“I do.”
“It’s part of the reason why it took us so long. Will was the last person we suspected, the one we never saw coming.”
His words squirm under my skin at the same time frustration burns across my chest, and I can no longer bite down on my impatience. “Sorry, Nick, but I slept on a plane last night, and that’s after seven nights of hardly any sleep at all. I’m wrecked and exhausted, so please. Can you cut the crap and tell me what you came here to tell me?”
He stops in the middle of the trail, turning his big body to face mine. “There’s some money missing from our corporate accounts.”
An icy fist hits me in the center of the chest and spreads outward as, suddenly, all the pieces fall together and everything makes sense. It’s like one of those psychological tests I give to my students, where you get the gist of the sentence even though most of the words are missing. In this case, the words are your husband is a thief.
I fold my arms over my chest, shivering despite the temperature nudging up into the low seventies. “How much money?”
He bounces his meaty shoulders. “Hard to tell, exactly. The forensic accountant is still—”
“Forensic accountant?” The words travel down me like a lightning bolt, melting my rubber soles to the pavement. I’m no finance whiz, but I know the term. Lake Forrest divorces almost always include one, a financial investigator specialized in ferreting out hidden funds. Last year, Jeannette Davis’s mother was awarded half of her soon-to-be ex-husband’s offshore accounts, thanks to hers.
“As I was saying, until the forensic accountant comes back with her final report, we don’t have a number.”
“Give me a ballpark.”
“Four million, four hundred seventy-three thousand.” Nick coughs into a fist. “And counting.”
“So. What you’re really asking me here is if I’ve happened to notice an extra four and a half million sitting around in our joint bank account?” The words feel like okra, prickly and slimy on my tongue.
“No, but...” Nick grimaces. “I...thought maybe you might know something...”
My eyes widen. “No. Jesus, no. Of course not.”
“My ass is on the line here, Iris. We’re planning to go public next year, and my board is holding me accountable. Nobody wants to buy stock in a company whose internal procedures allow an employee to walk away with four and a half million. Please, if there’s anything you’re not telling me...”
“He didn’t walk away, Nick. He got on a plane that fell out of the sky.” I think about what Leslie Thomas told me, of a hungover pilot half-asleep at the wheel, and a surge of sick rises from my belly.
He winces. “I know that, and I’m sorry as hell about it. But what I’m trying to say here is, I thought of Will as a friend, which is partially why I’d like to keep this between us.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, that if we get back that money and can straighten out the books, that will be the end of it. It’ll stay between us, no questions asked. At this point I don’t care about the whys and hows. I just need to recover that money.”
“You really think I know where it is?”
He gives me an apologetic smile, but it doesn’t soften his next words. “Do you?”
Anger rises up inside me, silent and swift. “You can’t seriously be asking me that.”
His silence tells me he is. I’m suddenly nauseous, too much tea and Mom’s brownie revolting in my gut, and I worry I might throw up on Nick’s brand-new sneakers.
“I’m sure it’s all a big misunderstanding.”
Nick shakes his head, short and definitive. “It’s not.”
“How do you know that Will’s the one who took it?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Four and a half million doesn’t just disappear overnight. This must have been going on for years. How does nobody not notice?”
“I can’t tell you that, either. In fact, I’ve probably said too much already. My lawyers are going to have a shit fit when I tell them about this conversation.”
Lawyers. Forensic accountants. I roll the Cartier ring up and down my finger with my thumb, an unconscious habit I picked up sometime this past week, fiddling with the ring whenever I think of Will. Maybe it’s because of the way he gave it to me, so unexpectedly and intimately, or maybe it’s because of his words—you, me and baby-to-be. But for some reason, for lots of reasons, touching it has given me comfort.
Until now.
Now I notice Nick noticing, and jutting out above his dark shades, there’s a new crease between his brows.
I shove my fists into the pockets of my hoodie. “I don’t know anything about the money, and I can assure you it’s not sitting in our account.”
For the longest time, he doesn’t respond. People pass us on all sides, whizzing by on skates and skateboards, and Nick just stands there, filling up half the path with his girth and watching me with a blank expression. I know what he’s doing. He’s waiting for me to insist it’s not true, that his forensic accountant must have made a mistake, that Will Griffith wasn’t capable of stealing from him or from anyone, but I can’t seem to choke the words out. If my husband was the type of person to once upon a time set fire to an apartment complex filled with sleeping people, who’s to say he wouldn’t swipe some cash from his employer’s account? I stand there across from him, biting down on my tongue and a mounting urge to cry.
Nick takes my silence as the answer it is, giving me a sorry smile before heading back the way we came. “Sorry, Iris, but I’m going after that money, even if that means taking you and a dead man down in the process.”
* * *
As soon as Nick’s gone, I toss the water bottle into a trash can and take off running. It’s a gorgeous spring afternoon, and the air is filled with the sounds of a sunny day in the city: leaf blowers buzzing, the musical jangle of dogs on leashes, the low thrum of traffic in the distance and the resounding slap of my sneakers against the pavement. Eight days of little food and no activity has my muscles weak and stiff, and every step feels like punishment, but Nick’s words are chasing me, and I need to burn off all the nervous energy twitching in my bones.
Will and I loved the BeltLine. We loved the urban artwork and the skyline views and the miles and miles of parks and green space. We loved exploring it on our matching bikes, old-school types with three gears, metal bells and wicker baskets hanging from the handlebars. Will surprised me with them one year for my birthday.
“You know what this means, right?” I said, climbing on mine and wheeling it up and down the street with a loud whoop.
Will grinned from where he was watching, his hands on his hips, at the top of the drive. “No more Uber bills?”
I laughed. “That, plus if we bike all the way to Midtown and back, the French fries I’m going to eat for lunch will be guilt free.”
We took the bikes out whenever we could. On sunny weekends and warm evenings, to restaurants and bars and just because, and we were that obnoxious couple who took up the entire BeltLine because we biked back holding hands.
And now, if I’m to believe everything I’ve learned today, this same man was a criminal. A liar and a thief, one who in the last month of his life was distracted and moody. One who got into fights at the gym and punched dents into living-room walls. One who Nick and his forensic accountant were onto. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Will was probably feeling squeezed.
I sprint past cell towers and graffitied walls, along townhomes and parks and restaurants, their terraces filling with an early happy-hour crowd. The sun’s rays beat down on my head, and I pull over on the side of the trail to peel off my hoodie. As I’m tying it around my waist, the Cartier ring blinks in the golden light.
When I was flipping through our bank statements last week, did I see a lin
e item for Cartier? I squeeze my eyes and try to remember. Surely I would have noticed that kind of charge—designer diamonds don’t come cheap. I dig my phone from a zippered pocket, check both my banking and credit card apps. No big-ticket items on any of them. No four and a half million dollars, either.
So how did Will pay for this ring?
The question starts a dull throb behind my breastbone, and I turn back for my car.
* * *
The Cartier store is smack in the middle of the Neiman Marcus wing at Lenox Square, nestled between other high-end brands. I hurry down the broad hallway, past Tesla and Louis Vuitton and Prada, wishing I’d made time to change out of my running clothes, maybe do something with my hair.
A uniformed security guard is stationed behind Cartier’s heavy glass door. He takes me in through the window with an are you sure you’re in the right place? stare. I lift my chin and reach for the brass handle, and he jerks forward before my fingers can make contact.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he says, whisking open the door. “Welcome to Cartier.”
The place screams expensive. Dark wood paneling, plush carpet, glittering jewels floating behind displays of seamless glass. The floral arrangements alone probably cost as much as my monthly electricity bill. Standing among them puts me on edge, like anyone here can see that I’m not one of them, an imposter. I look around, but other than the security guard and a blonde salesclerk polishing a gold bangle bracelet with a deep red cloth, the store is empty.
She looks up with a generic smile. “Can I help you?”
Her accent is heavy and Russian, and she is every cliché you’ve ever heard about Eastern European mail-order brides. Tall and thin, bleached blond hair, a few spritzes more than necessary of perfume. Her nails are too long and her makeup is too shiny, and her generous curves are stuffed into a too-short, too-tight suit. She’s strikingly pretty, though, even if she doesn’t exactly exude warmth.
My gaze dips to her name tag. “Hi, Natashya, my husband was in here recently and bought me this.” I hold up my right hand, and her brows rise infinitesimally, suppressed surprise or Botox or a combination of the two. “I was wondering if you could look up the details of the sale.”
“Is gift, no?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t like?”
“No, I love. I just...” I hold out my hand, gazing down at the three thick bands of gold and diamonds. I just what? Suspect my husband bought it with stolen money? Think the receipt might hold a clue as to where he stashed the rest of the four and a half million? “I need the papers for insurance purposes.”
“Ah. Of course,” she says. She settles the bracelet back in the case, locks it and slips the key into a jacket pocket, then gestures for me to follow her to an ornate cherry desk along the right wall. “Please. Have seat.”
I sink onto the padded chair across from her.
“What is husband’s name?” She pulls a wireless keyboard from a drawer, twisting to face the computer screen.
“William Griffith. He would have been in here two or three weeks ago, I’m guessing.”
Recognition alights on her face, an almost-smile. “Lucky you. Handsome man.”
“You remember him?”
“I sold him ring.”
I try to picture my husband hunched over the shiny cases, his brow furrowed in frustration while busty Natashya helps him select the perfect gift. Eye candy aside, he’s never been much of a shopper, and he’s always detested the mall. “Why fight the crowds?” he always said. “Everything I could ever need can be bought on the internet and shipped to my front door.”
“Your husband did homework. He knew which ring, what size. Quickest sale I ever make.”
I take in her words, thinking her scenario makes much more sense. Of course he would have scoured their website before coming, would have even called ahead to make sure they had the ring in stock. He probably had Natashya here waiting at the door with the bag and the credit card machine. Get in, get out, get on with his day.
She punches a button on the keyboard and the printer whirs to life. “Had money to exact penny.”
I give her a pleasant nod, then freeze when her words sink in. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me he paid for the ring in cash?”
She glances over but only long enough to dip her chin. “Da.”
“How much cash?”
“Twelve thousand four hundred dollars plus tax.”
She says it as easily as if she’s rattling off the price for a pound of sugar, while I try to come up with something I own that costs that much money. A heavily mortgaged house. A bank loan for a four-year-old car. Not even my engagement diamond, a simple solitaire set in platinum prongs, was that expensive.
The infinity ring suddenly feels too tight, like three rubber bands stretched to snapping around the base of my finger.
“Twelve...twelve thousand four hundred dollars?”
“Plus tax.” She takes the papers from the printer and presses it into a red leather booklet, checking a number on the screen. “Thirteen thousand, two hundred and sixty eight.”
With or without tax, the amount is staggering.
I watch the receipt roll off the printer and wonder if he bought anything that day besides the ring, if the four and a half million was burning a hole in his pocket. How was he planning to hide that kind of cash? Where did he hide that kind of cash? Would it fit in a box under the floorboards? In a safe up in the attic? Or would he need one of those fireproof storage units advertised on billboards along the downtown connector?
And most important: How would I go about finding it?
The salesclerk slides the booklet across the desk. “Tell husband Natashya say hi.”
20
Back in my idling car, I open the red leather booklet and flip through the papers Natashya pressed into it. A certificate of authenticity for the ring. The return policy. An invoice and tax receipt. I run the pad of my finger over Will’s familiar signature scrawled across the bottom, swallowing a sudden lump. Will may have bought this ring with stolen money, but that doesn’t change the fact he bought it for me. He braved the mall and selected a gift that would mean something for me. For us. Pink for love, yellow for fidelity, white for friendship. Him, me and baby-to-be. No matter his past, no matter where he got the money and how he paid for it, this ring is mine. I’ll never take it off.
And then my gaze falls on the contact information on the invoice. Below Will’s name, below our home address, there’s a phone number I don’t recognize. It’s one of the three Atlanta area codes—678—but the digits are otherwise unfamiliar. Definitely not Will’s cell, which begins with 404.
His work number, maybe? Will was always calling me from numbers I didn’t recognize, and he said the only ones I should ever bother to save were his cell, Jessica’s direct line and the main number for AppSec. Now I wish I’d been more meticulous about recording them.
I pull up his contact page on my phone, check the numbers I have for his office against the Cartier receipt. None of them match.
So...what? Natashya got the number wrong when she entered it into the system? Will gave her a fake number to avoid being at the receiving end of the store’s telemarketing campaign? And then it occurs to me. What if he had a second cell phone I didn’t know about? Another life, another wife? The possibility hits me square in the belly, churning to acid in my gut.
Before I can chicken out, I punch the digits into my cell and hit Send, holding my breath as it rings over my car’s hands-free system. Once, twice, again. After the fourth, it flips me to voice mail, a computer-generated voice repeating the number and asking me to leave a message. I hang up before I get to the beep.
Now what? I chew my lip, stare out the windshield at people coming and going through the parking lot, and think things through. Mayb
e the number is nothing but a mistake, but what if it’s not? What if it really did belong to Will? A cell phone doesn’t come for free. What if I can trace the number? Will it point me to a bank account I didn’t know he had, one fat with the stolen AppSec money?
My cell phone buzzes between my fingers, and I jump clear out of my seat. My brother. I suck a monster breath, willing my heart to settle, and answer on the hands-free system. “Just so you know, you scared the pants off me, and now I have to go back inside the mall to pee.”
“Just so you know, Mom thinks you’ve fallen into the Chattahoochee. Wait, what are you doing at the mall? I thought you were meeting Will’s boss.”
“I was.” I drop the phone in my cup holder, leaning back into the seat and giving Dave a quick but thorough blow-by-blow of my conversation with Nick. The missing money, Nick’s notice of the ring, the way he waited for the words I couldn’t choke out: My husband didn’t do it. He’s innocent. “They’ve lawyered up, Dave. Nick said he’d take Will down if he had to, but he was going after that money.”
“Of course he is. Nobody just lets somebody run off with four and a half million dollars. Which means you need to be lawyering up, too. You need to make sure none of this blows back on you.”
My spine straightens against the leather upholstery. “Blow back how? I didn’t steal a penny.” As I say the words, Nick’s warning slides through my mind. He told me he’d take me down, too, in order to recover the money, and a chill skates across my skin.
“Maybe not, but if Will used stolen money to buy things you shared—cars, furniture, vacations, those kinds of things—as his wife you could be held accountable. They could come after you, too.”
I unfold my right hand from the steering wheel, the Cartier blinking on my finger. “Will paid cash for the ring.”
A pointed silence fills my car.
I drop my forehead to the steering wheel, give it a few thumps. “How did this happen? How did I go from happily married to a widow wearing hocked jewels in just a week?”
The Marriage Lie Page 17