Lie, Lie Again - Stacy Wise Page 0,115

left.

Riki tucked herself into a corner of the sofa, wishing she could close her eyes and wake up at home. Or transport myself back to the passenger side of Dr. Hart’s car. What if he had suggested taking her to his place when she admitted she didn’t know how to get back to hers? Why don’t you come home with me until you can reach your friends? I live alone and would love a dinner companion. I’m making pasta primavera with buttery garlic bread. Because of course he could cook. This was her fantasy.

Are you sure? she’d ask.

Very. He’d smile, and his eyes would shine.

And when they arrived, his house would be big and pretty, with sweeping views of the snowy mountain. He’d start a fire and get her settled on a sofa—not unlike this one—and then ease her Ugg boots from her feet.

If only. She shook her head. What a stupid thought. She’d never see the guy again. And if he was that nice to her, chances were he had loads of women vying for his attention. He probably had a darling girlfriend who was also a doctor. They would ski and rock climb together. And Riki was a hopeless klutz. She thought about calling her mom but instead began scrolling through her emails. Two from Elliott Johanson, Dane’s dad. Her happy thoughts about the doctor were washed away by a bitter dread.

She opened the first one in the chain and began reading.

Dear Miss McFarlan,

I have tried to remain impartial as things have cropped up in recent weeks. However, your complete and utter lack of discretion in passing out prizes deeply concerns me. How can you justify giving a seven-year-old such a prize? My only hope is that this was something that belonged to you, and it accidentally ended up in the prize box.

However, before dispensing any sort of prize, previewing the said items would be prudent. The fact that you didn’t (and I’m assuming you did not, based on the prize) shows a wanton disregard for your students’ mental health. I’ve attached a photo below. My wife and I haven’t decided what our next step is, but we wanted to give you an opportunity to respond first.

I hope to hear from you soon, as I am deeply concerned.

Regards,

Elliott Johanson,

Senior Managing Partner

Johanson and Wolfe, LLP

What had she given Dane? She tried to remember, but it had gone so quickly with kids grabbing toys from the box of prizes Mrs. Fitzsimmons had left behind. What could be so bad? An outdated book? She scrolled farther and opened the photo.

It revealed a round fabric dartboard with three little Velcro balls stuck to it. Huh. What was so wrong with that? It wasn’t like it had real darts that could hurt someone. She zoomed in on the photo, and gooseflesh sprang across her arms. Words were in each spot instead of numbers. BLOW IN MY EAR, HUG ME, TELL ME A HOT SECRET. And in the center—the winning heart-shaped spot—were the words HOME RUN.

Despite her horror at the thing, nervous laughter consumed her until she was swiping tears from her eyes. The absurdity of it all. How did this get in the box? She couldn’t imagine sweet old Mrs. Fitzsimmons buying this. It had to have been a donation that she’d never looked at.

She began her response.

Dear Mr. Johanson,

I’m so embarrassed and terribly sorry! The teacher whose class I took over left the box of prizes for me, and I assumed they were all fine for the children. I’ll know better to check each and every one carefully next time. From the wrapping, I assumed it was an innocent dartboard. My deepest apologies. I will let Dane pick a new prize on Monday. Thank you for bringing this to my immediate attention. Again, I’m very sorry.

Best wishes,

Miss McFarlan

Before hitting “Send,” she remembered there had been another email. She opened the next one, skimming quickly. Mr. Johanson wondered why she wasn’t responding. The time stamp was from yesterday at four o’clock. Oh, jeez. More than twenty-four hours had passed. Nonetheless, she hit “Send” on the email. She would say that she was out of town and her Wi-Fi was acting funny—that she’d tried to send it Friday afternoon. Besides, they couldn’t possibly expect her to be on the clock seven days a week.

But a little voice in her mind said, Yes, they do!

She scrolled to her most recent emails, and just as she feared, there was another that caused heat to creep through