♥
*
Misty looked at the Sheriff and tried to judge what he was thinking. Tried to figure out where she could get around him. He was a surprising man. Misty had never, at least in her memory, had a high opinion of men. The work that she continued, even after her incident, had never been able to reinforce their usefulness, outside of what you could gain from them.
Sheriff Grant Holloway offered her something that was immediately, manifestly clear. He had the power to protect her from her handlers. Whatever she'd done to cause them to turn on her, she didn't have time to consider. She had to live through the pursuit first, and that had been a challenge since it began.
The fact that she had apparently returned to some place from her old life was a wrinkle that she hadn't foreseen. It must have been some part of her subconscious, procedural memory. The same way that she remembered how to fire a pistol, how to get what she wanted from men using her powers of persuasion.
She didn't know what to call it or what caused it, but she knew that she remembered things that she couldn't explain. And every time it happened, it was upsetting.
She looked Grant in the eyes and tried to judge whether or not he was ever going to stop asking her questions that she didn't have answers to.
"Sheriff, the place I worked wasn't important."
"It is important," he said, "if you want me to believe your story."
She pursed her lips. "The man pursuing me is…"
She let out a breath. She'd thought up a lie already. The drip-feeding of details was part of the plan. But things felt off already. The feeling of being in a place with history in her life, a history that she couldn't remember, and had only the ability to try to guess at, was starting to eat at her.
"Yes?"
She realized that she'd fallen silent, and that long seconds had passed since she'd last spoken. It was a challenge to be able to keep her focus, but somehow she had to manage. And at the same time, she had to make him feel as if he'd been forcing her to tell information that she didn't want to tell. The distinction between that and a lie was the most important part of the lie.
Anyone could tell when you were giving information that you were somehow uncomfortable with. The television shows that she'd caught glimpses of, and the polygraph test, all assumed that people were uncomfortable with lying, and they were comfortable with telling the truth.
On a subconscious level, ignoring all other factors, that is basically true. But the deeper truth is that people don't like telling the truth when it hurts, or when it eats at them. So they fool the polygraph and the examiner by doing exactly the opposite of being forced to face the truth: they make up a false reality, and they believe it.
If she did her job right, and she had woken with no memories of who she was, but the sure knowledge how to do the job she needed to do now, then she could pretend that it hurt her more to tell the truth than it did not to.
"The man was my boyfriend," she said. It was a deviation from the plan. Something about it felt right, and a moment later there was a flicker in the Sheriff's eyes that told her that she'd made the right decision in making it. He looked at her hard, seeming to try to judge what to believe. The truth was that he shouldn't have believed any of it, and they both knew it. But he tried to believe her, God love him.
"Okay, does your boyfriend have a name?"
"He's not my boyfriend any more."
"Okay, then. Ex-boyfriend," the Sheriff said. He looked at her with studied neutrality. It was an expression she'd seen plenty of times, from men who weren't available, because if they weren't neutral, then they'd be interested. And they weren't allowed to be interested. And yet, his finger didn't have a ring on it. Just a light-colored stripe around, as if there were a particular lack of ring there.
"He's a Chief, in the Navy."
"You said Army."
"I was being vague," she said. "And I wanted to keep him out of it."
"Why's that?"
"Because he's a Chief," Misty told him. He looked dubious.
"You must not know Navy guys," she said lightly. "He might as well be royalty to the enlisted guys."
"Yeah?" The Sheriff set his pen on top of his pad and leaned in. "Well, does this royalty have a name?"
"Joseph," she said. "Joe. Joe Greene."
He picked the pen back up and wrote it down. It was the first thing that he'd written down. "CPO Joseph Green". That was the information that she wanted him to retain, anyways. It was one of the few things that dovetailed nicely into the truth. There was a CPO Green, and he was involved with the men after her. She neglected to mention his CIA connections because they weren't relevant, and because they weren't going to turn up on any search of government records that a Sheriff could do.
"So you changed your story there," the Sheriff said. "You said he was just some creep who got the hots for you at your work, as a dancer."
"I did."
"And now you're telling me that he was your boyfriend."
"Are the two mutually exclusive?"
"So you're saying you did date a customer, but…"
"But eventually, I was tired of the relationship. He seemed to think that because he was an E-7 and I was a dancer, he owned me. He could use me however he wanted."
"So leave him."
"I did," Misty said. She looked into his eyes. "I'm not some battered housewife, Sheriff. I'm not convinced that the whole thing was really my fault, if you look at it right. I'm not afraid to go home. I'm afraid of being here."
"Because of your Navy boyfriend?"
"Because of his connections," Misty said firmly. "Because he and his friends decided to come after me."
"And you saw one in Boise?"
"I think I saw one in Boise. Like I said before–"
"I know. You didn't want to make sure."
"So what's the problem then?"
"The problem," he said, letting out a breath, "is that I don't believe you."
"No?"
"No," Sheriff Holloway said. "I think you're leaving out details where you don't want me to look, for one. But I think that's a trick. I think you're changing the details you do tell me, too. You figure that if I dig in on the spaces, I'll get committed to the filled-in parts, no problem."
"You're very sure of yourself," Misty said mildly.
"Do you want to start telling me the truth?"
She looked at him and thought about it. And thought about how she could break through that exterior of his. And then she started to cry.
It was a trick that worked all the time. Usually she didn't feel quite as inspired to make it feel real. Because usually she wasn't low on sleep, and high on panic. Usually, she was just doing it as a ploy. In this case, though, she had a good reason to cry. Because she was starting to run real low on options, and the time that she had to make more was getting shorter and shorter.
So she did the one thing that you never do, when you concoct a lie and try to force it through: she broke character. And she sobbed.
Misty Glenn was not a woman who was comfortable and easy-going with her emotions. But panic overwhelmed everyone, from the weak to the toughest sons of bitches that ever walked the earth.
It didn't hurt that crying was the easy way to get sympathy from the Sheriff.
"I'm sorry for lying," she said. She wasn't. But it was a good start to the story she had to tell. It got him on her side, and it admitted that the stuff that had come before was a fabrication.
"Apology accepted," the Sheriff said. Like it was a joke. She guessed that it probably was intended as one.
"I can't tell you who I'm running from."
"No?"
"I told you one name," she said. "And that's what I can do."
"Why?"
"Because there's things at work here that you don't know about," she said. She made a show of trying to compose herself. "Things I'm not supposed to talk about."
"What kind of things? Give me a hint."
"The kind of things that people say, 'I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you' when you ask about them."
"What, some kind of spy game thing?"
She let her shoulders rack as she sobbed. She liked the theater of it, because it worked, and because it let her believe that she was faking the whole thing. That there was nothing real at all about the act. She was good at fooling other people; she was not very good at fooling herself. In either case, she tried.
"So you've got, what? The CIA after you?"
She let her head fall into her hands and sobbed. Across the table, the Sheriff continued not to write anything down. It was a bad sign.
"You're free to stay here until you've regained your composure," he said. Misty kept crying. She softened. "But that's all."
She cried harder again. "Can– I– please– have– a glass– of water?" The sobs caught between the words and tugged at her lungs. He turned and walked across the room, bent over a water cooler, and poured out a cup for her. She took it and drank.
"Look, you might not remember, it being so long ago and all," the Sheriff said to her. "But I used to know you, when you lived here."
She knew that, from the way he'd acted. From the way that he made a point of the fact that she didn't remember, the connection was either a brief one, in passing, or it hurt him that she didn't remember. It hurt her, too, though it wasn't the pain of a missed connection.
She drank a sip from the cup and rubbed at her eyes. He watched her. His jaw tightened when he thought she couldn't see.
"I'm sorry. I just… I don't remember."
"So I can't keep you here. Because I don't believe you."
"I'm sorry I lied before," Misty started.
"I'm not buying it," he said. "But I'll tell you what, okay? I'm hungry."
"What?"
"So I'm going to catch some supper. And you're free to join me. My treat. For old times' sake."
"Oh, you don't have to," she started. It was a standard refusal, and one that most people would have ignored. She hoped that the Sheriff was most people, but he had already seen through several layers of bullshit, in spite of her best efforts. Maybe it was the circumstances that had her off-balance. Maybe he was just more shrewd than his fellow officers.
"I'm not going to insist," he said. "But you're welcome to come along. I'm going to get my coat. You finish up that cup of water, and I'll stop back in to see how you're doing. One way or another, we're leaving together. Whether you join me for supper is up to you, but you're not staying."
"Okay," she said. Her stomach twisted. She finished the cup while he was gone, and stood up. Waited. He checked in on her, like he said he would. She tried to look put-back-together.
"Come on," he said. He led her through the station to the front lobby. He said a few words to the Deputy behind the desk, and then he escorted Misty right out the door. "You want to eat, or you want to keep moving?"
"I'll eat," she told him. "If it's with you."
He stopped. She kept going.
"I'm not playing that game, sister," he said. "You're not playing that with me."
Misty turned. She looked at his face. He was stony-faced. She wondered if he was hiding anger behind that mask. She wondered what made him so angry. She would find out eventually, she guessed. It was just a matter of time.
"What's the problem?"
"I'm not some kind of mark," he said. "I'm not going to be taken in."
"I'm sorry," she said again. She kept all the doubt in her voice.
"I don't think you are," the Sheriff said. "Maybe I shouldn't take you out."
"Why?"
"Because you're trying to play me," he said. "You think you can get something out of me."
"What? How would I do that?"
"I don't know what your plan was. Maybe you were going to play the damsel in distress. Maybe you were going to play sex-pot. Maybe all kinds of things. But I'm telling you now. Dinner, and that's it."
"Okay," Misty said. "Then I'll stop trying."
She gave a smile. It was oddly liberating. She didn't have to be guarded. Sure, every part of her life was a secret. She couldn't tell him why she didn't remember anything, because it was humiliating. She couldn't tell him what had happened since she remembered, because it would be a federal crime.
What she could do, though, was be herself. And that was something that she hadn't been able to do as long as she remembered. It was strange.
"You're trying something else, aren't you? You're giving me a look."
"I'm not trying anything," she said. "I just thought that a meal with someone, a meal where I could relax for a little while, it might be nice."
He looked at her face hard, and Misty realized that she was wrong. He hadn't seen through her lies before. He didn't know her tells better than anyone else. He'd guessed that she was a good liar. It was a good guess. Everything after that had been suspect, and the fact that he happened to be right was a coincidence. Something in the back of his mind, though, continued to suspect that she was a better liar than he guessed.
"You're trying to guess what I'm going to try next," she said. The Sheriff didn't deny it. "Well, you can stop trying. I'm just going to move on. If you saw through it, then that doesn't mean the next guy will. Eventually, I'll find someplace to go, and I'll get myself clear of this mess. You can rest easy."
"Fine," he said. He opened the passenger seat of his car. She slipped inside. He went around front, and got in the other side.
"So this Chief Petty Officer Greene. He's not your boyfriend?"
"Boyfriend?" She laughed. "Hardly."
He pulled out of the spot, out of the lot. Into the street. He seemed to be debating something in the back of his mind. That was what she wanted. So for a little while, Misty hoped, she could be happy. Continued debate was always good, when you were on the losing side of the argument.
Even if it were just about where to eat dinner, it meant that the other person's mind was in motion, and things that were in motion were the easiest to divert. If the opportunity never arose, then she had told the truth. She wasn't looking to pull a fast one.
But just because she wasn't looking didn't mean that she wouldn't take the opportunity if it presented itself.