Look Closer

by David Ellis

Why do privileged old white men in black robes get to decide what it’s like to be an African American kid stopped on the street by a cop?

The day I found that bottle, the day I realized my father was never going to stop cheating—that was the day that Ted Dobias died. The night he was found with a knife in his stomach, floating in his pool, was just the moment he stopped breathing.

When I enter his office, his personal laptop is open on the desk, a green notebook sitting next to it.

I don’t need to rummage through his sock drawer to find his list of passwords. I already know the password to his laptop. It’s I_Love_Vicky.

“And the question is: How bad do you want that twenty-one million dollars?”

Please. I picked you for this very task. I’ve known about Lauren since before I first met you. Today was just the day I decided to tell you. I’ve been planning this since the first time I walked into your office. You’re not a successful investor. You’re Nick Caracci, a two-bit swindler, a con man, a grifter, who thinks he’s hit the jackpot with me. You were never going to invest that money. I was never going to let you near that money. I just need you to help me kill Lauren Betancourt.

“Stolen by Lauren Lemoyne,” she says.

“He’ll orchestrate the whole thing,” she says, “so that someone else is doing his dirty work without even realizing it.”

“The only question is whether Simon Dobias does,” she says. “And I’ll bet the answer is yes.”

boy-is-it-scary-what-the-government-can-do-to-us.”

where—where’s my razor? Dammit. Where the fuck is—

“Let’s go for a walk,” Gavin says. “And decide what the fuck is gonna happen next.”

Your marriage is a fraud. You got married under a stolen identity. And if that little nugget of information were to come out, you don’t get a dime of that money.”

Hell, it’s been awkward all night, walking around with size thirteen boots on my size eleven feet.

He’s playing pop music in the cab, something by Panic! at the Disco, so clearly somebody up there thinks I deserve punishment for what I’ve done.

“A shiny black electric razor. Pretty fancy one. And what’s that—a matching trimmer?”

Why would Simon be texting these love notes with Lauren? Simon despised Lauren, blamed her for the death of his mother.

She would never, in a million years, believe that Simon wanted to start up a romance with her. It doesn’t make sense. Something isn’t right.

The man clears his throat. “This is Sergeant Don Cheronis, Chicago P.D. Am I speaking to Lauren?” “No. This is Sergeant Jane Burke, Grace Village P.D.” “No shit?” he says. “We’re investigating a suspicious death.” Jane looks at Andy, a look of revelation on his face. “What a coincidence,” she says. “So are we.”

“Say hello to Christian Newsome.”

so on-the-nose, that it feels staged,”

The phones were off in between the intervals of the text messaging because he didn’t want anyone tracking his movements.”

“If I’m right, that means Simon must have had a partner.”

No, you’re not. You’re Gavin Finley, Christian’s buddy.

“What diary?” I say. “I don’t have a diary.” That was some of my best work. Full of highs and lows and melodrama, like most passionate romances. And sure, I sprinkled in some truth—the best lies always have some truth, right? But by and large, yeah, the whole thing was a work of fiction.

It’s a lot easier to fool someone than to convince someone they’ve been fooled.

“I don’t have a wife! I’m not married, and I never have been!”

“Right. But in the end, what does it prove? It proves that your cell phone stayed home all night. It doesn’t tell us anything about where you were.” She looks at me. “Does it, Simon?”

“Let’s go talk to Vicky.”