TRISH
After James leaves, I stare at the promissory note, scarcely believing he signed it. And then I sit down and bury my face in my hands.
I didn’t tell James everything about my meeting with Simpkins. James might fear he’s going to get kneecapped, but I’ve got my own fears. After Simpkins finished threatening James over the phone, he slapped his hands together, elated. I had pegged him as too meek to take satisfaction in the theatrics of tough-guy intimidation. But I was wrong. His call with James had gone well, and he was ecstatic. He smiled the same vicious grin I remembered seeing on my father whenever he demolished adversaries in business dealings or legal proceedings.
Because Anne Elise would likely wake up at any moment and start crying, I was eager to get Simpkins out of the house. Even from her cardboard box in my father’s secret office, she’d be loud enough for him to hear. Simpkins glanced around the living room, his inquisitive eyes alighting on the ancient Victrola, the ebony-and-ivory-inlaid curio cabinet, and the Ming vase abloom with peacock feathers.
“That’s your father, isn’t it?” Simpkins said, gesturing to the oil portrait above the mantle.
“Do you know him? How’d you know it was him?”
Mornings had been my father’s favorite time of day, and a rush of gratitude overtook me, for I was happy my father was not already a forgotten figure in this town. Unlike the DC detective who sat in the same room not more than twelve hours earlier, Simpkins recognized my father and, presumably, knew of his accomplishments.
“I’ve been reading up on your father over the last twenty-four hours. You two look a lot alike. You know that, don’t you? Only a fool could fail to recognize the similarities,” Simpkins said, turning his gaze from the portrait onto me. He was sitting close enough on the Hepplewhite that I saw my reflection in his wire-rimmed glasses. My father and I really do look alike. Simpkins clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and his face hardened. Color rose to his cheeks. His ears reddened with disdain. “Your father,” Simpkins said, shaking his head. “Your father’s led an interesting life.”
Instinctively, I leaned away from Simpkins. “Interesting” meant many things, but I knew from Simpkins’s tone that I wouldn’t cherish hearing what the word meant to him in the context of my father. Simpkins wasn’t the only person who viewed my father in an unsavory light. Usually, I could tell who’d be polite and hide his or her reservations about my father’s ethics, and Simpkins possessed no such hesitancy.
“Between you and me and what I read in my grandfather’s old files, I’d say your father fled the country just in time.”
I rose from the sofa. “Mr. Simpkins. I think it’s time for you to leave this house.”
My abrupt change in manner startled Simpkins. Perhaps he was fool enough to think I’d sit idly as he denigrated my father’s reputation. What Simpkins said about my father and me looking alike came back to me, and suddenly, I felt like a fool. Simpkins must have known exactly who I was the very first time we met. Or perhaps he had an inkling when I sent him that first email. Whatever name I chose, Wainsborough or Riggs, wouldn’t have thrown him off for long if he really wanted to learn my identity.
“Your father screwed my grandfather out of a whole lot of money,” Simpkins said.
“That’s impossible. My father was a man of impeccable honor and solid financial footing.”
“No offense, ma’am, but no one gets to be ‘on solid financial footing’ unless they’ve screwed over a few people along the way. My grandfather also had a law degree. He did a lot of your father’s personal legal work. Wills and deeds, things like that, and those NDAs almost every woman he ever touched signed as part of their financial settlements. For almost a decade, your father put off paying the bills for the work my grandfather did for him. Getting older himself, my grandfather couldn’t put in as many billable hours as he’d been doing. Unlike your father, he wasn’t on solid financial footing. He had a heart attack. And then another. Doctor bills stemming out of his triple-bypass surgery were coming due. He was too proud to beg, too proud to ask for help. He fell behind on his mortgage. When he finally confronted your father about the money he was owed, do you know what your father said?”
I shook my head.
“Your father said, ‘Fuck off.’ Pretty eloquent coming from a gentleman who, as you say, was of ‘impeccable honor.’”
I stared at Simpkins, aghast. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth, but I could see he’d been angling to screw me over from the time I first asked him to run a background check on Laurel. Simpkins crossed his arms and sank back into the Hepplewhite. Here and there, the Hepplewhite showed its age. In one corner, a small tear in the cream-colored silk upholstery had started to widen. Usually I covered it with a throw pillow, but now Simpkins stuck his finger in the hole and plucked out a wad of cotton stuffing. He inspected it for a moment and then flicked it at me.
“Go,” I said.
Simpkins grabbed the sheepskin coat he’d earlier set down on the sofa and stood. “Mrs. Wainsborough, I have the feeling we’re going to see each other again.”
“Why’s that?”
“Laurel Bloom’s baby disappeared last night. That’s why.” If Simpkins’s intent was to unnerve me, the way he stared at me accomplished the goal. I froze. He told me he had suspicions about who took the baby. He told me that once he was certain, he’d likely be amenable to accepting a large monetary donation to ensure that he kept whatever evidence he gathered to himself rather than run it over to the police. “A million dollars might be enough of an incentive for me to halt my investigation outright. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
I couldn’t control my anger. I closed my eyes, leaned against the wall, and steadied my composure. Although he struggled to pay rent, he viewed me as an easy mark, a golden ticket he’d cash in to make his life easier. I stuttered, amazed someone as young as Simpkins could manipulate me. A self-satisfied smile spread across his lips. I never met his grandfather, but from what my father told me about him, Simpkins was every bit as cunning.
Simpkins buttoned his sheepskin coat, took out a pair of brown leather gloves from his pockets. “There’s something else I should tell you about your husband.”
I crossed my arms. “He’s an adulterer. Duh. I already knew that.”
Simpkins let out a little laugh. “That, plus he’s also about to become a very rich man.”
My eyes widened. As much as I wanted to shoo Simpkins out of the house, I was eager to learn about James’s new wealth. “How’s that?”
“You know that prenup you made him sign?”
That prenup had been on my mind an awful lot since I learned of Laurel’s pregnancy. If it wasn’t for that prenup, James would be able to claim half my money and divorce me. It had been my father’s idea that I get lawyers to draw up a punishingly brutal prenup to preclude the possibility of James ever divorcing me.
“It’s not the ironclad agreement you think it is,” Simpkins said, smirking. “It was one of the last pieces of work my grandfather drafted at your father’s request. By that time, he knew your father was going to stiff him. Have you ever actually read through the whole document?”