Listen for the Lie(39)

“Bruce,” Betsy says.

“Ben,” I correct, and reach for my water.

“Ben. You know that saying, he had a face for radio?”

I laugh mid-sip, nearly choking on my water.

“Betsy!” Mom exclaims.

“What? We were just talking about it the other day!”

“I’ve heard that, yes.” Ben looks amused.

“You don’t have that. In fact, I’d say it’s a damn shame you decided to work in radio.”

Laughter rises up from the table. Even Dad chuckles.

“Thank you.” Ben reddens like he isn’t often complimented on his good looks. Like he hasn’t visited r/Podcasts on Reddit and seen the threads discussing how cute he is.

“How did you get into that?” Keith asks. “Podcasting?”

“I loved podcasts. I was obsessed with them, actually. Especially true crime. So, I decided to try one myself.”

“Just like that?” Karen asks. “You weren’t even a crime reporter before, were you?” I can tell she doesn’t actually need him to answer this question. She’d googled him extensively earlier. Probably made it all the way to page five.

“No, I covered mostly lifestyle and entertainment as a journalist. True crime was more like a … hobby of mine. I actually had a bunch of cases that I’d dabbled in over the years, participated in those sites online where amateur sleuths try to solve stuff. When I decided to do my first case, I picked the one that I had the most information on already, just to try and make it easier on myself.”

“Did you solve it?” Keith asks.

“Of course he did.” Janice bats his arm. “I told you all about it.”

Keith frowns like he has no memory of that conversation, or maybe most things his wife has said to him.

“I did,” Ben says.

“You remember,” Janice says to her husband. “The teenager who was killed on prom night out in South Carolina. They found her body in the trunk of a teacher’s car, but the guy swore up and down he didn’t do it? Plus he had no motive and an alibi.”

Keith shakes his head, still clueless. “Did he do it?”

“No,” Ben says. “The girl’s boyfriend did. He put her in the trunk because he thought she was flirting with the teacher and maybe something was going on. There wasn’t, as far as I could tell.”

“That was easy though,” Ashley says, eyebrow cocked in a way that seems flirty. “It’s always the boyfriend or the husband.”

Her eyes flick to me and then quickly away.

Always the boyfriend, except when it’s the best friend.

“I have an idea!”

Not now.

“I did have a feeling, going in,” Ben admits.

“Got a feeling this time, Ben?” I ask. “Think you’re going to solve it again?”

“Oh, good, dinner is here,” Mom says loudly. Two waiters walk into the room, plates in arm.

I meet Ben’s gaze. His lips twitch up but he says nothing.

I eat quickly, because the wine really is starting to go to my head. A waiter hovers, ready to refill my glass again at a moment’s notice.

The wine is flowing freely, actually, and I hold mine but don’t drink it as I glance around the table. Keith’s cheeks are red. Ashley is laughing loudly.

I think this is supposed to be fun. Or, perhaps, it is fun. For everyone else. They could take a photo and put it on Instagram—#dinnerparty #sofun #lovemylife—and it wouldn’t be a lie.

“Are you going to write a book, Ben?” Grandma asks, apparently continuing a conversation I wasn’t paying attention to.

“A book? No.” He glances at me. “Someday, I might, but I don’t have any plans right now.”

“People are saying you’re going to.”

“Which people?”

“You know.” She waves her hand. “Twitter.”

“Grandma, you’re on Twitter?” Brian looks so startled that I wonder suddenly what kind of shit he’s been posting on Twitter. Something he doesn’t want his grandma to see, clearly.

“You’re a good writer,” Janice says. “I read some of your pieces in the Atlantic and Vanity Fair.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“Lucy, didn’t you want to be a writer once?” Keith peers at me as if I’ve disappointed him, this relative I barely know. “What ever happened to that?”

I wasn’t that good, I guess, is what I should have said. People love that sort of shit—humility and honesty, tied together to make everyone feel more comfortable after a rude question.

I smile. “Well, you know. No one wants to read a book from a murderer.”

Keith reddens. Dad rolls his eyes.

“Lucy,” Mom says wearily.

“Why didn’t you ever write a memoir?” Ashley’s clearly been waiting all night to ask that question.

“Bit hard to write a memoir about something you don’t remember.”

“You could write about everything else.”

I shrug.

“Let’s kill—”

“You never tell your side of the story,” Ashley presses.

I’ve told it more times than I can count. No one believed me.