Jimmy’s voice becomes quieter. “Honey? Can I tell you a secret?”
Something in the way Jimmy says this puts me on edge. No one but no one asks permission to reveal a secret unless it’s something bad. The first thing that pops into my mind is that even after all he’s said, he’s doing a boomerang and leaving me for Tricia, but then my stomach clenches. Warning bells go off in my head. I remember what one of the security guards said yesterday. Everyone knows the narratives of domestic crimes are all the same—when a woman dies under suspicious circumstances or a child goes missing, it’s usually the victim’s husband/boyfriend/father who’s guilty.
“Honey. I’m broke. I don’t have the money to offer a reward.”
I stare at him unblinkingly.
“I’m not the millionaire you think I am. I’ve misled you. I’m sorry. I’m not rich. I’m so in debt it would make your head spin.”
“But your bank. Your family owns a bank. Or owned a bank.”
Jimmy lets go of my hands. His mouth turns clumsy, and his eyes gape, giving the impression he’s only now coming to terms with what he’s saying. “I’m not rich. I’ve never been rich.” Jimmy stares at the glorious sunrise outside our window. I can see that he’d rather not be telling me what he’s telling me and also that he’s telling me this with a deep sense of shame. I’ve never seen such anguish in his face before. Only in America do people feel ashamed for not being wealthy. “Tricia’s family. She’s Riggs through and through. She’s the wealthy one. My own father was a deadbeat alcoholic loser who abandoned us when I was in my teens. My mother’s a schoolteacher—nice work if you can get it, but it doesn’t provide an heiress-level income stream. If it weren’t for Tricia, I’d be a deadbeat alcoholic loser too. She’s the one who keeps me afloat, bailing me out time and again whenever I teeter toward a bankruptcy filing.”
“But this apartment you bought.” I glance around the spacious bedroom. Despite what he said, I can’t reconcile how someone as classy as Jimmy can be broke. Not every apartment has such picturesque windows, humongous chandeliers, and top-notch American walnut flooring. Though my knowledge of the DC real estate market is near zilch, my guess is the apartment is worth millions. Surely, Tricia wouldn’t have paid to put me in an apartment this nice. “We can take a loan out on the apartment. What do you call it? A home equity line?”
“No, we can’t.”
“Why not? We’ll use the money to set up a reward for Zerena. Maybe hire our own private investigator to locate her.”
Jimmy snorts.
“What?”
“Laurel, honey. Private investigators aren’t worth squat. Trust me. Only suckers hire private investigators.”
“Okay. But we can still post a reward for Zerena.”
“With what money?”
“With the money we’ll borrow against this apartment.”
“Honey. Laurel. Dear. It’s impossible to get a second mortgage on a property we don’t own.”
“Huh?”
Jimmy’s cheeks redden. “We’re only renting the apartment.”
“Renting?”
“The rent is twenty thousand dollars a month. It took everything I had to put down the money for a six-month lease.”
“Six months?” Jimmy had told me he bought apartment for me. I’m positive that’s what he said before I moved in. “But . . . but . . .”
“I’m sorry. I wanted you and the baby to have the best possible start in life. If I’m lucky, I might be able to squeeze out another month or two for you to stay here. Otherwise . . . well, otherwise, we’ll figure something out.”
I feel so stupid. It’s not the money that leaves me dumbfounded. Belinda, my mother, struggled with addictions all her life. As a teenager, even locked up in juvie, I thought myself superior to her because I was drug-free, but I’ve succumbed to the cruelest drug of all: love. Love blinded me. Love caused me to rush into this relationship without fully investigating what I was stepping into. Under the euphoria of love, I trusted Jimmy unquestioningly. I didn’t ask to see bank statements or mortgage papers. I didn’t ask for a diamond ring, a kiss on the cheek, or a bouquet of flowers. I didn’t ask for anything; instead, I gave him the only valuable thing I had to give: my love.
“Wait. What about my student loans?”
“What are you talking about?”
Although we never talked about it, I assumed Jimmy was going to pay off my loans. How am I ever going to get a couple hundred thousand dollars to pay off all the money I owe from going to college? “Jimmy, you’re not the only one in this relationship who’s hugely in debt. I owe, like, a quarter of a million dollars. Can you help me?”
Jimmy closes his eyes, sighs. “I wish I could, honey.”
It hits me like a pair of handcuffs being slapped around my wrists. I’m going to end up with nothing from this relationship. Maybe even worse than nothing. And it hurts, knowing that Tricia was right about Jimmy all along. He’s not responsible. He’s not trustworthy. “You lied to me. You let me think you were rich just so I’d sleep with you.”
“I’m sorry.” Jimmy hangs his head, scooches out of bed. Sunbeams angle over his shoulder from the floor-to-ceiling windows, but tired and dejected, he pays no attention to the beauty outside. Maybe he, too, succumbed to love. Maybe he thought love would make everything work out, that through love he might finagle a way for us to keep this glorious apartment forever. He picks one of his black socks off the floor. I’m not innocent. I lied to him, let him believe I hadn’t been sleeping with another man, let him believe Anne Elise was his child. But I really hadn’t been sure. Jimmy had been so joyful at the news of my pregnancy that I never told him it might not be his child. Now, he picks up his other sock and fishes his polished wingtips out from under the bed, and as he puts his left shoe on, I realize he’s fixing to leave. If I don’t get over my resentments quick about his money situation, he’s going to walk out of the bedroom, perhaps forever.
Tired and feverish, I struggle to concentrate on what’s going on. Being second-class poor myself, I should have more sympathy for Jimmy being poor, but anger rises in my throat. No one relishes being misled and outsmarted by a lover, and yet, if Zerena and I are to survive, if I am to find Zerena and make a better childhood for her than I had, it’s up to me to find a solution to our problem. Already tying his black shoelaces, Jimmy is about to walk out of my life.
“Wait,” I say.
He turns around.
“Maybe we could . . . maybe we could . . .”
“What?”
I toss my head back on the silky bed pillow. Jimmy’s looking at me, expecting me to say something amazing, but problem-solving has never been my greatest skill, and his anticipation gives way to embarrassment as he shies his eyes from me. But then the answer comes to me all at once. I know what we have to do, and for the first time in days, I’m happy. I smile, lift my head up from the pillow.
Jimmy steps closer, bends down to hold my hand. “Honey? What is it?”
“The money Tully gave you. We can use that for the reward.” It’s my brightest idea ever, something so stupendously brilliant I’m surprised I hadn’t thought of it earlier. Later, after Zerena’s found, we can do a GoFundMe campaign or something to repay Tully—but later is later: we could put Tully off for a couple of months, which will buy us time to figure out what to do.
Jimmy closes his eyes, lets go of my hand.
“What’s wrong?”
“We can’t do that either. That money’s counterfeit.”
“What?” My father’s no stranger to criminality—petty thefts, breaking and entering, small-time drug dealing, assault and battery—but counterfeiting, which requires some level of technical competence, seems too sophisticated for him. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well. Give it back to him. Tell him to give you more money. Real money.”