Read Last Lie for Free Online

live across the lane. My wife, Lauren. Our kids, Jonas and Grace. I think you'll love it out here. Welcome." At that point, my neighbor took my hand reluctantly, the way I agree to smell a piece of halibut after Lauren has asked if I think it's still good.
    We lived on the upper slope of a hill. On a different hillside, one not low-single-digit miles from Colorado's Front Range, I probably would have said "up here," not "out here," to indicate the location of our house. The hill we live on is modest. Seventy blocks or so to the west loom the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Ten miles or so beyond that is a line of fourteen-thousand-foot peaks. So, up is relative.
    Mattin's face was familiar to me the way that local media personalities' faces become familiar from repeated exposure on advertisements on billboards and on the sides of buses. I couldn't have pointed to a particular way that I'd come to know what Mattin Snow looked like, but I definitely knew what he looked like before I met him that first day. He had fine silver hair--not old and gray, but silver and distinguished--that was just long enough to be interesting, eyes that hinted at a gene pool worthy of a long story or two, and skin that was solidly in the range of Mediterranean tones that looked good on the beach after a few hours. I thought he appeared more ruddy and real without powder on his face and without the earnest, toothy half smile that I'd come to associate with his public persona.
    I proceeded to welcome him and his wife and their family to our shared remote dead-end lane in the already remote corner of Boulder County called Spanish Hills, and I offered any kind of help they might need getting settled.
    He didn't acknowledge my offer. He merely repeated his inquiry about Emily running free. "My wife? She's frightened of dogs," he said. "Especially big dogs."
    The Bouvier qualifies as a big dog. Or a small bear, depending on one's level of trepidation about big, husky black, four-legged mammals.
    I could have used that moment to clue Mattin in about the multiple red fox dens nearby, or about the wandering pack of coyotes that lingered menacingly in the vicinity of our homes. Certainly, he must have already known about Boulder's troubled history with quick brown bears and even quicker predatory cats.
    I was prepared to mount an argument that my dog was the least of his wildlife problems. That, in fact, she was an integral part of the solution. But I decided that such an argument wasn't a good place to start on day one of our relationship as neighbors. Mattin and his wife must, I thought, be exhausted from the stress of the move, and I silently allowed him the benefit of the doubt.
    I also reached a hasty conclusion that it was preferable to begin our relationship as neighbors with an unpleasant truth rather than with a lie. So I told him that it was, indeed, my practice to allow the big dog to roam at will, at least late in the evening when most everyone was inside. I could have added my certain confidence that Mattin and his family would come to appreciate Emily's services. Or I could have told him tales of how she had come to earn her off-leash privileges the hard way. But the tenor of our interaction did not leave me feeling that stories of Emily's exceptional canine bravery in service of the homeowners in Spanish Hills would have been welcome, or even tolerated.
    "Really?" he said in response to my admission that I allowed Emily off leash. "Is that legal out here? I didn't know that it was acceptable to allow dogs to run free in the county."
    I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Boulder has a complex history of dogs and leash laws in open space. The history involves the Internet, GPS mapping of canine feces, and other indications that the people involved haven't always been either considerate or mature.
    He took advantage of my temporary apoplexy. "Legal, I mean. That kind of acceptable. I could look into that. Maybe I will." I was going to say