The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER FORTY

Daniel's composure was a carefully assembled front as he pushed against the old-fashioned door of Mac's Bar.

The rusty hinges, long neglected, belched a discordant screech as the entryway reluctantly swung open, disclosing a dimly lit interior swathed in a brume of stagnant cigarette smoke.

His consideration fell on the faded poster of Pamela Anderson in her Baywatch heyday.

The once vibrant image of the quintessential beach babe was now softened by the patina of time and dirtied by crude graffiti doodled in black marker.

"Pamela Anderson?" His smart leather shoes left imprints on the beer-slicked floor as he ambled down the poster-festooned passageway. "Why so tacky?"

Sure, because he is not into the blonde, big-breasted type like Pamela Anderson—give me a break. Lilac is a clone of the iconic bombshell. He ate her out less than seventy-two hours ago without any regard for his wife.

The sordid components of their illicit affair were documented on his phone, providing a voyeuristic glimpse into their entanglement.

This brazen-faced woman, with a penchant for leaving a veritable trail of incriminating evidence, described their sexual encounters in vivid detail and sent photo evidence of them together to Daniel—for his perusal.

One could speculate whether these descriptive paragraphs and graphic images were intended solely for his eyes or whether the woman had a more devious motive in mind – to subtly expose their affair to the eyes of his unsuspecting wife.

My suspicion centred on Lilac's deeper affection for Daniel, a love unrequited, for why else would she engage in a clandestine relationship with a married man? Perhaps she envisioned a scenario where I uncovered the truth about their affair and divorced Daniel. It would pave the way for him to return to her and make an honest woman out of her.

Soft country music bubbled from the jukebox. Garth Brooks's "Friends in Low Places" was a refreshing change from the usual blaring rock music that replenished the atmosphere during the night hours.

The once-bustling space oozed spaciousness under the serene lighting, with only a sequence of sullen-faced locals scattered along the leather-worn benches and unsteady wooden chairs.

A couple of intoxicated individuals wallowed in self-pity at the bar, a few bacchanalian couples populated the raised dining platform, and a bunch of young men were deeply engrossed in a competitive game of snooker.

Rambunctious bikers decked out in leather and denim and scantily clad women tottering on six-inch heels were nowhere to be seen, leaving behind a ghost-town-like environment.

The only recognisable face was Paulette, diligently cleaning a table at the rear of the bar, the remnants of a previous customer's meal bestrewn on the rustic surface.

Hand in hand, we stepped through the threshold of the dimly lit bar, the dense aroma of stale beer and cigarette smoke hitting us like a physical force.

The handful of occupants of the bar, a diverse crew of hardened regulars, lifted their heads from their grime-covered pint glasses and scowled harshly at us with an intermingling of hostility and curiosity.

Good God, the silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional clinking of glasses and the muffled strains of a country song playing from the jukebox in the corner, that I wanted the floor to open up, swallow me whole and spit me into another realm.

You could hear a pin drop as everyone analysed us from head to toe. It was as if our appearance had violated some unspoken rule, an intrusion into their private domain and a challenge to their established norms.