his gray pants were too short. He’d introduced himself but I’d already forgotten his name. At this point, my depression felt more like apathy.

“I guess for a story she was working on, a profile on Project Rescue babies.”

He looked at me for a second. “That’s where I know your face.”

“That’s right,” I said, yawning in spite of how rude and arrogant it seemed to do so, or maybe because of that. I was so sick of all these cops, playing their stupid games. They all thought they were so savvy, that they knew something about the human condition, that they knew something about me. But they didn’t. They didn’t know the first thing. I’d sat in too many rooms like this since the investigations into Project Rescue began. The process had lost its ability to scare and intimidate me.

The cop kept his eyes on me. They were rimmed red, flat and cold. He was a man who’d seen so much bad, he probably didn’t even recognize good anymore.

“Are you tired, Ms. Jones?”

“You have no idea.”

He gave a little sigh, looked down at his ruined cuticles. Then he looked at me again.

“A girl is dead. Do you care about that at all?”

His question startled me. Of course I cared about that. In fact, if I let myself think on it at all, on my responsibility for what had happened to her, how she was the second person to die in front of me in less than two years, I would crumble into a pile of broken pieces on the floor.

“Of course,” I said softly. The admission brought a pain to my chest and a tightness in my throat. I hoped I wouldn’t cry. I didn’t want to cry. “But I don’t know who killed her or why. I’d only known her for twenty minutes.”

He nodded at me solemnly. He got up and left the room without another word. I folded my arms across the table and rested my forehead there. I tried not to see Sarah collapsing on the street in front of me, tried not to remember the night that Christian Luna had slumped over on the park bench, a perfect red circle in his forehead. I tried not to see the gun and silencer on the trash bag. But of course, all of these images flashed through my mind like some macabre slide show. Those black fingers were slowly tightening their grip around my neck.

The door opened and closed. I gave myself a few seconds before I looked up to see who was next to question me. I never thought I’d be happy to see Dylan Grace, but the sight of him caused every muscle in my body to relax. That’s when I started to cry. Not sobbing, just tearing with a little nose running. He walked over to me and helped me up.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he said quietly.

“You’re not going to cuff me, are you?” I said, wiping my eyes with the tissue he produced from his pocket. I figured that he was taking me into federal custody. I couldn’t think of any other way for him to spring me from the NYPD.

“No. Not if you behave yourself.”

HIS PARTNER, WHOSE name I still didn’t know and didn’t really care to know, escorted me out to the sedan while Agent Grace filled out the necessary paperwork. They were calling me a federal witness, I’d overheard in the discussion between Agent Grace and one of the detectives who had questioned me. I wasn’t sure what that meant.

His partner didn’t talk to me, just opened the back door and closed it once I slid inside. He stood right outside. It was a bright, sunny day, cool and windy. He lit a cigarette with difficulty, then leaned against the trunk. I tried the door handle; it didn’t open from the inside.

AFTER AGENT GRACE got in the car, we drove uptown. I assumed we were heading to the FBI headquarters but eventually I realized we weren’t. I didn’t ask where we were going. I just used the drive to close my eyes and figure out how I was going to get away from these guys in time to get in touch with Grant, and get up to the Cloisters. Believe it or not, it wasn’t even one o’clock in the afternoon yet. I still had time.

When the car came to a stop, I opened my eyes. Agent Grace handed his partner a manila envelope.

“This paperwork needs to be filed,” he said.

“Why do I have to do it?”

“It’s part of your training,” Agent Grace said with a smile. “When you’re training a rookie, then you can get him to go and do your paperwork.”

“Where are you going with the witness?”

I watched their reflection in the rearview mirror, saw resentment on the partner’s face and indifference on Agent Grace’s. Agent Grace got out of the car without a word and then opened the door for me. We were at Ninety-fifth and Riverside. I wasn’t sure what was happening. His partner gave him a dark look through the glass, then pulled out quickly into traffic, tires screeching.

“What are we doing?” I asked him.

“We’re taking a walk,” he said.

I felt my heart start to flutter. I didn’t like Agent Grace’s partner, but he did seem like the “good cop.” He might be personally unpleasant, but he didn’t seem dangerous. I guess I didn’t trust Agent Grace very much. There weren’t many people around us. It was a residential neighborhood, working class, bordering Morningside Heights. Riverside Park is a narrow strip of land nestled between Riverside Drive and the Hudson River. It rests atop a high divide and the highway runs alongside it, down a couple stories below. I could hear the traffic racing by, though a tree cover blocked my view of the road. A couple jogged by us as we walked the path into the park. Other than that, the park and the surrounding neighborhood seemed deserted.

“What are we doing here?” I asked him again, coming to a stop. I didn’t want to walk any farther with him until I understood what he wanted. He stopped, too, put his hands in his pockets, and looked at me. Then he strolled over toward one of the park benches that lined the path and took a seat. Somewhere a car alarm blared briefly, then went silent. I hesitated a second, thought about sitting, then decided to stand.

“Let’s cut the shit, shall we?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just you and me now, Ridley. No one can hear us. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you and I have a common goal. We can help each other.”

I looked up at the trees above us, the blue sky with its high white cirrus clouds. I smelled exhaust and wet grass. I heard a radio playing a salsa tune somewhere.

“I can’t imagine what you think might be our ‘common goal.’”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No.”

“We’re both looking for your father.”

I knew he meant Max, and I hated him for saying it like that. Maybe because it was true. I was looking for my father, literally and figuratively. Maybe I always had been. A denial bloomed in my chest, then lodged in my throat.

“We’re all looking for him,” he went on. “I am, you are, your boyfriend, too.”

“Max is dead.”

“You know what? You might be right. But you still need to find him, don’t you? You still need to know who he was…or who he is.”

I looked anywhere but into his face.

“Do you even know why?” he asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his thighs. I sensed another of those one-sided conversations coming on. “Because until you know, really know, you think you can’t find out the answer to an even more important question. You can’t know who you are. Who is Ridley Jones?”