The morning air is cool, but the parking lot feels like a giant hill I have to climb in hundred-degree heat. I clack across the asphalt, trying not to work up a sweat in the early-morning sun, but my silk blouse is already sticking to my skin.
“Hi, Bridget. Good morning, Isabella. You ladies are looking extra perky this morning.”
They don’t look extra perky. They look like two half-asleep teenagers who stumbled into an AP calculus class by accident.
“Mrs. Griffith, are you okay?” one of them asks.
I swallow down a sigh. “Perfectly fine, thank you.”
Bridget waves a hand at my torso. “Like, you do realize your shirt is on inside out, right?”
I look down and she’s right, dammit. The laundry tag flutters at my waist, and the seams are raw and raggedy. I fold my arms across my chest and try to hold her gaze. “I’ll fix it as soon as I’m inside.”
“And you’re only wearing one earring,” Isabella says.
My fingers fly to my ears, my thumb closing in on a bare left earlobe, and a hot flush climbs my face. Jesus. No wonder the kids are stopping to watch me lumber across the parking lot, gawking at the poor widow who came to school looking like an unmade bed. I pluck out the other hoop and drop it into my bag, at the same time checking my skirt and sneaking a peek at my pumps. They match, thank God.
“I was in a hurry this morning. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” they say in unison.
Without another word, I turn and head for the building.
Planning a sensitivity training workshop moves to the top of my to-do list.
* * *
Ava is in my office when I walk through the door. I’m not all that surprised to see her here—no one takes advantage of my open-door policy more than Ava—though she’s usually slumped in the corner stool, a spot she sits in so often, her name should be stitched across the back like a director’s chair. Today, though, she stands stiff and twitchy in the center of the room, her backpack hung over a shoulder, her fingers white where they grip the strap.
And she seems a little out of breath. “Somebody told me you were back, but—”
“Good morning, Ava. How was your weekend?”
She shifts her weight to her other leg and wrings a manicured finger, casting an anxious glance at whoever is standing in the hallway. “What?”
I step around her to the other side of my desk, dropping my bag on the floor before I fall into my chair. Will’s picture, the one of him from last year’s Music Midtown, smiles at me from next to my computer screen. I open my bottom drawer and chuck it in, frame and all.
“I asked you how your weekend was.”
“Oh. Fine, I guess.” She chews on her bottom lip, plump and perfectly glossed, her gaze flitting around the room. “Mr. Rawlings told us you wouldn’t be back for a while.”
I’ve always liked Ted, but imagining his face at the town hall meeting when he said those words, his furrowed brow and compassionate tone as he implied I was at home falling apart, I can barely contain my cringe. I don’t want anyone’s sympathy. I don’t deserve it.
“I wanted to call,” she says, “but I didn’t have your number...” Ava moves closer to the desk, a conscious step into my field of vision. “And I thought about stopping by, but I didn’t know how you’d feel about me just showing up unannounced at your house.”
My gaze shoots to hers. “Why?”
Her pretty forehead crumples in a frown. “Why didn’t I know how you’d feel?”
“Why would you show up at my house unannounced? Why would you even consider it?” The questions come out like angry accusations, and I know I’m being rude and unreasonable, but I can’t stop myself. There are too many conversations going on here—with Ava, with her nervously animated hands and my accusing glares, with the phone that’s dead in my bag—and my senses are overloaded. It’s like I’m watching television and blasting the radio and talking all at the same time. I need for at least one of the noises to shut the hell up.
“Because I...” She comes strong out of the gate, then fumbles, her words trailing away into nothing. She backs away from the desk, drops her backpack onto the floor and sits, her back ramrod straight, on the corner chair. Outside my office door, the hallway is quiet, the rest of the kids in class. “I wanted to know how you were doing. I was worried.”
It’s not just her words that suck the steam from my anger but also her tone, hesitant and unsure. I should apologize. I should open my mouth and tell her I’m sorry for using her as an emotional punching bag, but I can’t seem to make myself. I’m too uncomfortable with where this conversation is headed, so instead I flip it back onto her.
“I appreciate your concern. Thank you. So how are things going with Charlotte Wilbanks? Any new arguments I should know about?”
Ava’s pretty blue eyes bug, the facial equivalent of are you kidding me? She doesn’t speak for a good ten seconds. “Fighting with Charlotte is just so pointless.”
“Good for you. That’s a very mature stance to take. What about you and Adam Nightingale? Are you two still an item?”
“Charlotte can have him. All Adam wants to do is play the guitar or have sex, and honestly?” She makes a face. “He’s not very good at either.” She leans back in her chair, studying me over my desk with a tenderness I didn’t know she was capable of. “My mom left.”
At first I think I didn’t hear her right. “What do you mean she left? Left where?”
“Our house. My dad. She went to live in Sandy Springs with some mechanic named Bruce.” She says it like she’d report the weather, flat and matter-of-fact. “Apparently, they’re in love or something.”
I lean back in my chair, blowing out a breath. “Okay. Wow. That’s... That must be a huge adjustment for you.”
“I’ll say. You should see my room at Bruce’s house. It’s tiny.” She gives me a half grin to let me know she’s not entirely serious.
“I meant your parents splitting up.”
Ava pulls a hunk of hair over her shoulder and winds the ends around a finger. “I don’t know. It’s not like my dad was the greatest husband or anything. He’s hardly ever at home, and when he is, he’s always on the phone or behind his computer. I’m not entirely positive he’s noticed she’s gone. And Mom does seem a lot happier now. She smiles literally all the time.”
“Divorce is tough on everyone involved, but you know this is something between your parents, right? It has nothing to do with you.”
She nods like she doesn’t quite believe me. “You want to know the craziest thing? Mom didn’t take anything but the clothes on her back. Not her jewelry, not her car, not even her Birkin bag. Last Christmas she couldn’t live without a pink diamond Rolex and now the only thing she wants is fifty-fifty custody.”
“It sounds like she’s found something much more valuable.” I think about Will, about how empty my life is without him in it, about how he’s back and blowing up my phone with text messages I don’t dare to read, and a pang hits me in the center of the chest.
Ava lifts a bony shoulder. “I guess Bruce is okay.”
“I meant you. She might be leaving your father, but it sounds like she’s still very much committed to you.”
For once, Ava doesn’t try to bite down on her smile. She just looks at me and lets it rip, and her happiness lights up her face. She really is a beautiful girl, and I’m about to tell her she should smile more often when the bigger picture occurs to me.
“You seem surprisingly okay with all of this. How come?”
She unwinds her finger, pushes the hair back over her shoulder and straightens her Lake Forrest sweater. “Honestly? Because of you. Because of what happened to your husband. Things like that make you realize what’s really important, and it’s not another diamond Rolex, you know? Like, life is too short to be
focused on all the wrong things.”
And just like that, I’m crying. For me, for Will, for Ava and her mother. This is the moment every counselor works for, that aha moment of breakthrough when their student sheds some of the baggage weighing them down, but because of my own baggage, I’m too emotional to say a word.
“Anyway—” she swipes her backpack from the floor and pushes to a stand “—I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just wanted you to know that if you need me, I’ll be in a tiny bedroom up in Sandy Springs, and I have you to thank for it.” Her cheeky grin fades into something more solemn, and her voice goes rough around the edges. “Seriously, Mrs. Griffith. Thank you, and I’m really, really sorry about your husband.”
* * *
As soon as she’s gone, I wipe my tears with my sleeve and call Evan on my desk phone. “Hey, it’s me.”
“Finally. I must have left you a dozen voice mails. Did you leave your cell at home or something?”
I feel around for my bag on the floor, push it with my foot to the very back corner of my desk, where it tangles with the computer wires. “The battery’s dead.”
“Well, plug it in, will you? I talked to the waitress.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing, that’s the problem. I’m hoping she’ll be more forthcoming in person, which is why I’d like to fly down there later this week, you and me both. My size tends to scare people off, and I’m thinking it might help if I show up with another female who also happens to be a psychologist.”
“You’re probably right. I’m happy to help any way I can.”
“Great. My assistant is moving some things around on my schedule. She’ll let you know the day once she clears one up.”
“Sounds good.”
“I also talked to an old buddy of mine whose firm specializes in corporate accounting fraud, and apparently, it’s a well-known secret around town that AppSec’s plans to go public keep getting postponed because they can’t get their shit together. The VCs have all backed out. They want nothing to do with them.”
“What’s a VC?”
“Venture capital fund. They invest money in companies like AppSec in exchange for equity. Companies typically use them for an influx of cash as a lead-up to the IPO. In AppSec’s case, there were a few enthusiastic investors as recently as three years ago, but only one this past year and that was 100 percent stock, so not exactly liquid.”
“I’m a school psychologist, Evan. I have no idea what any of that means.”
“It means that Will’s boss has lost his marbles if he thinks AppSec will be going public anytime soon. That company is in deep financial distress, and their books are a mess. It’s no wonder four and a half million were missing before anyone had any idea it was gone.”
The bell rings, and the classrooms spill clumps of rowdy teenagers into the hall. I pull the phone cord long, step around my desk and reach for my office door. It’s something I’ve never done—ever, in the six-plus years I’ve worked here—and the students notice. They look over with brows light with surprise, right before I shut the door in their faces.
“Okay,” I say, returning to my desk chair, “but that still doesn’t explain how a software engineer could sneak that much out of the company without anyone noticing. Wouldn’t he need someone to sign the checks for him?”
“Not if he moved it electronically. He probably wouldn’t have had to cover his tracks very carefully to get away with it, either, which is both good news and bad. Bad for the thief, but good for the investigators. All they have to do to get it back is follow the paper trail.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure. Will is a genius, and he wouldn’t leave obvious footprints for the investigators.”
Especially if I’m right, if Will is hiding out with the money. He’ll make sure neither will be easy to trace. In fact, I’m willing to bet I’m the only link left to him, the dead phone in my bag the only clue.
On the other end of the line, Evan shuffles some papers around his desk. “I’ve got a few calls out. I figure if I can ferret out who AppSec is using as an investigator, it might give me some indication as to where they’re looking for the money. In the meantime, what did you do with the Liberty Airlines check?”
“I ripped it in half.” I don’t mention that if I could have stuffed it down that Ann Margaret’s throat, I would have.
“And you haven’t claimed any of the life insurance policies, have you?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t. As Will’s wife, you’re going to be the first person they look to as coconspirator, and it’s important you don’t touch a cent of money that might not be kosher. Will you be okay financially for the foreseeable future?”
I do the math in my head, a quick ballpark of the monthly costs—mortgage, utilities, car and insurance payments—and don’t like the answer. Private schools are notoriously stingy when it comes to salaries, and Will’s paycheck was double mine. I could sell his car, but Corban was right. It’s old and unreliable and probably not worth more than a couple thousand bucks. I’m not entirely sure how I’ll manage the mortgage now that my income is down by two-thirds, but I do know this: I’ll starve before I sell the dream house Will and I bought together.
“Iris, if you need any help, I’m happy to—”
“I’m fine.” I grimace and pump an I got this confidence into my tone. “Thanks, Evan, but don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.”
“I just don’t want to give them any reason to come after you.”
“Understood.” This time my tone says the subject is closed.
“Right. While I’ve got you, is there anything else I should know about? Documents Will asked you to sign, or any big-ticket items other than the ring Will bought with unexplained funds? Cars, vacations, furniture, anything you haven’t found reflected on your mutual accounts.”
“No, nothing that I can think of. Though I called to tell you why I’ve let the battery go dead on my cell phone.”
“More texts? You’re supposed to be uploading the screenshots to the Dropbox account, remember?”
I lean back and look out the window, on to the parking lot of shiny cars and beyond, to the line of trees. “That would mean I’d actually have to touch my phone.”
“Are the threats that bad?”
“It’s not the threats. It’s the texts from the other number, the blocked one. I know who’s behind them.”
“You do? Who is it?” I pause to gather up the word on my tongue, but Evan is not that patient. “Jesus Christ, you’re going to say Will, aren’t you?” His neutral lawyer tone has abandoned him, and he sounds skeptical.
“Yes.” I say the word, and my heart gives a hard kick. “It’s true. It’s him.”
“How do you know? And by that I mean, really know that it’s him and not just someone claiming to be him.”
“Because I know. Because this is how we fight. I get pissed and ignore him, and he blows up my phone with excuses and apologies. But, oh my God, Evan, it’s really him.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know.” I think about the texts, and the emotions rise in my chest, stealing my breath and taking up all the air. “I can’t bear to look at his messages. I haven’t touched my phone since yesterday afternoon.”
Silence stretches, long and leaden, and I feel the need to defend myself.
“You know better than anyone else the hell I’ve been through these past thirteen days, and now I’m finding out it wasn’t real? That it was just some morbid trick so he could run off with a couple million dollars? Uh-uh. Hell, no. I’m so unbelievably furious at him, Evan. I really don’t know what to do with myself.”
Evan blows out a long breath. “I’m trying to put myself in your place, Iris, I really am, but all I keep thinking is if I suddenly found out Susanna and Emma
were alive, there’s not one goddamn thing that could keep me from them. Sure, I’d be furious she put me through these past two weeks, but my anger would be far outweighed by relief at finding her alive.”
“That’s different. Your daughter makes your hypothetical situation completely different from my reality. Will is an adult, not an innocent child.” But even as I say the words, something worms its head up through the anger and resentment, and I find myself stretching out a leg, feeling around for my bag with my foot.
“Love is love. And how will you know if his reasons are forgivable or not if you refuse to look at your phone?” He pauses to let that one sink in, then seems to think of something else. “Hey, I keep meaning to ask. Who told you that blocked number couldn’t be traced?”
“What? Oh, some Best Buy geek in Seattle. He said the texts originated from an app, something about a texting equivalent of Snapchat. Once the text is sent, any trace of it is wiped clean.”
“Still. Probably wouldn’t hurt to have another expert take a look at it. What time are you done there?”
“Officially? Five, but I can leave anytime after three.”
He recites an address for a neighborhood near my house, in Little Five Points, and I scribble it onto a sticky. “Ask for Zeke. I’ll call ahead and tell him you’ll be there around four.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and, Iris? Plug in your phone.”
26
I check the scribbles on my Post-it against the sign on the window of Sam’s Record Shop, a dusty music store in Little Five Points. According to the address Evan gave me, this is the place. I push through the glass door and take a look around.
Sam does a brisk business. Dozens of hippies and hipsters stand around, nodding to a soundless beat on headphones and flipping through old vinyl covers. I squeeze past them, heading for the pretty girl behind the cash register at the far end.
When she spots me, her hot-pink lips slide into a lazy smile. “Hey, how you doin’?”
Her speech is slow and syrupy, and I’m pretty sure she’s stoned.
The Marriage Lie Page 23