And if he thinks I’m going to overlook his wife just because he wants me to, he’s crazy.
The door behind him opens, and a gust of cooler air sweeps across my sweaty skin. Not enough, but still, a relief, and for both of us. The doctor looks beyond grateful for the interruption.
“Daddy, I’m hungry,” his daughter says, but she’s looking at me.
He stands and moves to the door, reaching for his daughter’s hand, but his gaze never leaves mine. “Detective, what are you currently doing to find Sabine? What steps are you taking? What leads are you exploring?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I—”
“Can’t discuss the details. I know. Fine.” He picks up his daughter, hoisting her onto a hip in one smooth move. “How about instead of sitting here, wasting my time with this baloney line of questioning, you get out there and find Sabine?”
He stops there, but his words, his tone—they both carry the unmistakable weight of a threat. “I hope you’re not implying what I think you are. Did you just threaten an officer of the law?”
“Do your job, Detective. Do your job, or else I will find someone who will.”
BETH
For the rest of the day, all anyone can talk about is the missing money. Where it is. When it went missing. Whether or not it’s going to magically reappear in Charlene’s desk drawer before the deadline tomorrow. But mostly, which one of us took it.
It doesn’t take a genius to know I am the main suspect. Sure, people float in and out of the executive offices during the day, but I’m the only one besides the church ladies who’s here all day long, from 8:00 a.m. until closing time, and the only one besides the Reverend with access to the keys in his drawer. They all look at me differently now. Their formerly friendly smiles have turned pinched around the edges, and they’ve closed ranks, stopped being so nice. They wouldn’t put it past me.
Everybody steers clear of Charlene’s desk, presumably to give the thief (me) opportunity to repent her (my) sins and return the money to the bag, but they haven’t thought their strategy through. All afternoon, they linger in the offices lining the hall, pretending to discuss church business while one of them keeps an eagle eye on the reception area. Any time anybody comes within a twenty-foot radius of Charlene’s desk drawer, they drop the pretense and come running. It’s probably the most excitement this place has seen in ages, maybe ever.
The news has spread through the church like a deadly virus, infecting the staff with a Hunger Games kind of fear, the sinking knowledge that one person will take us all down. I know because Martina has been texting me all afternoon, saying that things downstairs have turned ugly. The rest of the cleaning staff is pointing fingers, and their fingers all seem to be pointing to me.
They’re convinced that you took it. Well, everybody but Ayana, but she’s never been the brightest votive in the chapel. They want me to tell you to put it back before you get us all fired.
I try not to be hurt by their easy assumption of my guilt. I tell myself the only opinion I care about is Martina’s. The others don’t know me, don’t know my situation or my thoughts, but the accusation still stings.
And you? I type back. What do you think?
Her answer lights up my screen.
IDK I’m still trying to decide.
A thunk comes from the double doors, and a foot kicks one of them open. The Reverend shoulders his way through carrying a cardboard box half his size, concealing his upper body, his face, all but the tips of his hair. But I know it’s him from the shoes, the well-loved sneakers he changed into earlier, under his navy suit pants. I slip my phone in my back pocket and rush to hold the door.
“Oh, thank you, Beth,” he says, flashing me a smile around the side of the box. “That’s very kind of you.”
If the Reverend suspects me of anything—of whatever he saw or didn’t see in his computer’s history files, of swiping the cash from Charlene’s drawer, of not being who I claim to be—I can’t detect it in the way he looks at me. It’s the same way he looks at the men and women who stand before his altar when he pats their shoulders or folds his hands in prayer. Like I am a sheep to be saved.
Which will make it all the more awkward when I sneak out the back door tomorrow afternoon, right before he makes good on his promise to call the cops. Jorge’s good, but he’s not that good. One look at my license, and the cops will slap on the cuffs.
But the Reverend is not stupid. He’ll know the reason for my vanishing act, just like how everybody else in this place will be making their own assumptions.
Guilty.
And then what? I’ve heard those sermons the Reverend practices in his office, the ones about uncertainty and grace and turning the other cheek. Will he do the same with me? Will he let me go, or will he dispatch the police to the address on file, the one I listed on my application—stupid, stupid mistake—the one for Morgan House. And next week is payday. I picture my paycheck languishing in the bottom of Charlene’s drawer like catnip. A whole week’s worth of salary, down the drain. I need that money, every cent.
“Come with me, will you?” the Reverend asks. “I’m putting together welcome bags for the newcomers, and I could use some help.”
I follow him down the hall into his office, where he settles the cardboard box on the conference table. Printed papers and shiny, colorful brochures are spread across the table in neat stacks. He points them out one by one. “Pastor’s letter, church brochure, invitation cards to various clubs and groups, a Bible booklet and a feedback form. What I need you to do is clip them together and drop them into an envelope.” He pulls a pile of envelopes from the box and hands them to me.
I smile. “Sounds simple enough.”
“Once you’re done, the packets go into one of these.” He drags a white canvas bag from the box and shakes it out for me to see. The logo is a variation of the one on my T-shirt, a sketch of the church skyline with God Lives Here underneath. “Every tote also gets a coffee mug, personalized pen and refrigerator magnet, all of which are in the box. If you run out of anything or need help, just give one of the office ladies a holler. I have to dash to visit a sick parishioner on the other side of town.”
While the Reverend gathers up his things, I sink onto a chair and get started. Pile, fold, clip, stuff. The work is slow and monotonous, but it beats scrubbing floors, and at least I can do it sitting down. I think of Martina and Ayana downstairs, sterilizing toys and bonding over their shared distrust of me, and I wince. I’d hate me, too, if I were them.
“See you tomorrow,” the Reverend says.
I look up, and he’s standing at the door, his suit coat folded over an arm, his leather wingtips dangling from his fingers. He smiles, and it’s all I can do to return it.
“See you tomorrow.”
* * *
I’m working my way through the piles when Martina sneaks into the Reverend’s conference room without making a sound. I look up and there she is, watching me from the doorway. I smile, but she doesn’t return the greeting.
I ignore the snub, working with the papers in my hand, fastening them with a paper clip. “Don’t tell me. They sent you up here to talk to me, didn’t they?” I picture the cleaning crew cornering her in the break room, demanding she march up here and... Do what? Confront me? Pat me down? I keep my eyes on the papers and Martina in my peripheral vision.
She shuts the door behind her. “Can you blame them? They have pretty much all done business with a guy like Jorge, if you know what I mean. They’re nervous as hell, just like I am. Just like you should be.”
I look up at her with a frown. “Who says I’m not? And if you came up here to lecture or accuse me, you can go ahead and leave now. The church ladies have been giving me the side-eye all afternoon, and I already feel shitty enough.”
“This isn’t some kind of game, Beth. I got you this job. I vouched for you. If the Reverend finds the two thousand dollars in that thing strapped to your waist, what do you think is going to happen to me?”
“So you think I took it, too. Great.” I lift both hands, let them fall to the table with a smack.
“The church ladies had Bible study this morning.”
“So?”
“So the offices would have been empty. You would have had an opportunity. And we both know how you like to hoard money.” Her eyes stray to my waistline. “How much is in there anyway?”
I push to a stand, make myself loose at the knees. One wrong move, and I’ll mow her down on my way to the door. “None of your business, that’s how much. And what about you and Ayana? Y’all were up here, too, bickering about which one of you was the bigger thief. I saw both of you go by Charlene’s desk more than once.”
“Yeah, but we don’t have access to the Reverend’s keys.” She pauses, and I brace for what I know is coming next: “You do.”
I shake my head to hide that I’m squirming inside. “I’m not going to stand here and defend myself when I haven’t done anything wrong. Especially when it sure looks like you’re the one who took Ayana’s money. Well, did you?”
Martina squints. “I already told you. I’m not a thief.”
“Then who took it?”
She tosses up her hands. “Who the hell knows? There were always a million people going in and out of her apartment. And her hiding place wasn’t exactly subtle. If I found it, others would have, too.”
I reach for a stack of envelopes and think about Martina’s answer. Her tone is sincere, but that still doesn’t explain why she was searching behind Ayana’s toilet. Who goes looking for money they’re not planning to steal?
Martina sighs and slumps against the wall, looking around. “What is it you do up here all day, anyway?”
“Die of boredom, mostly.”
“Why does the Reverend want you up here? What made him ask you?”
“I don’t know. The bookshelves, I guess. And you know how the Reverend is. He likes to take care of people.” I think of my sudden tears that first day, the way he told me I was safe here. In the days since, he’s certainly made good on that promise.
“He’s never taken care of me like that.”
A question lingers in the air between us, but I don’t touch it. Martina wants to know what makes me special, and to answer is to acknowledge she’s right. The Reverend has singled me out, and for reasons I don’t understand and would rather not think about. Why me? Why not her?
She pushes off the wall, stalking straight at me. Automatically, my hands move to the belt at my waist. My palms spread out, my fingers curling around the edges.
“Tell me you didn’t take the money, Beth. Look me in the eye and tell me it wasn’t you.”
“I can’t believe you’re even asking me that.”
“Say it.”
Panic flutters like a swarm of bats in my chest, but I park my expression in neutral. “I’ll tell you, if you tell me who Rosa and Stefan are.”
The names—the ones written in complicated, curly script on the silver discs hanging from her neck. Her face pales at the accidental bull’s-eye. My heart kicks, then stops completely, as does my breathing. If she looks me in the eyes and answers me honestly—if she trusts me enough to tell me this truth—then I will do the same with her. I will sit her down and tell her mine, the whole sad, sordid story.
She leans in so close that her features go out of focus. “Put it back, Beth. You’re not the only one who’s going to pay if you don’t. Put the money back.”
MARCUS
There are a few dozen authorized cell phone retailers in Pine Bluff proper, wireless franchises like AT&T and Sprint, along with a couple of big-box stores like Walmart. Places lawful people go when they’re shopping for a cell phone, the kind that have customer service departments and surveillance cameras.
And then there are the unauthorized outlets, repair shops and minimarts where cell phones are bought and sold on the sly. I start there, on the north side of town and work my way south.
And every time, it goes a little something like this:
Me, flashing badge: Detective Marcus Durand, Pine Bluff PD. I’m looking for a female, early thirties, brown hair and eyes, five-eight, slim build.
Store manager: I’d love to help you, Detective, but that’s half the women who come in this place.
Me, holding up a photograph: I’m thinking you’d remember this one.
Manager, whistling: She’s pretty, all right.
Me: She would have purchased multiple prepaid cell phones, and she would have paid in cash. The transaction would have been in the past month or so.
Manager: Sorry, Detective, we have dozens/fifty/hundreds of transactions a day. It’s impossible for me to remember every one.
Me, slapping down a fifty: How about you check your computer? If her transaction is in there, it won’t take you that long to find it. It would have been bigger than usual, and all cash.
Him, pocketing the fifty and slinking off to the back.
Sometimes it takes him a couple of minutes to search, sometimes longer. But every time, when he returns from whatever back office he disappeared into, he’s shaking his head, and every time, I leave the store empty-handed.
Except for this time.
This time, the manager walks out, grinning like a fool. “May 24 at 10:24 a.m. She bought four. Two new LG K8s, and two refurbished Motorolas. Total, including tax and minutes, was $407.73.”
I breathe through the white-hot rage, waiting for the flames to cool, but the anger doesn’t subside. Four hundred dollars is a lot of money to have spent in a place like this one, a total dump. The kind of store that has a gun under the register and bars on the windows to tamp down on the drive-bys. The kind that trades stolen goods for stolen cash.
“I’m going to need the numbers,” I say through clenched lips. My jaw is like a boulder, bearing down on my molars hard enough to crack them in two.
The manager frowns, his face scrunching into a heinous mess. “I just gave you the numbers.” He looks at the paper in his hand, where he’d scribbled the basics in messy blue pen. “Here—$407.73.”
“The phone numbers.” My hands curl into fists, my muscles vibrating with the force of holding them still. I want to punch this idiot in his ugly face for fucking with me.
Especially when he drops his hands in his pockets and leans back on his heels, squinting in a way that doesn’t look the least bit thoughtful. “I’d love to help you, Detective. Really I would. But I can’t be handing out a private citizen’s telephone number to just anybody.”
“How about to an officer of the law? Can you hand it out to him?”
He shrugs. “With proper motivation, I can.”
In other words, another fifty.
“You really want to go down this route? Because I can arrest you for soliciting a bribe, or I can go get a warrant not for just one transaction, but for all of them. Which one would you prefer?”
His smug expression disappears. “I’ll be right back with those numbers.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I drum my fingers on the counter and fume while at the end of an aisle, a teenager slips a pair of Bluetooth earphones into his pocket. As shoplifters go, he’s not very good. Too obvious, and way too oblivious that a cop is standing twenty feet away at the counter. But he’s fast, I’ll give him that, in and out the door in thirty seconds flat.
My phone buzzes against my hip, and I’m checking the screen when the manager returns from the back office. It’s Ma, and I push her to voice mail. With a grunt, the manager shoves two sheets of paper my way, still warm from the copy machine. I smile at what I find there: four receipts, each with a cell phone number. By now she’ll have burned through two, maybe three of them, but if I’m lucky, one of them will still be trackable. I only need one to lead me to her.
I spread the papers on the counter and take a picture of each. I’m attaching them to an email when my mother calls again. She’s not going to like it when I push her to voice mail for a second time, but I’ll c
all her back as soon as I send the images to Jade to start tracking. I hit Send, then gather up the papers, carry them to my car and pull up my mother’s number on the screen.
She picks up on the first ring, and she’s pissed. “Marcus, what the hell is going on here?”
I stifle a sigh. Tough to feel self-righteous when you’re getting scolded by your mother. “What’s going on is I’m in the middle of a missing-person case. I’m a little busy.”
I fall into the car, where it’s easily a hundred degrees, even though I parked in the shade. I crank the engine and aim the vents at my face.
“I realize that,” she says, “but—”
I lose her when the call flips to the hands-free system, a two-or three-second spot of dead silence.
“Ma. You still there?”
“What? I’m here. I’ve been here all along.”
“What were you saying?”
She sighs, an annoyed sound. “I was talking about your house.”
“What about it?”
“Why does it look like a hobo lives here?”
My skin ices over despite the heat. She’s at the house. I shove the gear in Reverse and punch the gas, lurching backward into the lot. “Where are you exactly?”
“I just told you. I’m at your house.”
“Where at the house? Where are your feet right now?” I work the gearshift into Drive. “Be specific.”
“Specifically, my feet are parked on your living room carpet, though I can barely see the thing for all the papers. When’s the last time you picked up?”
I floor the gas, and whatever my mother says next gets lost in the squeal of my tires, peeling across the pavement. At the end of the lot I take a hard right, pulling into traffic to a chorus of beeps and tire screeches. Just in case, I lay on the horn.
Her voice crackles over the squad car speakers. “And Marcus. Where’s Emma?”
Dear Wife Page 21