“No.” He sounded beaten.
“I can’t talk,” she said. “Police are here. I’ll call as soon as I know more.”
“What—”
“I gotta go.” After hanging up, she forced herself to walk with calm control, following voices to Jake’s study. A man stood on either side of her husband.
“Mrs. Pierce?” The taller of the men addressed her. He held himself as though in charge and was dressed so soberly his clothes frightened her. Between his somber expression and dark suit he’d brought a funeral into the house.
“Yes.”
“Agent Todd Hynde. This is Agent Ryan Forsyth.” In place of a handshake, they each flipped open a black leather cardholder and showed identification.
“We waited for you,” Agent Forsyth said. “At the request of your husband.”
She nodded as though his words contained a single nugget of normal. Terror trickled down her spine.
“Why don’t we sit down,” Agent Hynde said, pretending that choice existed. She curled her shaking hands into balls.
The agents each took one of the two chairs, leaving Jake and Phoebe to sink side by side into the couch. Hynde, the black agent, took the leather chair. The white one sat on the upright needlepointed bench, the red-and-blue pattern incongruous against his funereal suit.
“We’re here—”
Jake held out his palm. “No need to explain.”
Her husband’s hair, thick and grey with a memory of dark brown, was drying into the thatch she’d loved. She’d always been inordinately proud of Jake’s full hairline.
“I know what this is about,” Jake said.
“Then you’re aware that we’re looking for explanations.” Forsyth, that was his name. His skin held the ravages of teenage acne. His low voice sounded midwestern.
“There are no explanations,” Jake said. “Or, I should say, there’s only the truth. There are no excuses. I’m guilty. The important thing is this: I did it all myself. Nobody else was ever involved.” He looked at Phoebe with intent so hard it hit her chest. “Just me.”
Phoebe could take in only pieces of Jake’s answers to the agent’s questions.
“The funds are gone.”
“I paid investors with money that wasn’t mine.”
“It went on for a few years.”
Agent Hynde stood when Jake stopped talking. “I’ll be right back,” he said, more to Forsyth than to them.
They sat in silence. Waiting. Phoebe brought in coffee but couldn’t open her mouth.
Agent Hynde returned. “Sir, we’ll be going in. You’ll need to get dressed. No belt, no tie, no shoelaces, no jewelry. If you remove them now, you won’t have to do it there.”
“Not even his wedding ring?” A lake of putty surrounded her.
“No, ma’am.”
“They said no jewelry,” Jake said at the same time, as though she’d embarrassed him in front of his friends, his colleagues.
Phoebe sat with Hynde and Forsyth while Jake dressed, somehow thinking she wouldn’t be allowed to go with him to the bedroom—but also not wanting to. The two men sipped coffee, acting out a charade of polite society.
Jake came back wearing a pressed blue shirt and grey slacks.
“We’ll be putting on cuffs,” Agent Hynde said.
“Get my raincoat,” Jake said to her. “To cover them.”
She ran out and grabbed his coat, taking off the belt before bringing it to him, feeling proud that she remembered to do it and then ridiculously stupid for her pride. How did Jake know to ask for the raincoat? He met her eyes as she draped the beige fabric over the steel bracelets. She examined him for some hint as to the horror ahead of them, but he seemed like a kid turning over the reins to his parents.
She shook the thought from her head. He was in shock. They both were.
“Call Gideon,” he said. “Get him down there now. Do whatever he tells you.”
“There? Where is there?”
Jake turned to the two men at his side for the answer, resembling Noah at six. Adulthood tumbled off Jake’s shoulders.
“The federal courthouse, Mrs. Pierce.” Agent Forsyth reached into his wallet and withdrew a card. “Call this number.”
“Should I come down?” Phoebe prayed the answer was no.
For a moment, they appeared to be three men linked by their embarrassment at not knowing how to answer a woman’s question.
What do women want?
“Just do what the lawyers tell you,” Jake said finally. “They’re in charge now.”
CHAPTER 28
Phoebe
The wheels set in motion by calling Gideon’s office felt more like a runaway train than the logical legal progression that Phoebe had expected.
“Someone will call you back. Stay there,” a youthful male voice ordered when she called to ask if they needed her.
So she stayed.
An hour later, she phoned again. This time the receptionist connected her to a harried-sounding woman who didn’t introduce herself. Phoebe didn’t ask, tumbling into the role of supplicant without rights.
“I’ve been waiting quite long.” She tried to sound even: not frantic, not entitled. Stable. Calm.
“Be patient,” the woman said. “This isn’t like standing in line for a restaurant table. I can’t tell you any more than what Jerry said before.”
Fuck you.
Who’s Jerry?
Take care of me.
“Got it,” Phoebe said. “I wanted to be sure I didn’t miss anything. A call. Or something I should do. If—”
“We’ll let you know when something involves you.” Phoebe couldn’t read the woman’s sigh. Disgust? Pity? “I promise. We’ll contact you. Do something to relax. It’s a long road.”
Drugs and alcohol were ready answers for relaxing in this circumstance, but she needed a clear head. Water therapy, the only option available, led to a shower, the second shower she wanted earlier, leaving the stall door open in case the phone rang. She lathered lavender-scented gel, praying for the promised aromatherapy of calm. Water splashed over the marbled sill on the floor. Phoebe imagined Jake screaming, “You’re spotting the granite!” She opened the glass door wider, dried off with puckered fingertips, and dropped the towel into the puddles.
Shirley-sounds came from the kitchen. Poor Shirley must be shocked seeing dishes on the counter. Phoebe never left a thing out. Did Shirley realize Phoebe’s compulsive cleaning came from managing Jake’s mania? No doubt. She and Jake were undoubtedly far more transparent than they imagined.
Transparent? Her husband was fucking opaque.