Free Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page B

it. Why would I ask?” Sandoval took a couple of steps backward, eyed the door. “It’s not our house anymore. Why does it matter if I know? Why would I need to know?”
    “El, you’ve gotta be quiet.” MaryLou used the edge of the coffee table to pull herself to her feet. She swayed a moment, catching her balance. “This isn’t about us, Officers, and I can’t understand why my husband is—”
    The doorbell rang, the bing-bong chimes now echoing inside the house.
    “Thank heaven.” MaryLou turned toward the door, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Now maybe you’ll finally stop talking.”
    Sandoval put up a hand, a command. “You sit.”
    She sat, the couch cushions adjusting to her weight.
    The doorbell chimed again.
    “You expecting someone?” Jake said.
    *   *   *
    It was way too early to pack. Four days until the weekend. Their weekend. Finally. Jane smiled as she hoisted her black roller bag from the shelf of the front hall closet. It was kind of delicious, choosing what to wear for such an occasion. She and Jake were going for it. Flying out Friday, after the Register ’s deadline. They’d each leave from work as usual, in their own cars, meet at the airport.
    Silly. But necessary.
    The Cape was too risky, too public, they’d decided, everyone from Boston headed south on the weekend. Even this early in the year, from Falmouth to P-town, it’d be packed. But they’d found a not-too-expensive Boston to Bermuda flight. The tickets were purchased, and the hotel booked. Even at Logan Airport they could pretend they weren’t traveling together.
    No more stalling. It had been six months, eight? They’d danced around this. Dated others, briefly and unenthusiastically. Jane, at least, always testing the unfortunate candidate against the template of Jake: his brain, his compassion, his sense of humor. And his body. The challenger always lost, so often Jane felt guilty about continuing. This weekend, she and Jake were—Jane smiled again, or maybe she hadn’t stopped—going for it. It was too difficult, they’d decided, always living in a created reality. Sneaking around was unpleasant. Distressing. Tiring.
    But what could possibly happen to change their situation? Jane couldn’t imagine, now, giving up her job at the paper. She was a journalist, after all, finally back on her feet after the horrible lawsuit. Was she supposed to change careers? And Jake—his grandfather had been police commissioner. Even Jake’s father—so he’d said—teased Jake about his “blue” blood. Jake’s mother was the actual blue blood. It would be pretty fascinating when she and Priscilla Dellacort Brogan finally met.
    Jake would never meet Jane’s mom. She sighed, feeling that familiar wave of memory.
    “Hi, Mom,” she said it out loud, as always, looking at the ceiling. “Missing you. You’d like him.”
    So. It was finally going to happen. Jake and Jane. They’d cross this bridge first. Then, if necessary, cross the next one.
    Coda jumped into her open suitcase, curling up in the middle with her tail carefully wrapped, depositing calico cat hair on the lining and using one paw to bat the crinkling tissue paper Jane always used. Coda would be fine over the weekend, with a stash of cat toys and water, and fed twice a day by the super’s son, Eli, from upstairs. Jane used to pay Eli in LEGOs, the currency of nine-year-olds. This year, turned a “grown-up” ten in March, he wanted scary chapter books, which Jane was happy to provide.
    She extricated Coda from the suitcase, a shred of tissue dangling from one still-extended claw, and closed the top. Jane sat beside it on her bed, and Coda pounced onto her lap.
    “Hey, Codarita.” She stroked the cat, head to tail. “Bermuda. Don’t tell.”
    The glowing green numbers of the clock on her nightstand clicked ahead. After eight thirty? Jane frowned. Her cell phone was in her yoga pants pocket, silent. Not even a text. Where was Jake?
    Coda settled in,