The Marriage Lie(55)

“William Griffith. He would have been in here two or three weeks ago, I’m guessing.”

Recognition alights on her face, an almost-smile. “Lucky you. Handsome man.”

“You remember him?”

“I sold him ring.”

I try to picture my husband hunched over the shiny cases, his brow furrowed in frustration while busty Natashya helps him select the perfect gift. Eye candy aside, he’s never been much of a shopper, and he’s always detested the mall. “Why fight the crowds?” he always said. “Everything I could ever need can be bought on the internet and shipped to my front door.”

“Your husband did homework. He knew which ring, what size. Quickest sale I ever make.”

I take in her words, thinking her scenario makes much more sense. Of course he would have scoured their website before coming, would have even called ahead to make sure they had the ring in stock. He probably had Natashya here waiting at the door with the bag and the credit card machine. Get in, get out, get on with his day.

She punches a button on the keyboard and the printer whirs to life. “Had money to exact penny.”

I give her a pleasant nod, then freeze when her words sink in. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me he paid for the ring in cash?”

She glances over but only long enough to dip her chin. “Da.”

“How much cash?”

“Twelve thousand four hundred dollars plus tax.”

She says it as easily as if she’s rattling off the price for a pound of sugar, while I try to come up with something I own that costs that much money. A heavily mortgaged house. A bank loan for a four-year-old car. Not even my engagement diamond, a simple solitaire set in platinum prongs, was that expensive.

The infinity ring suddenly feels too tight, like three rubber bands stretched to snapping around the base of my finger.

“Twelve...twelve thousand four hundred dollars?”

“Plus tax.” She takes the papers from the printer and presses it into a red leather booklet, checking a number on the screen. “Thirteen thousand, two hundred and sixty eight.”

With or without tax, the amount is staggering.

I watch the receipt roll off the printer and wonder if he bought anything that day besides the ring, if the four and a half million was burning a hole in his pocket. How was he planning to hide that kind of cash? Where did he hide that kind of cash? Would it fit in a box under the floorboards? In a safe up in the attic? Or would he need one of those fireproof storage units advertised on billboards along the downtown connector?

And most important: How would I go about finding it?

The salesclerk slides the booklet across the desk. “Tell husband Natashya say hi.”





20

Back in my idling car, I open the red leather booklet and flip through the papers Natashya pressed into it. A certificate of authenticity for the ring. The return policy. An invoice and tax receipt. I run the pad of my finger over Will’s familiar signature scrawled across the bottom, swallowing a sudden lump. Will may have bought this ring with stolen money, but that doesn’t change the fact he bought it for me. He braved the mall and selected a gift that would mean something for me. For us. Pink for love, yellow for fidelity, white for friendship. Him, me and baby-to-be. No matter his past, no matter where he got the money and how he paid for it, this ring is mine. I’ll never take it off.

And then my gaze falls on the contact information on the invoice. Below Will’s name, below our home address, there’s a phone number I don’t recognize. It’s one of the three Atlanta area codes—678—but the digits are otherwise unfamiliar. Definitely not Will’s cell, which begins with 404.

His work number, maybe? Will was always calling me from numbers I didn’t recognize, and he said the only ones I should ever bother to save were his cell, Jessica’s direct line and the main number for AppSec. Now I wish I’d been more meticulous about recording them.

I pull up his contact page on my phone, check the numbers I have for his office against the Cartier receipt. None of them match.

So...what? Natashya got the number wrong when she entered it into the system? Will gave her a fake number to avoid being at the receiving end of the store’s telemarketing campaign? And then it occurs to me. What if he had a second cell phone I didn’t know about? Another life, another wife? The possibility hits me square in the belly, churning to acid in my gut.

Before I can chicken out, I punch the digits into my cell and hit Send, holding my breath as it rings over my car’s hands-free system. Once, twice, again. After the fourth, it flips me to voice mail, a computer-generated voice repeating the number and asking me to leave a message. I hang up before I get to the beep.

Now what? I chew my lip, stare out the windshield at people coming and going through the parking lot, and think things through. Maybe the number is nothing but a mistake, but what if it’s not? What if it really did belong to Will? A cell phone doesn’t come for free. What if I can trace the number? Will it point me to a bank account I didn’t know he had, one fat with the stolen AppSec money?

My cell phone buzzes between my fingers, and I jump clear out of my seat. My brother. I suck a monster breath, willing my heart to settle, and answer on the hands-free system. “Just so you know, you scared the pants off me, and now I have to go back inside the mall to pee.”