The Book of Lies

28

Stepping out from the bathroom, Roosevelt studied the tall woman carefully. Cal warned him they’d send someone—and she clearly wasn’t a novice. But that didn’t mean their stalling hadn’t worked.

“You switched phones with him,” Naomi said, annoyed.

“Me? I’m a man of God. I’d never—” Roosevelt glanced down at the phone in his hand and forced a look of surprise. “This isn’t my phone! Sweet mother of Shirley Hemphill, how’d this happen?”

Naomi’s hand jumped out, snatching the phone from Roosevelt’s palm.

“Hey! You can’t—”

Naomi aimed her gun at Roosevelt’s chest. “I can.” Without another word, she started clicking through the menu on Cal’s phone: Call Log, Placed Calls . . . “Here we go,” she announced. “Last number dialed: Roosevelt (Mobile).” Naomi pushed the call button and waited.

But as the phone rang in her ear, there was another ring in Roo-sevelt’s front pocket.

Roosevelt reached down and pulled out a second ringing phone, flipped it open, and held it to his ear.

“Hello,” he sang, watching Naomi’s face as his words echoed in her ear. “I musta had both phones all along. What’re the oddsa that?”

For a moment, Naomi just stood there, her light blue eyes narrowing. Roosevelt knew she could lock him up and sling questions at him for the next few hours. But by then, Cal would be long gone.

“You really a former priest?” Naomi asked.

“Former pastor.”

“My partner’s missing. I’m praying not dead,” she said of Timothy. “Did Cal tell you that?”

Roosevelt stayed silent. She was smart—going right for his preacher’s guilt. Years ago, Roosevelt’s superiors in the church did the same when they told him he was hurting his parish by not being married. Back then, he refused to fight and lost everything he loved. Not a single day went by where he didn’t wish he could have that life back. When he didn’t think of ways to reclaim that pulpit. So an hour ago, when Cal and his father had come scrambling in here, searching for help—he could see the way that Cal, even through his fear, kept glancing over and over at his dad. At nine years old, Cal had had his life taken from him, too. This was his chance to have that life back, somehow, in some form. And as Roosevelt knew, that was well worth fighting for.

“You work your side of the street, and I’ll work mine,” Roosevelt said.

Naomi just stood there. Then she turned to open the door, and with a slam, she was gone.

After giving it a minute, Roosevelt flipped open his phone and started dialing. It rang twice before—

“Roosevelt?” Cal answered. “I told you not to call unless—”

“They sent someone, Cal. From ICE, just like you said.”

The door burst open, and Naomi stormed back into the room. “Couldn’t even wait two minutes, could you!?” she yelled, snatching the phone from Roosevelt’s hand. He tried to grab it back.

She pulled her gun and aimed it directly at his neck.

As Roosevelt raised his hands, Naomi put the phone to her ear. “Hey, Cal,” she said. “Naomi. Remember me?”