If You Must Know

by Beck, Jamie

  Seemed to me that if Eli wanted to know her, he’d reach out without the prompting, the way Lyle had when we’d met. Not that that had worked out well. “It was a nice gesture, and I’m sure he’ll like the soaps. How’s the business going?”

  “Still fun.”

  Not the answer I’d hoped for. She put so much effort into those products it’d be nice to see it pay off. “Is it growing?”

  “A little.” She averted her gaze.

  That gnawing frustration that used to build when I’d helped her with Spanish or prealgebra homework festered. “Are you tracking your customers and getting feedback? What about providing incentives—you know, buy ten and get the next one free, or something?”

  Erin crossed her arms and spoke through a phony smile. “I’ve got it under control.”

  I’m not creative like her, but I knew my organization skills could help her take her business to a new level. I could really use a distraction this summer, too. This could be an opportunity to combine our strengths if she stopped viewing it as a contest. Before I made another suggestion, Erin said, “Enough about me. How are you?”

  I shrugged, still unaccustomed to trading intimacies with her. “Okay.”

  We both knew it to be a lie, but she didn’t call me out. Like two blind people feeling their way through new surroundings, we fumbled around our fledgling friendship.

  “Any new info?” She peered at me, trying to peek beneath the surface.

  “Not yet.” I straightened the copper canisters of flour and sugar that didn’t need to be realigned, then spotted the discarded mail—a handy excuse to escape this conversation. “May I go handle this mail for a few minutes?”

  “Sure. Mind if I grab a drink?” Erin turned toward the refrigerator with the salad bowl in hand. Refrigerating wet lettuce made it slimy, but I let it go. Priorities.

  “Not at all. And could you fill a large pot with water and put it on the stove, please? I’ll be right back.” I wandered to the office. Lyle had always managed our finances, but it was looking like I’d be handling them from now on. While I mindlessly sifted through the bills, the red “Second Notice” stamp on one from our bank intensified the sick feeling that had begun during my conversation with Tom’s girlfriend, Gigi.

  Apparently, Lyle hadn’t made any mortgage payment for two months, which made no sense. He’d been militant about his stellar credit rating of 800. Even if he no longer cared about hurting me, he wouldn’t harm himself.

  It had to be a banking error. I searched the desk drawers for our checkbook yet found no receipts or pay stubs. Then again, Lyle paid most bills electronically.

  Rubbing my chest didn’t stanch the acid pumping up my esophagus. I shook my hands out before logging in to our account, then blew out a breath and clicked on the loan account. No recent payments there or in the bill-pay section.

  My right leg bounced beneath the desk as I switched over to our checking account to make the payment. Ohmygod! A sharp inhale burned my lungs while I switched to look at the savings balance next. Less than eight thousand dollars remained there—down from almost forty thousand from when I’d last checked. That plus only two grand in checking didn’t leave me enough to cover the two outstanding loan payments and the next one due, let alone the other costs of homeownership or those associated with childbirth. I logged on to our investment account to find it similarly depleted with the exception of my pathetic 401(k).

  Tears blurred my vision as the screw in my gut tightened further.

  A noise from the kitchen reminded me that I wasn’t alone. I quietly closed the office door before dialing Lyle. Voice mail. In a terse whisper, I said, “Lyle, I got the late notice on our mortgage, and money is missing from our savings. You had no right to take all that. Call me back!”

  Immediately afterward I dialed Stan, only to be met by another voice mail. My throat inflamed. “Hi, Stan, it’s Amanda Foster. Please call me back as soon as you get this message. Lyle’s now depleted most of our joint accounts and didn’t pay our mortgage. I need an update on the deed and everything else.”

  That deed had to be a fake . . . a ruse to put me off a little longer.

  With long, slow breaths, I forced air in and out of my lungs. I should’ve protected myself as soon as Lyle said he’d fallen in love with Ebba instead of worrying that taking action would push him further away. Idiot! Now I’d have to channel Meryl Streep to pull off hosting my mom and sister for dinner tonight without letting on about this crisis. My money, my home, my entire future—vanished like my husband.

  I pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes. This evening had been about the three of us enjoying an hour of peace together. Now, Lyle had stolen that from me, too.

  I’d handed him my entire heart. How could he use me, lie, and walk away without a single regret? He’d polluted our love—and all my happy memories. My chest tightened before a worthless surge of hatred drowned me in self-pity. I couldn’t catch my breath. More evidence that I wasn’t ready to hack it as a single mom.

  I wouldn’t have believed Lyle could be this selfish—this cruel—or that he could hurt his own child this way. What had Ebba offered to make him willing to transfer everything—his affection, our money, our future—from me to her?

  I snatched some tissues and blew my nose.

  My sister would come looking for me soon, and my mom would arrive any minute. I decided to wait for Stan’s update before sharing this new information with her. My poor mother deserved one nice meal in blissful ignorance before the world came crashing down around her. Her episodes were sure to get worse with that stress. After pinching my cheeks, I pasted a pleasant smile on my face before leaving the privacy of the office.

  Erin’s butt greeted me when I rounded the corner to the family room.

  “Shouldn’t Mom be here by now?” she asked from her downward-dog position.

  As if she had ESP, the doorbell rang. Thank God, because another Mom misadventure would’ve sent me over the edge. “I’ll get it.”

  “Great, I’m starving.” Erin jumped up and headed to the kitchen while I went to the door, dabbing my sweaty face with my shirt on the way.

  “Hi, Mom.” My voice might’ve trembled. I kissed her hello, but she brushed past quickly. It occurred to me that the last time she’d been here was the day our lives had started to fall apart. Our new normal consisted of stiff upper lips and foolish hope that everything would eventually be made right.

  “It smells delicious.” Mom walked ahead of me, and we both arrived in the kitchen to find Erin setting the table. Without saying a word, Mom went behind her, fixing the placement of the silverware to move the spoons and knives from the napkins on the left over to the right side of the plate.

  Erin shot me her “I’m annoyed” look but thankfully kept her mouth shut.

  Only then did the psychic medium cross my mind. I believed in spirits and the afterlife but was less certain that some people could talk to the dead. Something about taking money from the most vulnerable, grieving hopefuls didn’t sit well with me, either. Then again, talking to Dad would be an amazing gift.

  “You look a little tired, Mom. Still not sleeping well?” After salting the boiling water, I dumped a pound of bucatini into the pot, keeping myself in motion so that they didn’t notice my own puffy face.

  “I’m getting only four hours a night.”

  “Stop eating cookies late at night. Sugar before bed messes with sleep big-time.” Erin drummed her hands on the counter. For all her bravery, our mom intimidated her.

  “More likely it’s the nonstop music into the wee hours.” Mom flashed a mocking smile, and even I heard a little bite in her tone. That had to hurt my sister. But given all that I was losing, I wasn’t unhappy to remain Mom’s favorite. Not a proud admission, and in my heart, I did want them to be closer.

  Erin appeared to swallow whatever retort she might’ve spat if they weren’t living together. In a complete switch, she smiled at me. “Let’s talk about something fun, like w
hat you’re naming my niece. I’m dying to know so I can get started on my gift.”

  Willa. The name danced on the tip of my tongue. Not Penelope or Penny or any other nickname. She fluttered in my belly as if hearing my thoughts. My precious child, whom I loved with every breath in my body. How could her own father rip away her security, her home, her future? During the years I’d blamed his parents for hurting him, I never once suspected he could become them.

  “Sis? You okay?” Erin tapped my shoulder.

  I blinked, embarrassed by the stray tear I wiped away. “Willa.”

  Lyle didn’t deserve a say in her name. Not after all he’d done.

  “What?”

  “Willa. That’s what I want to name Muffin . . . after Dad.” My gaze turned to my mother, seeking her opinion. Her misty eyes confirmed my choice.

  “I love that name.” She squeezed my hand.

  I then risked a glance at Erin, oddly self-conscious because she might’ve wanted to reserve Dad’s name for her future child.

  Gazing into space, Erin pushed an errant hank of maroon-tinted bangs back from her forehead. “I hope she has Dad’s smile and dimples.” She didn’t remark upon the name itself. Instead, she tested a strand of pasta. “Zizi-E will teach her how to fish, like Dad taught me. And I’ll make sure she knows all the best music.”

  Zizi-E. My sister would undoubtedly continue to call herself that in a crusade to win me over or wear me down, or both. It did fit her better than Auntie Erin.

  Lyle would hate it—its key selling point at the moment. “Is the pasta done?”

  “Al dente.” Erin nodded.

  My mother poured everyone some seltzer. While I removed the pot from the stove, the landline required for the home security system rang. Its answering machine kicked on before I finished draining the pasta.

  “Hello, Amanda, it’s Stan. I got your message about more anomalies. Sorry I missed you—”

  “Hi, Stan. It’s me.” I reached the phone before he hung up.

  The air in the kitchen crackled with anticipation. Erin set about ladling the pasta with sauce and fixing plates while my mother stared at me.

  “Oh hey, Amanda. Well, I wish I had better news, but while the deed itself is real, I can’t tie Lyle to the entity that bought that land or to that scribbled signature. The general partner of that entity is named Greg Toscano. Does that ring any bells for you?”

  I shook my head, then choked out a no when I remembered he couldn’t see me.

  “Well, there’s no mention of Lyle or Ebba in any of the real estate documents involved in that transaction, either.” When I didn’t reply, he asked, “You still there?”

  Was I? Not really. At the moment, I felt as if I were floating outside my own body, looking down on the disaster that had become my life. I cleared my throat. “Mm-hmm.”

  “I hate to pile on, but I’ve also discovered a recently formed Cayman partnership, Somniator Partners. Its general partner is another foreign entity, so I haven’t yet pinned it to Lyle, but this entity bought a used sixty-foot 1988 DeFever in Miami for close to four hundred thousand dollars right before your husband went to Abaco.”

  “What’s a ‘DeFever’?”

  “It’s a long-range yacht. Like I mentioned, Somniator is owned by another foreign entity—like a shell game—but the names and dates and such all fit together with the info I pulled from your home computer and other searches. My guess is that your husband washed your mom’s money through these shell companies to make it difficult to track and tie to him.”

  My knees buckled, so I leaned against the counter for support. “That can’t be right. Maybe there’s another Somniator . . .” Even as the words came out, I knew they didn’t make sense. My brain couldn’t—or wouldn’t—catch up to the painful truth.

  “Like I said, I’m still digging, but if I were a betting man, I’d go all in on my theory. I haven’t uncovered a single real estate transaction in Florida in Lyle’s or Ebba’s name or the names of entities tied to either of them. I also haven’t found any Maryland, Florida, or Delaware entities registered to Lyle. I just spoke with Kevin about all of this and then told him to let me talk to you while he cools down. As you know, he’s hot to involve the authorities, but that’s complicated by the fact that the promissory note to your mom doesn’t specify the use of funds.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Well, the loan itself didn’t require the funds go toward or be secured by a particular asset—the real estate. Ostensibly, he could have borrowed that money for anything according to the documents, so now you’ll have to prove fraud, which is tough. The conversations about the actual Florida deal are mostly he said, she said at this point. Absent more hard evidence and the fact Lyle hasn’t missed the first payment yet puts us in a weird sort of limbo—although the fake deed is a good start. Similarly, he can use joint assets for any reason, so that’s not a crime in and of itself, but tracing those wires—with your permission—might help us tie Lyle to these entities or their bank accounts. If I can do that, it’ll help us with fraud claims. My goal is to put together a colorable claim for wire fraud—a federal crime.”

  “That letter he wrote referenced the Florida deal . . . ,” I said absently. Proof of mail fraud. In hindsight, Lyle’s deceit and manipulations seemed so obvious. I’d never been the dumb girl before. It figured my first time would be a whopper. “I’m still confused, because he might be a liar and thief, but he’s never been stupid. If all my mother’s money paid for the boat, the savings he took can only last so long. How does he plan to keep this going?”

  “I suspect that’s where Ms. Nilsson comes in. Turns out she’s got family money. If he can woo her into marrying him, he’d get access to her funds, too.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I know this is hard to hear, but it’s possible she’s unaware of all the facts at this point.”

  My hand gripped the base of my throat. “So now what?”

  “You’d mentioned that your husband was in Abaco recently. My guess is that they’re probably cruising around the Caribbean. Boats don’t have to file travel plans like planes do, so it makes our job a little harder. Most yachts have GPS and other navigation safety equipment, though, so with the MMSI number—the maritime mobile service identity—we can track him via public apps like Boat Finder as long as he’s got his AIS turned on, which he should for safety purposes. If he docks somewhere, we will hope the authorities can pick him up.”

  I let the “authorities” remark go because that conversation would send my mother over the edge. “In other words, we keep waiting?”

  “You keep waiting, and I keep digging. I want to build a solid case so we can go to the FBI instead of local cops. Lyle doesn’t know you’ve hired me. The way he’s been calling, sending the deed, and such tells me he thinks he’s still a few steps ahead of you. My bet is that he’s trying to woo this woman, so he’ll be sailing around those islands as long as he thinks you aren’t chasing him.”

  I closed my eyes, unable to reconcile this reckless, selfish version of my husband—the fugitive with a bosomy mistress—with the man I’d known and loved. My temple throbbed as my brain tried to keep up with Stan’s summary.

  Meanwhile, he kept talking. “Boats break down all the time. He might need to wait a few days in one spot for repairs. And weather can ground him, too, so a storm at sea might keep him in one place long enough for us to grab him. We’ll catch up to him. Be patient, and if he calls, don’t let on.”

  My entire body had overheated to the point where I shook feverishly. The intrigue and fodder of an international search for a felon meant we’d leapfrog ahead of the Millers and Blairs in terms of gossip-worthy conversation. It could also affect my ability to keep my preschool job, let alone any attempt to get my old job at the elementary school. Mom could lose her mind under that scrutiny.

  Maybe the deal Erin had struck with Max would work for me.

  “What if we don’t want to involve the authorities?” I couldn’t look a
t my family. “Can I offer not to press charges in exchange for him paying back the money and signing over custody and the sale of the house?”

  “Well, I can’t advise you to offer that deal because, technically, that’s extortion and illegal.”

  “Why is it illegal?”

  “The short answer is because when the state prosecutes a crime, it does so on behalf of the people of the state—or country in federal cases—so the victim doesn’t have the right to get a bunch of benefits in exchange for the criminal not being prosecuted. That’s not to say some people don’t do this and get away with it, but it isn’t legal, especially if you’re grabbing for things like custody that go beyond simple restitution.” Yet something in his voice suggested that he wouldn’t turn me in for doing so, either.

  Erin had broken the law with impunity. But I’d never been a risk-taker or a criminal, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to let Lyle turn me into one.

  “Once we involve the authorities, it could drag on for years, right? Won’t the government seize all his assets?” Then my mom might see only a fraction of her money down the road. “Custody and my house and everything else would be an open question, too.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s all likely, yes.”

  “In other words, we’re basically victimized twice.” A gross injustice given how faithfully I’d always followed every rule.

  “Let’s focus on what we can control. With your permission as joint account holder, I’ll track recent electronic transfers and maybe tie them to these offshore entities.”

  Nothing he’d said made me feel better, but that wasn’t his fault. “Okay. Thank you.”

  I’d just hung up when Erin asked, “Lyle bought a boat?”

  Any remnants of hope for my future dissolved in my chest, wrenching a hiccuped sob. I grabbed the now-wilting pink roses I’d kept—my last contact with Lyle—and threw them in the trash with a groan, then shuffled to my seat, robotically summarizing Stan’s update.

  My mother folded and unfolded her paper napkin like an accordion, her mouth twisted in an unpleasant moue. Erin handed me some tissues.