“Maybe. But as far as I can gather, they have very little to go on beyond a trampled-down patch of grass by your shed and the bullet the coroner dug out of Corban’s skull. Pretty useless until they can find the gun it came from.”
“Which they won’t.” I don’t know what Will did with it, but I know this for a fact: that gun will never be found.
Evan takes a long drag from his bottle and shakes his head. “Before last night, I would have said no way. No way can somebody execute that kind of crime without making a mistake. Nobody is that smart. But your husband just might be, because while all this is going down here, Liberty Air retrieved his briefcase from the crash site. It was pretty wrecked and filthy, and it’s been rained on repeatedly, but his laptop was still in one piece. It’s being sent to the lab for analysis, but who knows what, if anything, they’ll be able to pull off there.”
I do. I know what they’ll be able to pull off there—nothing. Not one speck of evidence that Will was involved in any way in the AppSec heist. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that every single byte they manage to pull from that machine will prove without a shadow of a doubt exactly the opposite, that Will was an ideal employee who wouldn’t dream of stealing a dime.
“Look, I consider you a friend, which means I appreciate the dilemma you’re in. If the police find evidence that Will’s still alive, if they can pin Corban’s death on him, Will is going to prison. No doubt about it. I know after everything, seeing that happen would be devastating.”
I nod, waiting for the “but” that’s coming at me like a missile.
“But. As your attorney, I have to counsel you not to lie. Perjury is a crime, and it’s a serious offense. Spousal privilege says you don’t have to reveal the contents of the phone call, but if they ask if you’ve spoken to Will since the crash, and you say something I know to be false, our confidentiality still applies, but I won’t be able to defend you.”
“I understand. And I wouldn’t put you in that position.”
“You came awfully close last night.” His words are firm, but his tone is gentle.
“I won’t do it again.”
“Fair enough.” He nods, slapping both his hands on the table as if the matter’s settled. “So any idea what you’re going to say? It’ll work in both of our favors if I get a heads-up before we walk into there tomorrow morning.”
I picture my husband standing in the shadows by the shed, his face hard with fury, aiming a gun at a man through my window. I picture him pulling the trigger without hesitation, sending that bullet flying down its deadly path, and my stomach sours. Yes, he did it for me, to save me, but still. Will murdered a man, shot him dead and, when it comes down to it, all over a pile of money.
And then I see my husband down on his knee in that Kroger aisle, his face equal parts nervousness and hope, when he said those four little words I’d been waiting to hear. Will you marry me? I remember the joy that sparkled inside, the tears that fell down my smiling cheeks as I told him yes. Yes yes yes.
Can I really come clean? Can I really tell the police my husband is alive? That he’s a murderer?
I close my eyes. “I have no idea.”
The doorbell rings, heralding the arrival of dinner. “Think about it and let me know, okay?” Evan says, wrapping a palm around mine before he stands. “You do what you need to do. If I can’t be your lawyer, I’ll always be your friend.”
32
I settle the last from the tray of purple phlox into the soil at my mailbox and pat the dirt all around. It’s a glorious Sunday morning, and Atlanta’s spring has made a spectacular appearance. Bright sunshine, low humidity and flowers everywhere—in window boxes, lining the streets, in great pink and white bursts on dogwoods and cherry trees. The blooms blanket the city with a layer of yellow pollen, choking me with allergies as thick as my dread.
It’s day thirty-three, not that I’m counting, and still no sign of Will.
“There are more than twelve thousand surveillance cameras in this city, and that number keeps growing,” Detective Johnson said to me only a few days ago. “You can’t make it through a day here without being recorded somewhere.”
Her words were as much a promise as a warning. According to Liberty Airlines and the Georgia Department of Public Health, William Matthew Griffith is dead. According to Detective Johnson and the Atlanta Police Department, however, the matter isn’t so clear. Corban’s killer has not been found. Will’s DNA has not been pulled from the wreckage, either.
But since there’s a death certificate, there were a flurry of letters going back and forth between the insurance companies and Evan’s firm, and last week he handed me a trio of checks with long lines of zeros. I did as Evan advised and deposited them into an interest-bearing account until we know for sure—which, of course, I already do.
But as of today, I’m the only one.
Will covered his tracks well. The police couldn’t trace any of the phone numbers back to him. Not from my cell, and not from Corban’s. They couldn’t find a single file on the recovered computer to implicate Will in the embezzlement. The only reason they have to suspect he’s alive at all is me—because I told Detective Johnson the truth. That morning I made my statement was like a cleanse, flushing out all the toxins. I told her everything, starting the morning of the crash. She didn’t seem surprised, but until she finds hard evidence either way—alive or dead—she said it’s best not to touch a cent of the money.
“Hey, Iris,” my neighbor Celeste calls from across the street. She gestures to the flowers I’ve planted to replace the bushes the police and press flattened. “Looks pretty.”
I brush off my hands and push to a stand. “Thanks. Just trying to spruce things up before the place goes on the market tomorrow.”
As I say the words, a sharp pain hits me in the center of the chest. Despite the millions gathering dust in a bank account, I’m selling the house. I can’t afford the mortgage on my own, and my credit cards are already maxed out paying for the care of Will’s father. I’ve moved him from that horrid facility to a private memory care center, a beautiful building with sunny rooms and a cheerful staff. The monthly bills are killing me, and though Evan assures me money won’t be a problem by the time he’s done with Liberty Air—Tiffany’s story checked out, and she even produced a few damning photographs of the bachelor party in full swing to back it up—the investigation will take months or even years to sort through. My broker assures me there’s no better time to sell than now—“It’s springtime in a booming real estate market, Iris. You’re going to get top dollar”—and it makes me want to shake her.
I’m not selling the house for the profit, you idiot. I’m selling it because I need the cash.