by Laura Wolfe
A yelp escaped my mouth at the staggering amount. Jason probably owed other investors money, too. I feared $2 million wouldn’t be enough to reimburse everyone.
Vic glared at me as he jabbed a thumb into my arm. “Act naturally.” He grinned and laughed loudly for the sake of the people around us. Then he slung his arm around my shoulders and whispered in my ear, “Your life depends on it.”
I followed Vic’s instructions exactly. We separated after our conversation near the appetizer table and mingled with as many people as possible, making sure to call the waitress over for frequent drink refills for our lunch companions. With no assigned seats for the meal, the guests had gathered in shifting clusters of four or five throughout the main cabin and the upper deck. Having never met most of the people on board, almost no one picked up on the fact that Jason wasn’t with me. I made a point of asking questions of my new acquaintances and smiling frequently, commenting on the ominous weather and the delicious seasoning in the seafood salad. My facial muscles twitched in defiance, struggling to mask the terror that surely crept into my eyes whenever Vic caught my gaze from the other side of the room.
When Alan sidled up to me and asked after Jason, I shrugged and told him I hadn’t seen him in a while. “Maybe he went to the bathroom?” I added for effect. A moment later, Alan was swept into a nearby conversation and I released my breath.
Just as Vic had predicted, no one noticed Jason was missing from the yacht until we returned to the dock. Then it was me, in the performance of a lifetime, who was unable to locate my loving husband. “Where is he? Has anyone seen him?” My questions quickly turned to panic and grief.
After the yacht was searched and the police called, I was escorted to the Port Huron police station and led to a room where the dropped ceiling, beige-tiled walls, and concrete floors pressed in on me, making each breath I took a conscious and drawn-out effort. Other passengers on the cruise were at the station, too, although they were ushered into separate rooms. A pale man with a bulging stomach and gray hair entered the interview room soon after me, introduced himself as Detective Schmidt, and offered his condolences.
Through fits of shaking and occasional uncontrolled sobs, I answered his questions, sticking to Vic’s story when necessary. I explained how I’d been drinking and caught up in conversation with new friends, and that’s why I hadn’t noticed Jason’s absence. I was upfront about Jason’s recent affair but explained how he’d ended it weeks earlier. We’d reconnected and were making progress with the help of our marriage counselor. I even told him how I’d only just suffered a miscarriage, leaving out the reason for the car accident and adding that Jason and I had already started talking about trying for another baby. Detective Schmidt tipped his head and offered more condolences, but his face gave nothing away.
An hour or so into my interview, Detective Schmidt left the room for twenty or thirty minutes while I hugged my arms around myself and cried. I told myself I was having a nightmare, that I’d wake up soon and tell Caroline about my long and horrible dream. But I didn’t wake up, of course. The detective returned and resumed his post across from me. He cleared his throat and stated they believed Alan was the last person to have seen Jason when he’d left my husband leaning on the railing near the opening at the back of the boat, smoking a cigarette. The detective said several other passengers had corroborated my story. Almost everyone remembered the rogue waves that had hit the boat throughout the afternoon, coupled with Jason’s heavy drinking. Alan recalled how Jason had wandered toward the back of the boat more than once when they’d been smoking together, and how Jason was mesmerized by the churning water. A few women who had used the restroom on the lower deck around the time Jason was thought to have gone overboard confirmed no one was down there. Several other people remembered talking and eating lunch with me on the upper deck, positive I’d never left.
The facts led investigators to reach a preliminary conclusion: Jason must have wandered too close to the rear ledge, lost his balance, and fallen into the water on his own. They’d already called the Coast Guard to work on the recovery effort and hoped to find the body soon. I was released just after 9 p.m.
A uniformed officer insisted on driving me home, and I accepted, too weak and drained to argue. I slumped in the passenger seat of Jason’s Mercedes, staring blankly through the window at the passing lights as the officer’s partner followed behind us in a squad car.
At last, when the Mercedes was parked in the garage and the police car had backed down the driveway, I staggered through the front door of our house, a shaking, hollow shell. I dug out my phone and called Caroline, holding in my tears and explaining how our plan had gone terribly wrong, how Jason had lost his balance and gone overboard before I could give the speech. It was better to stick to Vic’s version of events than to put my family in harm’s way. The less they knew about Vic Callis, the better.
Caroline laughed at first, thinking I was joking but fell silent when I began to cry. “Oh my God!” she said. “Is he really dead?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think someone pushed him?”
I bit my lip, wondering if she meant me. “No. It looks like it was an accident.” My voice was tight, my throat fighting against the lie. “He was drunk. A rogue wave hit the boat.”
“Wow.” Caroline gasped. “Maybe karma is real.”
I swallowed, thankful to my sister for not questioning my story.
Hours later, the morning light reflected off my phone, highlighting the accumulated messages from family and friends. I listened only to the one from Detective Schmidt, informing me the Coast Guard had recovered Jason’s body late last night; the wallet and driver’s license in his pocket confirmed his identity. Yet they still needed me to return for formal identification. His recorded voice explained how, after the identification was complete, they could send the body for an autopsy and would inform me of the results as soon as possible.
A cry escaped my mouth and I doubled over. The nightmare was real. I couldn’t erase the memories—Jason’s face sinking below the bubbling water, Vic’s scowl, or the pressure of his hand around my arm.
Hungry and shaky, I stumbled into my car and drove to the office of McCormack Investments. I felt like a burglar, spying over my shoulder and my heart pounding as I let myself inside Jason’s office with the spare key, preparing myself to discover whatever secrets he had taken to his watery grave.
The room was laid out like a time capsule of Jason’s last day. Papers were stacked in neat piles on his oversized desk, a sticky note with a phone number hung from the screen of his computer, and an extra pair of dress shoes were positioned near the far closet. The modern office I’d helped him decorate two years earlier with potted plants and framed black-and-white pictures now looked staged, nothing more than a back-alley racket dressed up in disguise, a calculated attempt to camouflage Jason’s money-making scam. The lack of any photos of me, his wife, struck me as another missed sign of his infidelity, so obvious in hindsight.
I drew in a breath, my hands sifting through every folder and piece of paper I could find, my eyes scanning back and forth through correspondence and rows of numbers in search of some sort of proof that either Vic or my husband had been lying. At last, I came across a list of computer passwords tucked inside an unused day planner. The third password I typed gave me access to Jason’s computer, where I began opening folders and examining the contents. Finding nothing worthwhile in the first few folders, I clicked on one labeled Family Photos expecting to see pictures of either me, Jason’s mom, or the other woman. Instead, a list of spreadsheets outlining recent transactions appeared. My breath blocked my windpipe. It was a hidden file.
My mouth fell open as I absorbed the numbers. At first, the data was difficult to decipher, but after taking a closer look it was clear Jason had not invested anyone’s money in stocks or real estate. Vic’s tale of Jason’s Ponzi scheme had been true. The spreadsheets told the real story. Money from investors had flowed in. Mi
llions of dollars. That same money had flowed out, but none of it had been invested according to Jason’s “proprietary formula.” A small portion of the money had been paid back to the investors from his first fund, tricking them into thinking they’d made a twenty percent return. The rest of it had been deposited into our personal accounts, where we’d quickly spent it on cars, home renovations, vacations, clothes, and jewelry. I bit down hard on my lower lip, wondering how I could have been so stupid. The depth of Jason’s deception knocked the breath from my lungs as if I was the one being thrown overboard and sucked into the current, too weak and battered to swim to shore.
Jason’s funeral was held five days after his body was recovered. My mom had stepped in once again and planned the ceremony at the same church where Jason and I had memorialized our unborn child. The service had been well attended, as I’d never had a chance to expose Jason’s lies. They were buried along with him. Only Caroline and I knew what kind of man he really was.
The police were still questioning me then, but with less fervor. It hadn’t been difficult to play the role of a grieving widow. My shock at Jason’s unexpected death and the extent of his betrayal had been real. I’d worn my black sheath dress with a matching brimmed hat pulled down low to hide my puffy eyes. The police had been at the funeral, watching. And I’d been watching for someone, too. The other woman, Amanda Jenkins. I’d wanted to confront her, to tell her how she’d ruined my life, to question her involvement in Jason’s fraudulent scheme. Only she hadn’t shown.
I spent the days after the funeral praying for the police investigation to be completed, desperate to receive the insurance money so I could pay off Vic but dreading the possibility that an overzealous detective would uncover Jason’s scam, or even try to pin his death on me because of his recent affair.
Time passed slowly, the rumor mill running at full capacity. Somehow, I’d become the criminal while Jason rested in peace without a blemish to his name. My neighbors ducked away when they saw me, rather than offering condolences. People I didn’t even know wrote horrible comments on my Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram posts. I deleted my social media accounts, but the whispers continued. One afternoon, Lydia had arrived at my door holding a Tupperware container filled with chicken soup. She’d balanced next to me on the couch as I recounted the details of the cruise, or at least Vic’s version of the details. She was supportive and empathetic, but, maybe sensing my lies, she left in a hurry and without our usual hug. When I called her a week later to see if she wanted to retrieve her Tupperware and stay for a glass of wine, she never responded.
Finally, I received the long-awaited phone call from Detective Schmidt. The autopsy results were back. The report determined the injury to Jason’s head was consistent with him hitting his skull on the side of the boat during his descent into the water. A few droplets of blood had been located on the backside of the boat, confirming the theory. The impact had left him unconscious and unable to swim. The official cause of death was listed as accidental drowning. I was cleared. I filed the life insurance claim the same day.
Three weeks later, the payout had arrived, $2 million payable to me. With that kind of money, I should have been able to pay off the house and secure my future. Instead, I struggled to come up with enough money to reimburse the innocent people Jason had swindled, along with the not-so-innocent, like Vic Callis.
The day following Jason’s death, I’d researched Vic online. A cursory search located nothing more than a few online business profiles listing Vic as the CEO of a regional property management company. There was a photo of him at a charity dinner in Detroit, where he stood shoulder to shoulder with some other investors who’d been on the yacht. But digging deeper into the search results revealed more than one social media post questioning the legitimacy of Vic’s property management company. Alarmingly, there was no online trace of the man older than three years, the same year his company had been formed. I questioned whether Vic Callis was his real name. Regardless, my life was at stake. I had to comply with his demands.
The business insurance Jason purchased for McCormack Investments had lapsed over a year earlier, so using the life insurance money was my only option. I funneled the payout through McCormack Investments and paid the investors back as soon as possible. No. They wouldn’t make any money as Jason had promised, but they wouldn’t lose any money either. They could go on believing they’d made a smart investment, that they would have made their twenty percent return if only Jason had lived.
The life insurance wasn’t enough to cover the reimbursements, though. I sold my second set of wedding rings and listed the house with a neighborhood realtor. It sold in only ten days and I netted just over $100,000 in proceeds.
I paid off Vic first, as his threats toward me continued to escalate, but it was only a matter of time before other investors demanded their money, too. The guilt of being oblivious to Jason’s scam ate away at my insides. I needed to pay everyone back, to make things right, and to put the whole thing behind me. I used the remaining $800,000 of the insurance money, plus the proceeds from the house, my rings, and Jason’s Mercedes, to reimburse the remaining investors. Luckily, Jason’s first fund—the one worth $4 million—had been another one of his lies. It had only been worth $100,000, and he’d paid those people back already with the money from the new investors.
Each check I signed and letter I completed on the official letterhead from McCormack Investments describing Jason’s untimely death and the dissolution of the fund brought me one step closer to freedom. There’d been just enough money to satisfy everyone. On a Wednesday afternoon in late August, I filed the final paperwork dissolving the LLC. Then I called the owner of the building and requested paperwork to cancel the office lease. I deleted Jason’s secret folder, drafted new versions of the spreadsheets showing everyone’s investments repaid, and emailed them to my dad, who had offered several times to take care of the LLC’s final accounting. I smashed Jason’s computer with a sledgehammer and tied it in a garbage bag, waiting until nightfall to drop it in a dumpster behind a McDonald’s a few miles away.
I’d been through hell—the cheating, the miscarriage, the accident on the boat and the whispers about my guilt, the Ponzi scheme and the efforts I’d made to cover it up—but it wasn’t too late for me to reclaim my life. It was time to leave Jason in the past, time to forgive him and start healing from my baby’s death.
I thought about the pang of jealousy that shot through my gut every time someone on an episode of Tiny House Nation drove off in their tiny house, free from the chains of consumerism and open to new experiences. Now I could actually do it. I could escape and create a new version of my future. I had $50,000 reserved for myself, enough to buy a used tiny house and get out of town with $15,000 left for spending money.
A few hours of online searching led me to a nearby builder with a perfect tiny house. The house resembled a quaint log cabin reminiscent of my childhood, the kind my parents used to rent during our summer trips up north. It was in my price range and move-in ready. Two days later, I traded my car for a red pickup truck, paid in cash for my new home, and drove west, hopeful my nightmare was finally ending.
Little did I know, it was only the beginning.
Thirty-One
Elizabeth
Before
Six months later
My tiny house looked awkward crammed into the backyard of my parents’ suburban quarter-acre lot. Caroline was graduating from cosmetology school tomorrow. I wouldn’t have missed it no matter how many inches of snow fell across the Midwest during February’s deep freeze. I’d returned two days ago from a six-month tour of Utah and Colorado, my neck still stiff from the tedious, icy drive. Traveling far away from the memory of Vic Callis, where no one knew me, and where no one whispered about whether I’d pushed my husband overboard, had been a relief. I’d changed my name to Beth, surrounded myself with mindful and interesting people, and threw myself into my new freelance career.
My heart still
ached for the son I’d lost, the despair rising within me at unexpected moments, like when I’d seen a display of board books at a local bookstore and raced out of the store in a panic, or when I’d started sobbing uncontrollably at the sight of two young mothers pushing side-by-side jogging strollers down a park pathway. I never mentioned my baby to anyone, though. It was more bearable to keep his memory private, stored safely inside.
I thought of Jason, too, but more fleetingly and with less emotion. Sometimes it was better to leave the pain behind.
Now I sat inside my tiny house replaying last week’s conversation, the one that lured me back to my childhood home.
“They’ll be a whole twelve people at the party,” Caroline had said, trying to downplay her accomplishment.
“Well, now you’ll have thirteen.” I’d already begun mapping out the fastest route back to Kalamazoo. I hadn’t forgotten how she’d been there for me. More importantly, she was almost nine months clean and had just put a security deposit down on an apartment in town. My sister had overcome the odds and had proved everybody wrong. She deserved to celebrate.
It was after 11 p.m. Mom, Dad, and Caroline were getting ready for bed fifty feet away in their normal-sized house. As I reached to turn off my bedside light, a fist pounded on my door. I sighed, thinking Mom or Dad had traipsed across the frigid backyard when they could have just as easily sent me a text. I raised myself out of bed and clomped down the steps.
A rush of cold air whipped inside as I opened the door, my throat seizing up. The shadow hovering in the opening belonged to someone I hoped to never see again, the ghost of someone I thought was dead to me.
“I finally tracked you down.” Vic Callis sniffed in air through his nose, his gloved hands stuffed into his jean pockets, and his gut hanging over his belt.