I sprint past cell towers and graffitied walls, along townhomes and parks and restaurants, their terraces filling with an early happy-hour crowd. The sun’s rays beat down on my head, and I pull over on the side of the trail to peel off my hoodie. As I’m tying it around my waist, the Cartier ring blinks in the golden light.
When I was flipping through our bank statements last week, did I see a line item for Cartier? I squeeze my eyes and try to remember. Surely I would have noticed that kind of charge—designer diamonds don’t come cheap. I dig my phone from a zippered pocket, check both my banking and credit card apps. No big-ticket items on any of them. No four and a half million dollars, either.
So how did Will pay for this ring?
The question starts a dull throb behind my breastbone, and I turn back for my car.
*
The Cartier store is smack in the middle of the Neiman Marcus wing at Lenox Square, nestled between other high-end brands. I hurry down the broad hallway, past Tesla and Louis Vuitton and Prada, wishing I’d made time to change out of my running clothes, maybe do something with my hair.
A uniformed security guard is stationed behind Cartier’s heavy glass door. He takes me in through the window with an are you sure you’re in the right place? stare. I lift my chin and reach for the brass handle, and he jerks forward before my fingers can make contact.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he says, whisking open the door. “Welcome to Cartier.”
The place screams expensive. Dark wood paneling, plush carpet, glittering jewels floating behind displays of seamless glass. The floral arrangements alone probably cost as much as my monthly electricity bill. Standing among them puts me on edge, like anyone here can see that I’m not one of them, an imposter. I look around, but other than the security guard and a blonde salesclerk polishing a gold bangle bracelet with a deep red cloth, the store is empty.
She looks up with a generic smile. “Can I help you?”
Her accent is heavy and Russian, and she is every cliché you’ve ever heard about Eastern European mail-order brides. Tall and thin, bleached blond hair, a few spritzes more than necessary of perfume. Her nails are too long and her makeup is too shiny, and her generous curves are stuffed into a too-short, too-tight suit. She’s strikingly pretty, though, even if she doesn’t exactly exude warmth.
My gaze dips to her name tag. “Hi, Natashya, my husband was in here recently and bought me this.” I hold up my right hand, and her brows rise infinitesimally, suppressed surprise or Botox or a combination of the two. “I was wondering if you could look up the details of the sale.”
“Is gift, no?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t like?”
“No, I love. I just...” I hold out my hand, gazing down at the three thick bands of gold and diamonds. I just what? Suspect my husband bought it with stolen money? Think the receipt might hold a clue as to where he stashed the rest of the four and a half million? “I need the papers for insurance purposes.”
“Ah. Of course,” she says. She settles the bracelet back in the case, locks it and slips the key into a jacket pocket, then gestures for me to follow her to an ornate cherry desk along the right wall. “Please. Have seat.”
I sink onto the padded chair across from her.
“What is husband’s name?” She pulls a wireless keyboard from a drawer, twisting to face the computer screen.
“William Griffith. He would have been in here two or three weeks ago, I’m guessing.”
Recognition alights on her face, an almost-smile. “Lucky you. Handsome man.”
“You remember him?”
“I sold him ring.”
I try to picture my husband hunched over the shiny cases, his brow furrowed in frustration while busty Natashya helps him select the perfect gift. Eye candy aside, he’s never been much of a shopper, and he’s always detested the mall. “Why fight the crowds?” he always said. “Everything I could ever need can be bought on the internet and shipped to my front door.”
“Your husband did homework. He knew which ring, what size. Quickest sale I ever make.”
I take in her words, thinking her scenario makes much more sense. Of course he would have scoured their website before coming, would have even called ahead to make sure they had the ring in stock. He probably had Natashya here waiting at the door with the bag and the credit card machine. Get in, get out, get on with his day.
She punches a button on the keyboard and the printer whirs to life. “Had money to exact penny.”
I give her a pleasant nod, then freeze when her words sink in. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me he paid for the ring in cash?”
She glances over but only long enough to dip her chin. “Da.”
“How much cash?”
“Twelve thousand four hundred dollars plus tax.”
She says it as easily as if she’s rattling off the price for a pound of sugar, while I try to come up with something I own that costs that much money. A heavily mortgaged house. A bank loan for a four-year-old car. Not even my engagement diamond, a simple solitaire set in platinum prongs, was that expensive.
The infinity ring suddenly feels too tight, like three rubber bands stretched to snapping around the base of my finger.
“Twelve...twelve thousand four hundred dollars?”
“Plus tax.” She takes the papers from the printer and presses it into a red leather booklet, checking a number on the screen. “Thirteen thousand, two hundred and sixty eight.”
With or without tax, the amount is staggering.
I watch the receipt roll off the printer and wonder if he bought anything that day besides the ring, if the four and a half million was burning a hole in his pocket. How was he planning to hide that kind of cash? Where did he hide that kind of cash? Would it fit in a box under the floorboards? In a safe up in the attic? Or would he need one of those fireproof storage units advertised on billboards along the downtown connector?
And most important: How would I go about finding it?
The salesclerk slides the booklet across the desk. “Tell husband Natashya say hi.”
20
Back in my idling car, I open the red leather booklet and flip through the papers Natashya pressed into it. A certificate of authenticity for the ring. The return policy. An invoice and tax receipt. I run the pad of my finger over Will’s familiar signature scrawled across the bottom, swallowing a sudden lump. Will may have bought this ring with stolen money, but that doesn’t change the fact he bought it for me. He braved the mall and selected a gift that would mean something for me. For us. Pink for love, yellow for fidelity, white for friendship. Him, me and baby-to-be. No matter his past, no matter where he got the money and how he paid for it, this ring is mine. I’ll never take it off.
And then my gaze falls on the contact information on the invoice. Below Will’s name, below our home address, there’s a phone number I don’t recognize. It’s one of the three Atlanta area codes—678—but the digits are otherwise unfamiliar. Definitely not Will’s cell, which begins with 404.