Oh, so that’s it! I whooped to myself. Maybe Dan really was just crazy worried about me! Maybe the fact that he couldn’t reach me on the phone sent him into such an insecure and jealous spin that he jumped in his car and drove here in a possessive rage. Maybe he’s just as nuts about me as I am about him!

And maybe he doesn’t know anything about the murder after all…

“I was with Abby all day and night,” I told him. “We had breakfast at her apartment yesterday morning (true), and we messed around the Village for a while (true-if you can call our mission to the Sixth Precinct police station ‘messing around,’ which, in the meddlesome sense of the phrase, it kind of was), and then, in the afternoon, we went to the Waverly to see

Dial M For Murder (total lie, except for the title of the movie and the name of the theater where it was, in truth, playing). We had pizza for dinner at Abby’s apartment (true), and after that we went to watch her boyfriend Jimmy perform his inspiring Independence Day poem at the Vanguard (also true, except for the ‘inspiring’ part).”

A lot more Trues than Falses, wouldn’t you say?

I took a deep breath, proudly stuck out my chin and asked, “Anything else you want to know?” I almost added the word “buster,” but thought better of it.

“Yeah,” he said, not missing a beat. “Why did you tell me your phone was out of order when it wasn’t?”

Uh oh! How did he find out about that?

There was no point in contradicting him. (Unlike

some people I know, Dan’s a confirmed straight shooter. He wouldn’t make such a bold, accusatory inquiry unless he knew it was legit.) I was stuck. I had to come clean (sort of).

“You probably won’t understand,” I mumbled, “but I let you believe my phone was out of order because I knew I was going to be out of the apartment a lot-missing most, if not all, of your calls-and I didn’t want you to worry about me.” I was aware of how lame that would sound to him, but it was the only excuse I could think of on such short notice. And besides, every single word of it was true. (It was all the words I left out that would have caused a problem.)

“You bet I don’t understand!” Dan said, dropping his fist down hard on the tabletop. “Whatever made you think that a goddamn lie was going to keep me from worrying?”

“I didn’t really lie to you!” I protested. “You jumped to the conclusion that my phone was out of order yourself, and I just let you believe it.”

“But why? Why didn’t you simply tell me that you weren’t going to be home? Then I wouldn’t have had to keep calling and calling and wondering if you were okay. I wouldn’t have been worried at all.”

“That’s what you say now, but when we spoke on Saturday night, I had the impression that you were vexed about not being able to get in touch with me, and more than a little concerned about how I was going to be spending the rest of the holiday.” (I didn’t actually use the word “jealous.” Why threaten his pride and arouse his masculine ego? I had enough hard feelings to deal with already!)

I must have hit a nerve, because for a second Dan looked as though he would accept my explanation. He softened his eyes, relaxed his scowl, and took a deep swig of ice water, clearly giving more thought to the matter. But then his scowl came back, and his eyes narrowed into slits, and he twisted his luscious mouth in a knowing (i.e., nasty) smirk.

“Nice try, Paige,” he said, “but your cover-up won’t work. You’ve been lying through your teeth all along. You told me two phone company trucks were sitting outside your apartment. You made references to melted cables and blown-out gaskets. You said phone company workers had been hanging around your block for two days. If those weren’t lies, then what do you call them? Misinterpretations?” There was enough sarcasm in his voice to sink a ship.

“I… uh… well, I was just trying to-”

“Stop it!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the table again. “I don’t have the energy to listen to any more of your crap. You must think I’m a total moron, the way you keep telling me one cock-and-bull story after another. But I’ve got news for you, Paige. I’m

not a moron. I’m a trained, experienced, and well-connected NYPD detective. It took me all of two minutes to contact the phone company and find out that no repair work was being done in your area-and that your own phone was in perfect working order.”

“Yes, but I-”

“So now it’s official,” he barreled on, ignoring my attempts to explain. He looked tireder and sadder than I’d ever seen him look before. “You’re a liar and a fake. And nothing you can say or do will change those facts-or the way I feel.”

“Oh, no, Dan! Please don’t say that! Please let me tell you-”

“No, that’s enough.” He scraped his chair away from the table, rose to his feet, stuffed his pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and turned toward the door. “If you have any more song and dance acts you’d like to perform, I’d thank you to wait until I’m gone.”

“You’re leaving?” I whimpered, in shock.

“As fast as I can,” he said, walking over to the door and pulling it open.

“No! Wait! Please don’t go! Just give me one more chance. I swear I’ll tell you the truth about everything!”

“It’s too late, Paige,” he said, withering my soul with his weary goodbye glance. “I don’t care anymore.”

Chapter 18

DAN HAD WALKED OUT ON ME BEFORE. Several times. And always for the same reason: My willingness to lie to him while I was working on a dangerous murder story. I’d spent untold hours wracking my brain and crying my heart out, trying to find a solution to this pressing problem, but it was no use. There

was no solution. Dan was never going to accept my dogged pursuit of the facts at the expense of my own safety, so I was always going to have to dodge the truth to keep him happy (unless I quit my job and gave up my lifelong career goals-which I definitely did not want to do).

But no matter how many battles and breakups we’d suffered as a result of this predicament, something had always drawn Dan and me back together in the past. Our mutual physical attraction had proved unshakable, and our more emotional attachments-i.e., our sincere affection and grudging respect for each other-had compelled us to stay connected. And even though Dan hated, hated,

hated to be lied to (you can blame his lying, unfaithful ex-wife for that near-phobic obsession), I had always had the feeling that-way down deep in his secret heart-he understood my basic motives and would eventually forgive me.

But I didn’t feel that way this time.

This time was different.

Two seconds after Dan stormed out, I ran to the window and snapped open the shade, praying with all my might that when Dan reached the street he would look up and wave at me the way he usually did (when he wasn’t mad at me, I mean). But that didn’t happen, of course. The instant Dan stepped through the door of my building to the sidewalk, he made a sharp right turn and walked briskly away toward Jones Street, where he often parked his car. His eyes were glued to the cement.

And mine were gushing with tears.

Oh, Lord! What’s happening? I sobbed to myself. Is this the way it’s going to end? Has Dan left me for good this time? Will I ever see him again?

I was bereft. I felt more desolate and alone than I’d ever felt in my life (except for the hideous blur of time following my notification of Bob’s death in Korea). I curled myself up in a ball on the couch, hugged my knees in close to my chest, and, wailing like an inconsolable baby, replayed the last few moments of Dan’s dramatic exit scene over and over in my mind.

He had seemed far more sad than angry, I recalled, hugging my knees tighter and wailing even louder. Rather than looking as if he wanted to kill me, he had looked as though he’d just lost his best friend. That was not a good sign. And what had he said when I begged him to stay and hear my confession? “It’s too late,” he’d insisted. “I don’t care anymore.”