Every Last Lie by Mary Kubica

Author:Mary Kubica
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Harlequin Enterprises, Australia Pty Ltd
Published: 2017-08-20T04:00:00+00:00

NICK

BEFORE

June arrives, bringing with it all the heat and humidity of a typical summer in Chicagoland. Overnight, the mercury on the thermometer soars to eighty-some degrees in a climate known for having two seasons: hot and cold. I make the difficult decision to switch on the air conditioners in our home and the practice, though my mind calculates the sum of the rising cost of the electricity bills already, anxious long before they come. With the arrival of June, a lease payment was due, an imposing number that boggles my mind. I didn’t have it to spare, though I was able to maneuver an extension of fifteen days. It buys me time. I’m hoping that by the fifteenth of June I have enough saved up.

But I’m not just thinking about this lease payment; I’m considering the bigger picture. I’m thinking of ways to save on rent and other expenses. Without Connor my patient load is again nearing full, though I’m waiting on pins and needles for some sort of discriminatory discharge lawsuit to arrive from a disgruntled Dr. C, as I’m sure it will. I’ve tried calling him to talk it out. Many times. He won’t return my calls.

The good news is that I’ve been doing well on the offtrack betting, though it’s a slow accumulation, thanks to daily limits imposed on the online gambling site, a gradual buildup of money that I hope amounts to something before a complaint arrives from Melinda Grey. I’ve advanced from merely horse racing to placing bets on the NBA playoff games. I’m not much of a basketball whiz, but have inundated myself with rankings and statistical analysis, point spreads, to place my money on the teams with the best odds. The Warriors are a heavy favorite, and so I put my money on the Warriors and watch as they take the first game of the series in overtime. Clara sits beside me on the sofa as I press down hard on her sciatic nerve with the pad of a thumb, Maisie on the floor before us, scribbling in a coloring book. “I never knew you were such a basketball fan,” she says, and I think to myself how suddenly there are many things she doesn’t know.

“You have a new patient today,” says Stacy the next day as I step from the humid morning air into the serenity of the air-conditioned office. There is music on, some sort of ambient music that overrides the show on the wall-mount TV screen; the room smells of coffee, reminding me of the things I cannot have. Caffeine. A Weber grill.

Stacy smiles. A new patient is, of course, like gold dust around here. I shed my car keys and sunglasses, and she wishes me good luck. I return the smile. There was a time I didn’t need luck, but now I do.

Coming into the open-concept office space, my hygienist does what she always does and introduces me to the patient, telling me something I don’t already know about the patient’s personal life, something other than what is happening with his or her teeth.

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