The Marriage Lie(30)

“You’re asking me now?”

He lifts both hands, lets them fall onto the steering wheel. “My timing isn’t the best, I’ll give you that, but yes. I’m asking you now, when there’s still a chance for us to turn this thing around. To go home and forget all about whatever’s here in Seattle before it gets in the way of your husband’s memory. Because it will, you know. Especially if what we find is bad. Have you considered that it might be?”

“Of course I’ve considered that it might be bad. In fact, I kind of assume it is. No man rewrites bits and pieces of their lives because those years were squeaky-clean.”

He gives me a look that says touché. “Okay, so let me ask you this, then—what if whatever we find isn’t just bad? What if it’s awful? No, what if it’s DEFCON-one awful? Without Will here to defend himself or explain, would you still want to know?”

I gaze out over the parking lot and beyond, watching a jet roar skyward while I consider my brother’s question. Dave is right; I could still turn this thing around. I could climb out of this car, go back to the airport and try to forget all about Will’s past in Seattle. I could concentrate on remembering the good parts of my husband—that nobody could make me belly-laugh harder, that he thought Sunday mornings were made for coffee in bed, that the sloping spot under his left ear seemed made for my nose—and try to ignore the rest. The parts he lied about. The parts of himself he hid. I could go home and get started mourning my husband.

But how do you mourn a person you’re no longer certain you know?

I think of possible discoveries that would merit a DEFCON-one rating. That Will has another family, a pretty wife and two adorable toddlers with his square chin and slate-blue eyes, tucked away in a Seattle bungalow. That he’s a wanted criminal, a serial killer or a rapist or a terrorist with a long list of murders to his name. Every theory I come up with is ridiculous. Anyone who wants to hide from a secret wife or the law does not put themselves up on Facebook.

Then why all the lies?

I don’t have the first clue. But I do know I have to find out.

I twist on the seat to face Dave. “Yes. I still want to know.”

“You sure?”

I nod, immediate and decisive. “Positive.”

Without another word, he shoves the car into gear, punches the gas, and away we go.

*

Once Dave has merged onto the highway, I punch in the number for ESP’s head of Human Resources and hit the button for speakerphone.

“Good morning, this is Shefali Majumdar speaking.”

Except for her name, Shefali sounds as American as apple pie. Her voice is smooth and pleasant, without the slightest trace of an accent I can detect, though once I explain why I’m calling, the awkwardness is hard to miss.

“So basically,” she says when I’m done, and there’s new hesitation in her tone, “what you’re asking me is if I hired your husband?”

“That’s correct.”

“Who was also one of the passengers on last week’s Flight 23?”

“Unfortunately so.”

“And he never told you he was interviewing or even looking for a new job?”

“Exactly. I only know because he told a friend he was offered a position at ESP. And that friend told me.”

Shefali falls silent, and Dave and I exchange a worried look. I lean back in the passenger’s seat and give her a moment to consider my request, my heart thunking against my ribs. I’m prepared to beg, am already gathering up the words in my head, when she begins. “Every human resources manual ever written would say that I can’t tell you either way. That applicants for any position have an indisputable right to privacy whether I hire them or not. If your husband didn’t see fit to tell you about his job search, then ethically speaking, I can neither confirm nor deny that his search might have led him here.”

Disappointment spears me in the gut. I open my mouth to argue, but I’ve barely made a sound before Shefali cuts me off.

“What I can tell you is that ESP hasn’t had a senior position opening in more than eight months, and it was for VP of Marketing. Any technical positions we’ve filled this past year, a software engineer would have been vastly overqualified for.”

Dave looks over, his eyes wide. I close mine, her message hitting me like a locomotive. “So you didn’t hire him.”

Her only answer is silence.

“Did you speak to him recently about a job?”

Shefali pauses, but only for a second or two. “Mrs. Griffith, up until fifteen minutes ago, I’d never heard of him.”

*

Dave and I spend the rest of the drive bickering about what Shefali’s words mean.

“Why would Will lie?” Dave says for what must be the fifth time. “Why would he tell Corban about a job he didn’t even apply for? One that didn’t even exist?”

I give him the same answer as the last time he asked. “Maybe it wasn’t Will who lied. Maybe it was Corban.”

“That makes no sense. What would Corban have to gain by lying?”

“I don’t know.” The words come out harsher than I intended because we’ve been having this same conversation for the past fifteen minutes. I don’t have answers for his endless questions. I don’t know, I don’t understand, and I can’t fathom any reason either of them would have for lying.