Keep Them Close(22)

I close my eyes, my body tightening instead of softening. “Not tonight,” I whisper, catching his hand, stilling it. “I’m too tired.”

He pulls back, quiet for a beat. Then, softly, “Things were better for us…after my knee. When I was stuck at home, it felt like we were closer again.” His voice dips lower, wounded. “But these last couple weeks…it’s like you’ve just turned off.”

His words pierce me only because I’m surprised he even noticed. I have turned off. Not suddenly, not without cause, but in the slow, deliberate way you back away from something you know will burn you if you touch it again. Since the night I saw the two of them together through my binoculars across Lake Shore Drive, some three weeks ago, the retreat began.

I roll to face him. His eyes search mine, pleading without saying the words. “It’s not you,” I say, the lie smooth and practiced. “It’s the trial. All the prep, all the weight of it—I can’t shut it off. It’s taking everything out of me. And now Luke? It’s a lot. It’s…too much.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. He nods slowly, though his hand slips back to his own side of the bed. The space between us feels wider than it is.

And in that silence, the irony claws at me. The one thing I promised I’d never do is keep secrets in my marriage. Fin did, and that, as much as anything, even as much as the adultery itself, caused our undoing. But now I’m doing the same thing, holding close to my vest my decision to leave him. The words sit heavy on my tongue, aching to be spoken, but not now.

“I just don’t want to lose you in all this,” he says quietly.

I wonder if that’s true. Am I still important to him? Does he still want me? Is he able to compartmentalize the cheating from our life together, as if the one doesn’t affect the other? Or is this just another version of so many couples who stay together not because they’re in love, not because they can’t live without each other, but because the alternative is too scary or too uncomfortable?

My throat burns as I force out, “You won’t.” Another lie.

I turn back onto my pillow, facing the dark, listening to his steady breathing, while mine stays shallow, restless.

Bad things happen when you lie.





17


Luke

“People versus Luke Rankin,” the clerk calls out, followed by a docket number. I peek back at the gallery. Other than Finley, seated in the front row, there is only a spatter of people here to watch.

Allison gets to her feet. “Good morning, Your Honor. Allison Brice for the defendant.”

This is the “preliminary hearing,” when the state is required to show probable cause to charge me with my crime. It’s a mere formality, Allison has told me, all but a foregone conclusion that the court will find probable cause.

“Bruce Ghadiali for the State.”

The prosecutor makes a good first impression, a tall, lean man with tightly cut hair of salt and pepper. Allison predicted there would be a different lawyer today, a simple function of the division of labor in the state’s attorney’s office. But one look at this guy and I suspect it’s more than that. They’ve seen the media reports. They’ve upped their game. This is a senior lawyer in the office, stepping in to make sure the office puts its best foot forward.

“We’re up on a preliminary hearing. State? Ready to proceed?” The judge is a man named Robert Archibald, with silver hair and a narrow, chiseled face.

“Yes, Your Honor. State calls Trooper Eric Langley.”

The trooper, sitting in the front row, assumes the witness stand and is sworn in. He looks younger in this setting than he did when he pulled me over. The uniform looks as silly as ever.

He gives his name and badge number. He’s been a state trooper for over six years.

“Turn your attention to Monday, February sixteenth, of this year,” says the prosecutor. “Who did you work for that day?”

“Illinois State Police, Troop 3,” he says. “I was assigned to Crim Pat.”

“Crime patrol?”

“Yes, the Crime Patrol Unit. I was on duty that day patrolling Interstate 57.”

“In a marked or unmarked vehicle?”

“Marked.”

“At approximately eleven a.m., did you conduct a traffic stop of a blue Toyota Corolla?”

“Yes, traveling southbound. I activated my lights and executed the stop.”

“Did you activate your body-worn camera?”

“I did.”

“Do you see in court today the individual who was driving the Corolla?”

“Stipulate to identification,” Allison says without even looking up.

“The record will reflect an in-court identification of the defendant,” says the judge.

That’s me, the “defendant.” Can’t they just say my name? Do I have to wear a pejorative label instead of just “Luke” or “Mr. Rankin”?

The prosecutor, Ghadiali, reviews his notes. “Did you come to learn whether the defendant was the owner of this vehicle?”

“I learned he was not. The car was registered to someone else, a Trinity Casto. The defendant informed me that he was running an errand for her.”

“I see. Did you seek consent to search the vehicle?”