Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,137

remembering the subtle but undeniable—to me, anyway—shift in our relationship the night before. It hadn’t been much at all, just a light stroke down my arm, but it had electrified me and I was certain there’d been more than friendship behind it. You didn’t touch your friends that way.

“I have something for you,” he said, setting down one of the wall texts.

I walked over to his table. “What?” I asked, curious.

He tore a piece of paper from the notepad on his table and held it out to me. “Emily Maxwell’s address and phone number,” he said.

Stunned, I kept my hands by my sides. “You’re kidding.”

He reached over to lift my hand, then pressed the paper into my palm. I lowered my gaze to it. Emily Maxwell, 5278 Kellerman Road, Apex, North Carolina. There was a phone number as well.

“How did you get this?” I asked.

“A friend who’s a state employee got it for me. She said it was easy.”

“I don’t think I can…” My voice trailed off. I bit my lip and looked down at him. “Do you think I’m a coward?” I asked.

“I don’t think I’m in a position to judge.” His expression was sober. “I don’t know how I’d feel in your shoes.” He nodded toward the slip of paper in my hand. “But now there’s nothing standing in your way if you decide you want to talk to her.”

“Thank you,” I said, then gave him a weak smile. “I think.”

I buried the paper in my jeans pocket and headed for my seat on the floor in front of the mural. The scrap of paper seemed to burn through the fabric of my jeans. I could feel it there. The paper might have had Emily’s address on it, but it didn’t tell me what I needed to know. How was she? How horrendously had we destroyed her life?

I did my best to return my focus to my work. The gallery was utterly silent now that Adam and Wyatt had all the art installed. I knew they wouldn’t be in today, and I hoped they’d remember their promise to show up early tomorrow morning to get the mural stretched and hung. I would have to work all night to have it ready for them, but then my job would be over.

Anyone else who looked at the mural this morning would probably think the restoration was complete, but in my eyes, that lower right-hand corner still screamed, “Finish me.” I had less than twenty-four hours to do so … and that was if I took no time out to eat or sleep.

I mixed my paint, added it to my palette, and was once again working on the grass of the Mill Village when Lisa arrived.

“Hi, you two,” she said. “Oliver, I’ve got to get to the office, but I just stopped in to let you know I contacted the Charlotte Observer about the mural and Anna Dale’s story. I’m hoping they’ll send a reporter and we can get some word of mouth going about the gallery.” She looked at her phone. “The caterer finally has his act together, as far as I can tell. But I owe the fact that we can open on Sunday to you two.”

I turned to see Lisa looking directly at me, a mix of genuine gratitude and worry in her face. “It’ll be finished,” I said, assuring myself as much as I was her.

“Get out of here, Lisa,” Oliver said. “Everything’s under control.”

It was nearly noon when Oliver finished hanging all the wall texts. He walked over to where I was still inpainting blades of grass. Reaching toward me, he popped out one of my earbuds. “You’ve been sitting here for hours,” he said, bending over to pry the brush from my stiff hand. I was too tired to offer much resistance. “I’ll take over while you stretch your legs. There’s food in the kitchen, and the art is on the walls. Go enjoy it. The rooms look pretty incredible now that they’re full.”

My body seemed frozen in place in front of the mural. I looked up at him. Pointed to the brush in his hand. “That’s my job,” I said.

“Do you mind if I help?”

I thought about it. I was hot, tired, and hungry. Pointing to the color I’d mixed on my palette, I said, “This is what I’m using on the shaded area of the grass.”

“Got it.” He held his free hand out to me and I rose stiffly to my feet. “Take