The Marriage Lie(54)

Nick takes my silence as the answer it is, giving me a sorry smile before heading back the way we came. “Sorry, Iris, but I’m going after that money, even if that means taking you and a dead man down in the process.”

*

As soon as Nick’s gone, I toss the water bottle into a trash can and take off running. It’s a gorgeous spring afternoon, and the air is filled with the sounds of a sunny day in the city: leaf blowers buzzing, the musical jangle of dogs on leashes, the low thrum of traffic in the distance and the resounding slap of my sneakers against the pavement. Eight days of little food and no activity has my muscles weak and stiff, and every step feels like punishment, but Nick’s words are chasing me, and I need to burn off all the nervous energy twitching in my bones.

Will and I loved the BeltLine. We loved the urban artwork and the skyline views and the miles and miles of parks and green space. We loved exploring it on our matching bikes, old-school types with three gears, metal bells and wicker baskets hanging from the handlebars. Will surprised me with them one year for my birthday.

“You know what this means, right?” I said, climbing on mine and wheeling it up and down the street with a loud whoop.

Will grinned from where he was watching, his hands on his hips, at the top of the drive. “No more Uber bills?”

I laughed. “That, plus if we bike all the way to Midtown and back, the French fries I’m going to eat for lunch will be guilt free.”

We took the bikes out whenever we could. On sunny weekends and warm evenings, to restaurants and bars and just because, and we were that obnoxious couple who took up the entire BeltLine because we biked back holding hands.

And now, if I’m to believe everything I’ve learned today, this same man was a criminal. A liar and a thief, one who in the last month of his life was distracted and moody. One who got into fights at the gym and punched dents into living-room walls. One who Nick and his forensic accountant were onto. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Will was probably feeling squeezed.

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.