Chapter OneLOOSE LIPS

The June sun felt hot and malevolent on Anne’s skin, but she knew the long walk would be worth it, as she’d learned it was always best to look a liar in the eyes.

She’d taken the stuffy train to Harvard Square, then walked through the university campus, not as sleepy in summer as she would have expected, young men in short sleeves and crisp linen pants hurrying to this classroom building or that. A few of them whistled at her as she passed, the eggheads no better than construction workers, but she ignored them.

North of the oasis of Harvard came the rest of Cambridge: the blue-collar neighborhoods, the three-deckers and cramped blocks. Fewer trees, less shade to hide in.

Still a mile away from Inman Square, she seemed to be headed straight into the late-afternoon sun’s angry gaze. She felt the sweat at her back after just a few blocks. Halfway there, she was almost regretting the decision not to splurge for a cab. The reporter characters in the movies never seemed troubled by their low pay, she’d noticed. No one in His Girl Friday had damp armpits and sore feet.

The address in question was halfway down a dead-end street off Mass Ave, light blue and in need of a paint job. The steps to the door creaked as she ascended.

How had she found herself here? It had taken two days to chase this particular rumor down, but the gist was:

The barkeep in Scollay Square said he’d heard it from a lawyer.

The lawyer had caught wind of it from the secretaries.

The secretaries all blamed Doris, the new one.

Doris told Anne she’d heard it from a friend of hers, Marty.

Marty? He lived in Central Square. He’d heard it from his buddy Joe, who’d heard it from his pal Mikey, who’d heard it from Hank. Good guy, Hank. Okay, actually, maybe not so good. Kind of an oddball, if you know what I mean.

Anne didn’t—could you explain?

Mikey explained. Anne asked follow-up questions. Personal histories emerged. Then she understood, and she asked where this oddball Hank lived.

After her subway trip and a long walk, Anne finally knocked on Hank’s door. She clasped her notebook to her chest with both hands, adopting her look of professional friendliness.

* * *

There were many different kinds of mistruths, she had learned through years of writing and reporting.

Some mistruths were born of ignorance, almost innocent in their lack of understanding about the world. Some were initially harmless, more mistakes than outright lies, until they were repeated often enough to convince a critical mass of people, in which case they became dangerous.

Then there were the deliberate mistruths that all but dripped with venom, sharpened like fangs ready to sink into gullible flesh.

Some lies were well-camouflaged, particularly hard to ferret out, while others were so obvious that only a fool would willingly reach out and touch it.

The good news for her was that each kind of falsehood felt equally rewarding to chase down and disprove. She loved her job.

* * *

The door opened and a thin young man gazed at her suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

She offered her most disarming smile. Anne was not vain, but she knew she was good at appearing harmless and winning people over, a skill that came in rather handy for a reporter.

“Good evening. I’m sorry to drop by so late. I’m not interrupting dinner, am I?”

“No, not yet.”

“Are you Hank Doyle?”

“One of ’em. ’Less you mean my old man.” Thin, sandy hair fell across his forehead. An archipelago of acne traced his right jawline. He might have been nineteen or twenty. “You selling war bonds? I think we bought enough already.”

“No, actually, I work for the Star. I was hoping I could ask you a few quick questions.”

He hadn’t been expecting that. His thick brows scrunched up a bit.

“What, for a ladies’ interest column or something? You gonna take my picture?” He grinned. “Writing about all the eligible bachelors left behind?”


Copyright © 2024 by Thomas Mullen