“Okay,” I say, returning to my desk chair, “but that still doesn’t explain how a software engineer could sneak that much out of the company without anyone noticing. Wouldn’t he need someone to sign the checks for him?”
“Not if he moved it electronically. He probably wouldn’t have had to cover his tracks very carefully to get away with it, either, which is both good news and bad. Bad for the thief, but good for the investigators. All they have to do to get it back is follow the paper trail.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure. Will is a genius, and he wouldn’t leave obvious footprints for the investigators.”
Especially if I’m right, if Will is hiding out with the money. He’ll make sure neither will be easy to trace. In fact, I’m willing to bet I’m the only link left to him, the dead phone in my bag the only clue.
On the other end of the line, Evan shuffles some papers around his desk. “I’ve got a few calls out. I figure if I can ferret out who AppSec is using as an investigator, it might give me some indication as to where they’re looking for the money. In the meantime, what did you do with the Liberty Airlines check?”
“I ripped it in half.” I don’t mention that if I could have stuffed it down that Ann Margaret’s throat, I would have.
“And you haven’t claimed any of the life insurance policies, have you?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t. As Will’s wife, you’re going to be the first person they look to as coconspirator, and it’s important you don’t touch a cent of money that might not be kosher. Will you be okay financially for the foreseeable future?”
I do the math in my head, a quick ballpark of the monthly costs—mortgage, utilities, car and insurance payments—and don’t like the answer. Private schools are notoriously stingy when it comes to salaries, and Will’s paycheck was double mine. I could sell his car, but Corban was right. It’s old and unreliable and probably not worth more than a couple thousand bucks. I’m not entirely sure how I’ll manage the mortgage now that my income is down by two-thirds, but I do know this: I’ll starve before I sell the dream house Will and I bought together.
“Iris, if you need any help, I’m happy to—”
“I’m fine.” I grimace and pump an I got this confidence into my tone. “Thanks, Evan, but don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.”
“I just don’t want to give them any reason to come after you.”
“Understood.” This time my tone says the subject is closed.
“Right. While I’ve got you, is there anything else I should know about? Documents Will asked you to sign, or any big-ticket items other than the ring Will bought with unexplained funds? Cars, vacations, furniture, anything you haven’t found reflected on your mutual accounts.”
“No, nothing that I can think of. Though I called to tell you why I’ve let the battery go dead on my cell phone.”
“More texts? You’re supposed to be uploading the screenshots to the Dropbox account, remember?”
I lean back and look out the window, on to the parking lot of shiny cars and beyond, to the line of trees. “That would mean I’d actually have to touch my phone.”
“Are the threats that bad?”
“It’s not the threats. It’s the texts from the other number, the blocked one. I know who’s behind them.”
“You do? Who is it?” I pause to gather up the word on my tongue, but Evan is not that patient. “Jesus Christ, you’re going to say Will, aren’t you?” His neutral lawyer tone has abandoned him, and he sounds skeptical.
“Yes.” I say the word, and my heart gives a hard kick. “It’s true. It’s him.”
“How do you know? And by that I mean, really know that it’s him and not just someone claiming to be him.”
“Because I know. Because this is how we fight. I get pissed and ignore him, and he blows up my phone with excuses and apologies. But, oh my God, Evan, it’s really him.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know.” I think about the texts, and the emotions rise in my chest, stealing my breath and taking up all the air. “I can’t bear to look at his messages. I haven’t touched my phone since yesterday afternoon.”
Silence stretches, long and leaden, and I feel the need to defend myself.
“You know better than anyone else the hell I’ve been through these past thirteen days, and now I’m finding out it wasn’t real? That it was just some morbid trick so he could run off with a couple million dollars? Uh-uh. Hell, no. I’m so unbelievably furious at him, Evan. I really don’t know what to do with myself.”
Evan blows out a long breath. “I’m trying to put myself in your place, Iris, I really am, but all I keep thinking is if I suddenly found out Susanna and Emma were alive, there’s not one goddamn thing that could keep me from them. Sure, I’d be furious she put me through these past two weeks, but my anger would be far outweighed by relief at finding her alive.”
“That’s different. Your daughter makes your hypothetical situation completely different from my reality. Will is an adult, not an innocent child.” But even as I say the words, something worms its head up through the anger and resentment, and I find myself stretching out a leg, feeling around for my bag with my foot.
“Love is love. And how will you know if his reasons are forgivable or not if you refuse to look at your phone?” He pauses to let that one sink in, then seems to think of something else. “Hey, I keep meaning to ask. Who told you that blocked number couldn’t be traced?”
“What? Oh, some Best Buy geek in Seattle. He said the texts originated from an app, something about a texting equivalent of Snapchat. Once the text is sent, any trace of it is wiped clean.”
“Still. Probably wouldn’t hurt to have another expert take a look at it. What time are you done there?”
“Officially? Five, but I can leave anytime after three.”
He recites an address for a neighborhood near my house, in Little Five Points, and I scribble it onto a sticky. “Ask for Zeke. I’ll call ahead and tell him you’ll be there around four.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and, Iris? Plug in your phone.”
26
I check the scribbles on my Post-it against the sign on the window of Sam’s Record Shop, a dusty music store in Little Five Points. According to the address Evan gave me, this is the place. I push through the glass door and take a look around.
Sam does a brisk business. Dozens of hippies and hipsters stand around, nodding to a soundless beat on headphones and flipping through old vinyl covers. I squeeze past them, heading for the pretty girl behind the cash register at the far end.
When she spots me, her hot-pink lips slide into a lazy smile. “Hey, how you doin’?”
Her speech is slow and syrupy, and I’m pretty sure she’s stoned.
“I’m looking for Zeke. He’s expecting me.”
She points to a bright yellow door to my right. “Seek and ye shall find.”