by Laura Dave
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say. “I made Bailey dinner, which she hated, and she went to play practice. I heard about The Shop on NPR while I was waiting for her in the school parking lot. We came home. Owen didn’t. No one slept.”
He tilts his head, takes me in, like he doesn’t believe me, entirely. I don’t judge him for that. He shouldn’t. But he seems to be willing to let it go.
“So… no call this morning, correct?” he says. “No email either?”
“No,” I say.
He pauses, as though something is just occurring to him.
“It’s a crazy thing when someone disappears, isn’t it? No explanation?” he says.
“Yes,” I say.
“And yet… you don’t seem all that mad.”
I stop walking, irritated that he thinks he knows enough about me to make a judgment call on how I feel.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there was an appropriate way to respond when your husband’s company is raided and he disappears,” I say. “Am I doing anything else you deem inappropriate?”
He thinks about it. “Not really.”
I look down at his ring finger. No ring there. “I take it you’re not married?”
“No,” he says. “Wait… do you mean ever or currently?”
“Is it a different answer?”
He smiles. “No.”
“Well, if you were, you’d understand that I’m more worried about my husband than anything else.”
“Do you suspect foul play?”
I think of the notes Owen has left, of the money. I think of the twelve-year-old’s story of running into Owen in the school hallway, of Owen’s conversation with Jules. Owen knew where he was going. He knew he needed to get away from here. He chose to go.
“I don’t think he was taken against his will, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Not exactly.”
“So what are you asking, Grady? Exactly?”
“Grady. I like that. I’m glad we’re on a first-name basis.”
“What’s your question?”
“Here you are, left to pick up the pieces of his mess. Not to mention take care of his daughter,” he says. “That would make me mad. And you don’t seem to be that mad. Which makes me think there is something you know that you’re not telling me…”
His voice tightens. And his eyes darken until he seems like what he is—an investigator—and I’m suddenly on the other side of whatever line he draws to separate himself from the people he suspects of wrongdoing.
“If Owen told you something about where he disappeared to, about why he left, I need to know,” he says. “That’s the only way for you to protect him.”
“Is that your primary interest here? Protecting him?”
“It is. Actually.”
That does feel true, which unnerves me. It unnerves me even more than his investigator mode.
“I should get home.”
I start to move away from him, Grady Bradford keeping me a little off-balance standing so close.
“You need to get a lawyer,” he says.
I turn back toward him. “What?”
“Thing is,” he says, “you’re going to get a lot of questions about Owen, certainly until he’s around again to answer them for himself. Questions you’re under no obligation to answer. It’s easier to push them off if you tell them you have a lawyer.”
“Or I can just tell them the truth. I have no idea where Owen is. And I have nothing to hide.”
“It’s not that simple. People are going to offer you information that makes it seem like they’re on your side. And Owen’s side. They aren’t. They aren’t on anyone’s side but their own.”
“People like you?” I say.
“Exactly,” he says. “But I did make a phone call for you this morning to Thomas Shelton. He’s an old buddy of mine who works on family law for the state of California. I just wanted to make sure you’re protected in case someone comes out of the woodwork seeking temporary custody of Bailey during all of this. Thomas will pull some strings to make sure that temporary custody is granted to you.”
I let out a deep breath, unable to hide my relief. It has occurred to me that, if this goes on for too much longer, losing custody of Bailey is a possibility. She has no other family to speak of—her grandparents deceased, no close relatives. But we aren’t blood relatives. I haven’t adopted her. Couldn’t the state take her away at any time? At least until they determine where her one legal guardian is, and why he has left his kid behind?
“He has the authority to do that?” I say.
“He does. And he will.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Because I asked him to,” he says.
“Why would you do that for us?” I ask.
“So you’d trust me when I tell you the best thing you can do for Owen is lie low and get a lawyer,” he says. “Do you know one?”
I think of the one lawyer I know in town. I think of how little I want to talk to him, especially now.
“Unfortunately,” I say.
“Call him. Or her.”
“Him,” I say.
“Fine, call him. And lie low.”
“Do you want to say it again?” I ask.
“Nah, I’ve said it enough.”
Then something in his face changes, a smile breaking through. Investigator mode apparently behind us.
“Owen hasn’t used a credit card, not a check, nothing for twenty-four hours. And he won’t. He’s too smart, so you can stop calling his phone because I’m sure he dumped it.”
“So why did you keep asking if he called?”
“There are other phones he could have used,” he says. “Burner phones. Phones that aren’t readily traceable.”
Burner phones, paper trails. Why is Grady trying to make Owen sound like a criminal mastermind?
I start to ask him, but he presses a button on his key chain, a car across the street shining its lights, coming to life.
“I won’t keep you longer, you have enough to deal with,” he says. “But when you do hear from Owen, tell him I can help him if he lets me.”
Then he hands me a napkin from Fred’s, his name written down, GRADY BRADFORD, with two phone numbers beneath it, his numbers I presume—one of them marked cell.
“I can help you too,” he says.
I pocket the napkin as he crosses the street and gets into his car. I start to walk away, but as he turns on the engine, something occurs to me and I walk toward him.
“Wait. With which part?” I say.
He lowers his window. “With which part, what?”
“Can you help?”
“The easy part,” he says. “Getting through this.”
“What’s the hard part?”
“Owen’s not who you think he is,” he says.
Then Grady Bradford is gone.
These Are Not Your Friends
I go back into the house just long enough to grab Owen’s laptop.
I’m not going to sit there thinking about what Grady said, and all the things he seemed to leave out, which are bothering me more. How did he know so much about Owen? Maybe Avett wasn’t the only one who they’ve been following closely for the last year and change. Maybe Grady’s nice guy act—helping me with Bailey’s custody, offering advice—was so I’d slip up and tell him something Owen wouldn’t want him to know.
Did I slip up? I don’t think so, even as I go back through our conversation. But I’m not going to risk doing it in the future, not with Grady, or with anyone else. I’m going to figure out what’s going on with Owen first.
I take a left off the docks and head toward my workshop.
I need to make a stop first though at Owen’s friend’s house. It’s a stop that I’m not particularly eager to make, but if anyone will have insight into what Owen is thinking, into what I might be missing, it’s Carl.
Carl Conrad: Owen’s closest friend in Sausalito. And one of the only people on whom Owen and I
disagree. Owen thinks I don’t give him a fair shake, and maybe that’s true. He’s funny and smart and totally embraced me from the minute I arrived in Sausalito. But he also habitually cheats on his wife, Patricia, and I don’t like knowing that. Owen doesn’t like knowing that either, but he says he’s able to separate it out in his mind because Carl has been such a good friend to him.
This is how Owen is. He values the first friend he made in Sausalito more than he judges him. I know that’s how my husband works. But maybe he hasn’t been judging Carl for other reasons. Maybe Owen doesn’t judge him because Carl returns the favor, by not judging a secret Owen felt safe confiding in Carl.
Even if that theory is wrong, I still need to talk to him.
Because Carl’s also the only lawyer I know in town.
I knock on the front door, but no one answers. Not Carl, not Patty.
It’s odd because Carl works from home. He likes to be around for his kids—his two young kids—who usually nap at this time. Carl and Patty are sticklers for their children’s schedule. Patty lectured me about it during our first night out together. Patty had just celebrated her twenty-eighth birthday, which made the lecture all the more enjoyable. If I was still able to have children—that was how she said it—I was going to have to be careful not to let them rule the roost. I’d have to show them who was in charge. That meant a schedule. That meant, in her case, a 12:30 P.M. nap every day.
It’s 12:45. If Carl isn’t home, why isn’t Patty?
Except that through the living room blinds, I see that Carl is home. I see him standing there, hiding behind those blinds, waiting for me to go.
I knock on the door again, pressing hard on the doorbell. I’m going to ring the doorbell for the rest of the afternoon until he lets me in. Kids’ naps be damned.
Carl swings the door open. He is holding a beer; his hair is neatly combed. Those are the first indicators that something strange is going on. His hair is usually uncombed, which he thinks makes him look sexy. And there is something in his eyes—a strange mix of agitation and fear and something else I can’t name, probably because I’m so shocked that he hid from me.
“What the hell, Carl?” I say.
“Hannah, you need to go,” Carl says.
He’s angry. Why is he angry?
“I just need a minute,” I say.
“Not now, I can’t talk right now,” he says.
He moves to close the door, but I hold it open. My force surprises both of us, the door escaping his grasp, opening wider.
Which is when I see Patty. She stands in the living room doorway, holding her daughter Sarah in her arms, the two of them dressed in matching paisley dresses—their dark hair pulled back into soft braids. The identical attire and haircut only further highlight what Patty wants people to see when they look at Sarah: an equally presentable but smaller version of herself.
Behind them—filling up the living room—a dozen parents and toddlers watch a clown make balloon animals. A HAPPY BIRTHDAY SARAH banner hangs above their heads.
It’s their daughter’s second birthday party. I had totally forgotten about it. Owen and I were supposed to be here celebrating. Now Carl isn’t even opening the door.
Patty offers a confused wave. “Hey there…” she says.
I wave back. “Hi.”
Carl turns back toward me, his voice controlled but firm. “We’ll talk later,” he says.
“I forgot, Carl. I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I didn’t mean to show up during her party.”
“Forget it. Just go.”
“I will but… would you just please step outside and talk to me for a couple of minutes? I wouldn’t ask but it’s urgent. I think I need a lawyer. Something’s happened at The Shop.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” he says.
“So why won’t you talk to me then?”
Before he can answer, Patty walks toward us and hands Sarah to Carl. Then she gives her husband a kiss on the cheek. A big show. For him. For me. For the party.
“Hi,” she says, kissing me on the cheek too. “Glad you could make it.”
I keep my voice down. “Patty, I’m sorry for walking in on the party, but something’s happened to Owen.”
“Carl,” Patty says, “let’s get everyone out back, okay? It’s time for ice cream sundaes.”
She looks to the group and flashes her smile at them.
“Everyone head out back with Carl. You too, Mr. Silly,” she says to the clown. “It’s ice cream time!”
Then—and only then—she turns back toward me. “Let’s talk out front, yeah?” she says.
I start to tell her that Carl is really who I need to speak with, Carl who is walking away with Sarah on his hip, but Patty is pushing me onto the front porch. She closes the thick red door and I am on the wrong side of it again.
This is when, on the privacy of her porch, Patty turns back to me, eyes blazing. Smile gone.
“How dare you show up here,” she says.
“I forgot about the party.”
“Screw the party,” she says. “Owen broke Carl’s heart.”
“Broke his heart… how?” I say.
“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with him stealing all our fucking money?”
“What are you talking about?” I say.
“Owen didn’t tell you that he convinced us to go in on The Shop’s IPO? He sold Carl on the software’s potential, sold him on the enormous returns. Failed to mention that the software was dysfunctional.”
“Patty, look…”
“So all of our money is now tied up in The Shop’s stock. Actually, I should say, what’s left of our money is tied up in stock, which on my last check was down to thirteen cents.”
“Our money was there too. If Owen had known, why would he do that?”
“Maybe he didn’t think they’d get caught. Or maybe he’s a freaking moron, I can’t tell you that,” she says. “But I can promise you that if you don’t leave my house, right now, I’m calling the cops. I’m not kidding. You’re not welcome here.”
“I understand why you’re upset with Owen. I do. But Carl may be able to help me find him and that is the fastest way to get this sorted out.”
“Unless you’re here to pay for our kids’ college, we have nothing to say to you.”
I’m not sure what to say to her, but I know I have to say something before she walks back inside. After seeing him in person, after seeing the look in his eyes, I can’t shake the feeling that Carl may know something.
“Patty, can you take a breath please?” I say. “I’m in the dark here too. Just like you.”
“Your husband aided in a half-a-billion-dollar fraud, so I’m not so sure I believe you,” she says. “But if you’re telling me the truth, you’re the biggest fool in the world, not seeing who your husband really is.”
It doesn’t seem like the greatest time to tell her that, in terms of playing the fool, she isn’t avoiding it either. Her husband has been sleeping with his coworker on and off since Patty was pregnant with the child that Mr. Silly is entertaining in the backyard. Maybe we are all fools, one way or another, when it comes to seeing the totality of the people who love us—the people we try to love.
“Do you really expect me to believe that you didn’t know what was going on?” she says.
“Why would I be here looking for answers if I did?” I say.
She tilts her head, considers. Perhaps that penetrates, or perhaps she realizes she just doesn’t care. But her face softens.
“Go home to Bailey,” she says. “Just go. She’s going to need you.”
She starts to walk back inside. Then she turns back.
“Oh. And when you speak to Owen? Tell him to go fuck himself.”
With that, she closes the door.
* * *
On the walk to my workshop, I move fast.
I keep my eyes down as I turn onto Litho Street and pass LeAnn Sullivan’s house. I clock that she and her husban
d are sitting on their front porch, drinking their afternoon lemonade. But I pretend to be busy on my phone. I don’t stop the way I normally would to say hello to them. To join them for a glass.
My workshop is in a small craftsman house next door to their home. It is 2,800 square feet with an enormous backyard—the kind of space I only dreamed of having when I was in New York, the kind of space I did dream about in New York every time I had to subway out to my friend’s warehouse in the Bronx to work on pieces that wouldn’t fit into my workshop on Greene Street.
I start to relax as soon as I walk through the front gate, closing it behind myself. But instead of heading inside, I circle around to the backyard and the small deck where I like to do my paperwork. I take a seat at the small table and open Owen’s laptop. I push Grady Bradford out of my mind. I push out Patty’s wrath. And I ignore that Carl wouldn’t even look at me, let alone provide any insight. It centers me, in a way, knowing I have to figure it out myself. And I feel calmer being among my things, my work. Being in my favorite place in Sausalito. It makes it almost feel normal that I’m hacking into my husband’s personal computer.
Owen’s laptop powers up and I key in his first password. Nothing pops out at me as unusual. I click open his PHOTOS folder, which is essentially the Bailey bible. There are hundreds of photographs of her from elementary school and junior high, photographs from each and every birthday starting with her fifth birthday in Sausalito. I’ve seen these all many times. Owen loved narrating the parts of their life that I’d missed: Little Bailey playing in her first soccer game, which she was terrible in; Little Bailey performing in her first school play in second grade (Anything Goes), which she was amazing in.
I don’t find a lot of photographs of them from when Bailey was very little, back when they were still living in Seattle, at least not in the main folder.
So I click on a small subfolder labeled O.M.