And yet I think he believed me.
Carrington said, “I’ll ask one of our men in Legal. Apparently the internet isn’t like print. There are lots more gray areas. Meanwhile, what do you need? What can I do?”
It was one of those “road less traveled” moments when one has to choose this route or that one. You only hope you feel guided, that you are guided. And I did. I was. Maybe the pills were a good thing. They kept me from overthinking.
First thought, best thought, as they say. Though not the absolutely best thought, maybe. I should have mentioned Prager.
I said, “I need distance and time.”
Emily had taken time off. It was my turn. Get away. Go somewhere else. Think. Wait for the dust to settle. All the signs and portents were pointing in that direction.
Carrington said, “This has been reposted on Facebook. There have been hundreds of likes. It’s gone viral, as they say. Mildly viral. Treatable, perhaps.” His chuckle was dry and mirthless. “The so-called truth is beside the point.”
“Dear God,” I said.
“Dear God indeed,” said Carrington.
“What does all this mean? For me?”
“It means that even as we speak, somebody is figuring out if they can prosecute you. And if they decide to do that, things could happen rather quickly.”
“Bloody hell,” I said.
“Bloody hell indeed.” Carrington had a habit of waiting till someone else cursed and then repeating it.
He said, “You’re lucky that I like you. And that I believe you, except for the part about not knowing about the insurance scheme, which doesn’t bother me, myself, though it would have generated some unfortunate publicity for the company if you’d been caught. Meanwhile I have an idea. We need someone to handle the sale of a plot of land on the Irish coast where a client is planning to build a retreat. Not a big client, not a big retreat, maybe a bit of a tax dodge, but everything perfectly legal. Perhaps you could arrange it. A temporary relocation. The golf in that part of the world is supposed to be outstanding.
“And as you said: Distance and time. As soon as matters are sorted out, we can work on the question of your return.”
There were several things that Carrington didn’t need to say. I was a British citizen. No one was going to extradite me for suspicion of spousal abuse or assisting a suicide or even attempted fraud. The insurance company would be thrilled not to have to pay. Prager could move on to another assignment.
Carrington was a good man, a nice man. I recognized his offer. The rope thrown to the drowning. The rescue from the burning building.
Carrington said, “The position would start immediately.” He couldn’t look at me, which was just as well.
“Excellent,” I said. “Thank you. Really and truly. Thank you.”
“Once is sufficient,” Carrington said.
I knew that it was temporary. I needed distance and time. I’d go away and come back and get Nicky. His mother and I could still work things out in a more or less civilized way.
Civilized? What did that word even mean when I was talking about Emily, my wife, the woman I’d loved and thought I knew. What I knew now was that, most likely, she wasn’t done with me. Did she still have some evil plan in store to punish me for what she’d imagined I’d done. I couldn’t help thinking that she wouldn’t rest until she’d made me suffer more than I already had.
There was nothing to do but wait. To hold my breath and wait.
43
Emily
Sean rolled over, in an email. He’d been assigned to a project on the coast of Ireland. He didn’t know how long he’d be there. It was a great opportunity. He asked me to give Nicky all his love. He said he would be in touch about Nicky as soon as he knew how long he’d be gone and when he was coming back. It was very surprising. I thought that he’d fight harder.
But I wasn’t complaining. It was what I’d wanted. I couldn’t imagine a better way for things to have turned out.
There was one bad night. Maybe the fear was all in my mind. But no one could have told me that then.
It was the first night after Sean moved out. I’d moved back into the house. I’d spent the day restoring my home to its pristine pre-Stephanie condition, throwing out the disgusting teas with which she’d filled the pantry, restocking my wine cooler, dumping the repulsive “Bless Our Happy Home” cross-stitched pillow she’d had the gall to bring over from her house and put on my couch, and arranging for the priceless design pieces and my personal items to come out of storage.
Then it was only Nicky and me. The two of us. We had a delicious dinner of crusty, perfect mac and cheese I’d made from scratch. Nicky chattered happily. The kitchen was warm. I’d been living like a hunted animal, but I was again a human being. I’d risked everything. I’d played hard. I’d won.
I knew that I had never been happier. I vowed to make this last, to do everything in my power to overcome the impulse to tear my life up into tiny scraps and fling the pieces in the air. I promised myself that I would make it work, that I would never get restless again, that I wouldn’t let everyday things bore or annoy or scare me, that I’d stop trying to control the truth and instead live in the truth.
For as long as I could.
That first night, I’d put Nicky to bed, and I was finishing the Highsmith novel I’d started all that time ago. Those Who Walk Away. I assume my subconscious picked that right off the shelf.
Maybe reading that particular book alone in the house (except for Nicky) was a mistake. I’d just read a spooky part about the vengeful father of the dead woman following the son-in-law, whom he plans to kill. The older man lurks in shadowy alleys of Venice like the creepy red dwarf in that sexy horror film with Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland.
I was reading on the couch when I got the feeling that someone was out there. Watching me from the woods. Maybe I only thought that because I’d been the one watching the house. Poor Stephanie. I’d tormented her. What a waste of energy. Neither she nor Sean had been worth it.
I wanted to think I knew what a person might sense if someone was out there. I knew I would have been more aware than Stephanie and Sean had been. I’d been the watcher, I was being watched.
I heard a noise. A rustling in the woods. Sean was out there. I could feel it. I sensed his presence. His anger. His malevolence. Was he going to come in the house and try to steal Nicky back? He would convince himself that I deserved it.
I heard whistling in the distance. The sound got louder—then stopped. Nearby.
Did Sean whistle? Why did that tune sound familiar? Maybe it wasn’t Sean at all—but a stranger, a killer. The angry ghost of Mr. Prager.
I wanted to look outside, but I was afraid. I turned off the lights and peered into the moonless, opaque night. Then I was afraid to be in the house with the lights off, so I turned them on. Suddenly I hated having so many windows. Why had we thought that we needed so much light?
I could have put Nicky in the car and driven somewhere safe. To Stephanie’s, as much as it would have cost me to ask for her company. Her protection. Maybe I’d caught her paranoia, imagining a vengeful husband.
But finally, waking Nicky and leaving seemed like so much trouble . . . for nothing. I decided to take one of the sleeping pills Sean left. He’d never needed them when he was with me! But to be fair, I hadn’t yet disappeared and died, and he hadn’t moved someone else into my place, and I hadn’t threatened him with my alternate versions of the truth.
I lay down next to Nicky. Sean would have to wake me first if he tried to take my son.
Just as I was falling asleep I remembered Stephanie saying that Sean’s pills could make someone psychotic. Maybe he’d gone insane. Maybe he’d lost it—and he really was out there.