The Wife: A Novel of Psychological Suspense

by Alafair Burke

  “What about deposits?”

  “Just direct deposits from work. Are you talking about the settlements her lawyer was trying to work out with Powell and Fisher? She said they hadn’t talked final numbers yet.”

  “But Nick Lowe says Fisher was at Kerry’s house that night. Given their history, maybe they were trying to work something out directly—without their lawyers.”

  “We’re working on the same theory here. Only thing is: he’s a rich man. Buying off an ex-mistress wouldn’t have cost much.”

  “Unless she was in a position to make him a much less rich man—or get him in trouble with the feds.”

  “You’re talking about all that foreign-country stuff with the company?”

  “Powell claims that Kerry kept promising to help him prove his suspicions. But maybe she wasn’t merely going to snoop around on his behalf. She was sleeping with her boss when the company got those contracts in Africa.”

  “You think she actually knew about kickbacks?”

  “Or was even involved. That’s why I was asking about her bank records. You mentioned her paychecks were on direct deposit. Can you go back a few years and look for anything unusual?”

  “Yeah—I’ve got the bank info right here. It shouldn’t take long.”

  She managed to type another section of her report, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, while Netter did the research.

  “It looks like you might’ve been onto something. She got a huge raise about three and a half years ago.” As he recited the numbers, Corrine figured out that it was about a 20 percent raise, issued only a month before Oasis announced new projects in Africa. Corrine pulled up Kerry’s profile on LinkedIn.

  “I don’t see a corresponding promotion listed on her résumé,” Corrine said. “She’s been the VP in charge of global marketing for five years.”

  “Plus her year-end bonus was an even hundred grand, when it was twenty the previous two years.”

  “And since then?”

  “Fifty.”

  The financial information wasn’t a smoking gun, but it was consistent with Corrine’s current theory. If there was corruption involved in Oasis’s international projects, Kerry Lynch could have been complicit. She had told a realtor that she wanted to sell her house and leave town. Corrine had a feeling that the money Kerry’s attorney was seeking to settle a sexual discrimination claim was nothing compared to what Kerry might have tried to extract from Tom Fisher directly when he came to her house.

  The images Corrine had been seeing for days flashed in her mind again, but this time she saw the face of the man holding the crystal egg over Kerry’s head. It belonged to Tom Fisher, not Jason Powell.

  She told Netter she thought he was on the right track and ended the call. She immediately dialed Brian King. It only took a few minutes to lay out what she had learned.

  “I feel better about my decision now,” he said.

  “Which is?”

  “I need to dismiss our case against Powell. Maybe he did it, maybe he didn’t. But I have too many doubts to continue the prosecution any longer.”

  As Corrine hung up the phone, she said a little prayer for both Angela Powell and Kerry Lynch.

  53

  “Spencer, you weren’t kidding. These clothes smell like rotting fish.” I had just pulled Spencer’s camp laundry from the dryer, and every single item was still saturated in the same putrid scent. “Seriously, how is this possible?” I threw them back into the washing machine for a second tour, adding another capful of detergent.

  Spencer had come home from camp two days earlier. His presence, more than anything, made the house feel as close to normal as I could remember in the last month. I had told him that Jason had been charged with a crime, but the case had been placed on hold to reach a settlement. It made it all sound so nice and neat, like an ordinary transaction to be resolved by contract.

  To be safe, I had also mentioned that “the woman” had apparently “gone off the grid,” and the police had “come by” to make sure that Jason’s whereabouts could be accounted for the night she’d been seen last. “Your dad and I had an argument Wednesday, and he stayed with Uncle Colin for the night. I didn’t want the police to read into it, so I said he was here at the house when you called. But he was with Colin, so it’s the same thing.”

  Spencer seemed to take it all in stride. He was more upset at the thought of moving, but I had enlisted him in searching Zillow and StreetEasy for a rental apartment he might like. “It has to be walkable to school. And I was thinking we should find something pet friendly. Maybe it’s time we got a dog.”

  Cliché, I know, to offer my kid a puppy to make up for a divorce, but I was willing to try anything.

  When he asked me how big an apartment we were looking for, I realized I still pictured a home office for Jason and enough closet space for both of us.

  “Let’s just get a two-bedroom, since it’s temporary.”

  Spencer had immediately volunteered to transfer to a public school if we needed to save money. I fibbed and told him that I was only keeping our rent low because rent was “money down the drain.” Once we were ready to buy, I assured him, we’d get something better.

  I had hit the wash button on the machine when Spencer came rushing from his room, iPad in hand. “Mom, that lady’s missing.”

  “I told you that, Spencer. With all the media attention, she probably took a break for a while.” God knows I had thought a few times about running off to a beach on the other side of the world until this all blew over.

  “No, but it’s in the news now. You need to read this.”

  “It’s better to ignore that stuff.” In truth, I was fairly certain I had read every single article, tweet, post, or comment written on the Internet about Jason since I first heard Rachel Sutton’s name. My skin had gotten no thicker as a result. “They never know what they’re talking about.”

  “No, they do know. Listen to this: ‘Despite Lynch’s role as the complainant in the pending sexual assault case against renowned economist and author Powell, law enforcement sources say that the current investigation does not implicate Powell as a suspect in Miss Lynch’s disappearance. In fact, the ongoing investigation has cast doubt on the veracity of Miss Lynch’s original claim against Powell.”

  “What?” I stood next to him and read the article myself. An unnamed former boyfriend of Miss Lynch was believed to be the last person to see her and had invoked his right to silence rather than answer police questions. The article closed by noting that the New York District Attorney’s Office still had a case pending against Jason Powell, but quoted ADA Brian King as saying, “We are taking a close look at developing facts that may affect our decision making. For now, we want to make absolutely clear that Dr. Powell is not a suspect in the investigation currently ongoing on Long Island. His whereabouts on that night have been accounted for.”

  By me, I thought, completing the sentence. Spencer was running toward his room. “I’m calling Dad to make sure he knows.”

  It occurred to me that my son hadn’t stopped—even for a second—to worry about what had happened to Kerry Lynch. Was empathy developed by nature or nurture? I pushed away the idea. Despite his biology, Spencer was nothing like Charles Franklin.

  A few minutes later, he was back in the laundry room, cell phone in hand. “Dad wants to talk to you.”

  “Hey, did you see it?” I asked.

  “Olivia just texted me about it right before the phone rang. They called her for a comment earlier today about Kerry’s disappearance, but she decided it was better to say nothing. She sensed that the tide was on our side.”

  Our. I didn’t know who that was anymore.

  “Congratulations.” It was an awkward response.

  “I don’t want to get my hopes up, but this might actually be over. Maybe she blackmailed her boss and got enough money to start over somewhere new.”

  “Without telling anyone?” Spencer hadn’t seemed worried about Kerry, but Jason
obviously was. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” He sounded sad. “I miss you, though. Spencer said he wanted to see me, so that’s good news.”

  I was tracing the herringbone pattern of our oak floors with my big toe, wondering how much longer we’d have this amazing house.

  “Do you want to come over for dinner? I can cook.”

  “Really? I would love that.”

  “That should be okay, right? It’s for you to see Spencer.”

  “I think it’s perfectly normal for two separated coparents to meet for dinner with their son.”

  “Good. We’ll be here.”

  I went to Agata & Valentina and bought lamb chops, his favorite. On the way home, I called Susanna to cancel our plans to get takeout and watch the next two episodes of Billions. We were binge-watching together. She was rooting for Axe, while I was on the side of the government.

  “And this has nothing to do with that article in the Long Island Press?” she asked.

  I couldn’t put anything past Susanna. “Jason’s coming over. For the record, Spencer’s the one who invited him. He hasn’t seen his father for more than two weeks. He seems ready to forgive him.”

  “He’s ready to forgive, or you are? Angela, please tell me you’re not rethinking this.”

  “I told you, we already filled out all the paperwork and have a rough agreement sketched out. That lawyer’s crunching the numbers. You wanted me to protect myself and Spencer, and I am. We’re getting divorced. The house is for sale. And I haven’t forgotten what Jason did to me. But I never said I didn’t love him.”

  While the lamb was roasting, I put on the pale-yellow linen dress that Jason had bought me last summer as my anniversary gift, hoping he’d recognize it.

  He had told that woman—a horrible woman who had been willing to destroy his life and mine—that he would leave me for her. Maybe it was cruel, but I wanted to make him want me.

  By the time he arrived for dinner, he had gotten another piece of good news: the district attorney’s office was dismissing the charges against him.

  IV

  Angela

  54

  Five Weeks Later

  That day’s appointment with Dr. Boyle was a joint session, without Spencer. We all had individual sessions, in addition to our couples therapy, and the occasional joint family discussions. Basically, we had been living in Dr. Boyle’s office for the last month.

  We were also living in two apartments in adjacent towers on Mercer Street. His two-bedroom was in 250 Mercer, mine in 300. Spencer had rooms in both.

  Our most recent couples session had been spent going over finances. If all went according to plan, we’d close on the carriage house next week. Jason referred to the thirty-year-old buyer, who was paying cash with his hedge-fund money, as Satan. All I cared about was that, after a bidding war, he was paying $250,000 more than asking. We’d walk away with nearly $2 million in cash, after the mortgage and taxes.

  To maximize the amount of money going to me, I was taking not only my half but also a lump-sum alimony payment, which meant I’d get almost all of the proceeds from the house. Our divorce decree also gave me half of Jason’s retirement account.

  Now we were back here with Boyle again. “You’re about to end your marriage,” Dr. Boyle said. “How do you feel about that, Jason?”

  “Terrible. Obviously. I know this is my fault. I never would have left you, Angela.”

  I looked down at my lap to avoid crying. “I know.”

  “Angela, you’ve been very clear that you initiated this divorce for practical reasons more than emotional ones. But the circumstances have changed since you first reached this decision, have they not? And yet you’re still going forward with the divorce. Would you like to talk about that?”

  After Jason’s criminal case was dismissed, Olivia got Kerry’s lawsuit dismissed too, based on her unavailability. Rachel Sutton had accepted a $7,500 settlement in exchange for dismissing her claims and a mutual nondisclosure agreement over what I still believed was a genuine misunderstanding in Jason’s office—a combination of a mistimed change of clothing and a habit Jason may have formed of being a little too cute around attractive women.

  “Maybe it’s from living all those weeks under a microscope,” I said, “but we still have no idea how this is going to play out. Kerry’s still missing.” The case dismissals were “without prejudice,” meaning they could technically be reinstated later. “They haven’t officially named Tom Fisher as a suspect. Any way you look at it, this is the sensible thing to do.”

  Jason was still on the faculty at NYU, having agreed to a one-year research leave at half pay for the coming year. He also still had FSS Consulting, where he had lost some clients but was developing others. A week earlier, FSS and two of Jason’s investment clients had filed a lawsuit against Oasis for fraud, arguing that Oasis had failed to disclose material information about deals they had closed for water projects in Africa. Jason’s decision to back what he now alleged was a corrupt corporation was a minor dent in his reputation, but it paled in comparison to the earlier allegations. Meanwhile, the news coverage of his lawsuit against Oasis fueled media speculation that Kerry’s disappearance—as well as her seemingly false accusation against Jason—was tied to her work with Tom Fisher. It also sold a lot of books. Equalonomics was back on the New York Times list.

  I was taking the bulk of our money—at least technically—but Jason would be back on his feet in no time. Olivia Randall was confident that the DA’s office would never agree to reissue Jason’s charges when (and if) Kerry reappeared. As for Kerry’s civil charges, the statute of limitations was a year. If they weren’t brought again by then, we wouldn’t need to worry any longer about her shaking us down for money, and Jason and I would be free to marry again.

  “Did you tell Spencer you were signing today?” Boyle asked.

  Spencer was spending the week with my mother in East Hampton, enrolled in sports camp. “We’ll tell him this weekend in person. We’re both going out to pick him up.”

  “I have to ask you, Angela: Do you think it’s possible you’re using this arrangement to avoid saying that what you really want is to end your relationship with Jason?”

  I shook my head. “Jason knows how I feel about him.”

  Before we left the office, Dr. Boyle called in his receptionist, who acted as a witness to our signatures. Once the lawyer filed the papers, it would be official: we were getting divorced.

  We walked the six blocks back to our apartments together, reaching his building first.

  “Do you want to come up?” he asked.

  I didn’t have Spencer as an excuse to go home. I could almost feel the papers tucked into my purse, pressing into my side. They weren’t filed yet. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. And if I’m ever not sure, I’m going to tell you.”

  The first time was right after we accepted the offer on the carriage house, when it became clear we were really going through with the divorce. He came over to say good-bye to our home. He held me while we both cried, and when he kissed me, I could tell where it was heading. When I took a step back, he started to apologize, but I told him not to stop. Before I led him to our room, I asked him to let me set the pace. In return, he asked me to promise to stop if at any second I was feeling uncomfortable.

  This would be my third time up to his apartment since.

  When we were done, he asked me what had changed.

  “We need to go back to Boyle to have that conversation.”

  “Please don’t ever say his name while I’m naked.”

  “Come on, Jason, what do you mean? Everything has changed.”

  “I know.” He pulled me into the crook of his arm, and I curled up against him. “I meant, what’s changed about this? You were never like this before.”

  Wasn’t I? I suppose not. Maybe it was that day with Colin, which I would never tell anyone about.

  “Yes, I w
as,” I said. “You just don’t remember.”

  “I’m so glad we’re back together again.”

  I felt a wave of nausea—not like the flashbacks; to my surprise, I hadn’t experienced anything close to one of those. I felt sick, not about the past but about the present. Jason believed we were “back together,” only minutes after signing divorce papers, all because I had slept with him a few times. Those three years when we had stopped doing this—were we not together?

  “Me too,” I said. “The next year’s going to feel like an eternity.”

  “There’s something I haven’t told you, and I don’t want there to be any secrets between us anymore.”

  I swallowed, knowing there would never be an end to the lies.

  “I told her about you,” he said quietly, staring up at the ceiling. “About what happened to you in Pittsburgh. Not everything. I didn’t tell her about Spencer, but she knows about Charles Franklin.”

  I clenched my eyes shut, not wanting to process the implications of what he was telling me.

  “I’m so sorry, Angela. She was making you out to be an awful wife, and it just came out. I don’t know what I was thinking. But I owe you the truth. Kerry’s still out there somewhere, and she knows.”

  My whole body began to shake. I didn’t want to think about where Kerry was now. The apartment’s air conditioning was struggling against the heat outside, but I felt as if I were standing in a freezer. I pulled the blankets up to my neck and forced myself to regain control.

  “You didn’t tell her about Spencer? Only about me?”

  I would never have told Jason the truth about Spencer except for the problems I had carrying a baby after we got married. My condition wasn’t temporary. It was structural, according to the doctors—an anomaly in the uterus. Not insurmountable, but how could I explain my difficulties bringing a child to term under the most privileged medical conditions on the literal planet, when I had supposedly given birth in captivity as a crime victim? He didn’t understand why I wouldn’t keep trying.