“A problem?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to tell you this in a nice way. There are insufficient funds in this account to cover the amount you wish to withdraw.”
“How can that be? Tens of millions of dollars are parked in the account.”
“Do you understand why we might find it suspicious that you’d ask to make a large withdrawal at the same time someone else is cleaning out the account of all its funds?”
“What are you saying?”
Walters glances at one of the security officers. “I don’t believe this is a coincidence. When someone attempts to withdraw money from an empty account, something is amiss. Can I be honest with you? Attempted fraud popped into my mind when I realized what was happening. You called me right at the moment the funds were being transferred out of your account. Your timing was impeccable.”
My thoughts spin to Simpkins. He must have hacked into my accounts, bled the funds into an untraceable destination, and compromised the bank’s computers so thoroughly that he’ll never be found. “You’re not going to give me my money?”
“Mrs. Wainsborough? Does anyone else have legal access to the funds in your accounts?”
“No. Only my father. His name is still attached to my account. Why?”
“Your father,” Walters says, peering at his computer monitor. “Does he happen to be in the Cayman Islands? The funds from your accounts were transferred into an account at a Cayman Island institution.”
This can’t be happening. There must be some explanation. It’s not Simpkins but my father who’s drained my account. I grab my cell phone, call his number. Walters and the security officers look at me with patience. The phone rings and rings. One of the security officers looks at his watch. An automated message comes over the line telling me that the number I dialed has been disconnected.
“Wait . . . wait . . . I must have misdialed,” I say, but there’s no way I could’ve misdialed. I can’t believe my father took my money. Everything I have—my money, Savory Mew, the Mercedes, my clothes and fur coats, my carefree existence, the respect I’m still accorded at embassy parties and society events, and the belief that I’m more special, more dazzling and wonderful than other people—I owe to the fact that I’m Jack Riggs’s daughter.
“Mrs. Wainsborough, unlike this building’s previous occupants, PNC treats irregularities with great seriousness. I’ll be reporting this incident through my bank’s chain of command and to legal and regulatory authorities.” Though Walters explains himself, I still have difficulty understanding his insinuations. He admits that, at this moment, the evidence is circumstantial, but he thinks I’ve colluded with my father to double dip into my bank account. Or at least try to double dip, which he insists is still a crime. Attempted fraud. Walters rises from his desk, signaling our meeting is finished. “Mrs. Wainsborough? Can I give you a piece of advice?”
Weakly, I nod.
“Don’t make plans to leave the country anytime soon.”
There’s no end to my problems. Standing up, I freeze at the sensation of warm fluid dampening the inside of my thigh. I breathe, pretend it isn’t happening, but when I take a step, I feel it again. I cry out, grab the back of a chair for support. Walters rises from his desk, and a security officer rushes to my side, both no doubt under the impression I must be having a nervous attack brought on by my financial mess, but what I feel is something far worse than the stress of impending bankruptcy.
I’m not pregnant.
All my life, I’ve been 100 percent regular. But now, for the first time ever, my period is early. I feel it soaking into my yoga pants, smell it when I shift my legs. In a few hours, I’ll start cramping before the onset of my heavier menstrual flow over the coming days. Every woman is different, but this is how it’s always been for me.
“Mrs. Wainsborough, are you all right? Do you need a doctor?”
The disappointment rocks me like a tidal wave. I sniffle, cry, wail. An hour ago, I guided James’s hand to my belly, sure that I was pregnant. Was it all a delusion? Was every single hope, every single dream I shared with my husband a delusion?
Chapter Thirty-Five
LAUREL
One moment I’m beneath a half dozen blankets in my apartment bed, and the next I’m in the passenger seat of Jimmy’s Volvo with no clue how I got here. I’m a fireball, a supernova, a comet blazing with fever, hot and woozy and near delirious, and though the car’s heater blasts hot air at me at full strength, I’m shivering, my teeth chattering.
“We’re almost there,” Jimmy says.
Jimmy runs a stoplight. He makes a turn and then another turn, and we’re barreling down the boulevard way too fast, hugging the curves with a momentum best measured in g-forces, but I’m too scared—and too sick—to say anything. I’ve got no idea why he’s driving like a madman. Nor can I figure out where we’re going. There’s nothing but determination on his face—no compassion, no love, no sign of any consideration for me. Is he on some death wish? He’s going to get pulled over by the police for speeding. Or the car’s going to crash, mangling us in its wreckage. Sunlight glares off the surrounding snow. We fishtail onto a side street sheeted with ice. Cars honk at us. Jimmy presses his foot on the gas pedal, jolting the car faster—and then I hear a police siren.
“Oh, shit.” Jimmy glances at the rearview mirror, bites his lip, and contemplates whether to pull over and let the cop write him up for speeding or whether he should lead foot it and try to rabbit out a getaway. The memory of every awful unlawful moment I spent in the company of my father floods through me. The Volvo’s no go-fast car, but Jimmy guns the engine, speeding off on the kind of wild car chase that usually ends up on the evening news with someone either in handcuffs or in an ambulance. I glance over my shoulder and think I’m going to pass out. Why won’t he slow down? Why does he never listen to me? The police car is right behind us, giving chase, its siren wailing.
“Pull over, Jimmy,” I say, screaming.
Jimmy looks at me with astonished eyes. I’ve never raised my voice at him. He slams the brakes, but the forward momentum bounces me into the dashboard. Pulling the Volvo over to the curb, he runs his hand over his eyes, sighs mightily. I may have saved both our lives, but Jimmy just rolls down his window, letting in a blast of cold air. In the seconds that we wait for the police officer to step out of her patrol car and walk over to us, Jimmy tells me to let him do all the talking. Which is just as well, because I’m in no shape to talk. My heart pounds, but I’m so groggy I can’t stay awake. Five minutes seem to pass before the police officer, a tall woman with short blonde hair, strolls up to the car.
“You know why I’m stopping you, don’t you?” the police officer asks.
“I gotta get her to Sibley,” Jimmy says. “I know I was speeding, but I think she’s dying.”