The Marriage Lie(58)

“Oh, I went to run a few quick errands, but you know how Atlanta traffic is. Rush hour starts at four o’clock some days. It took me forever to make it back.” I flip on the water and wash my hands. “What can I do to help?”

She points the end of the knife at a bowl full of shallots. “Slice up one of those, will you?”

Mom begins chatting about her ideas for the funeral, listing off a couple of venues she wants to check out, and relief loosens the muscles knotted across my shoulders. Either Mom didn’t notice I was being intentionally vague, or she decided not to push it. But I meant what I said to Dave. Until I know how airtight Nick’s allegations are, I’m not planning to fill my parents in on the missing four and a half million dollars. They’re already worried enough, and adding death threats and the possibility of criminal charges into the mix will send them into nuclear territory.

But a bigger reason—and yes, after the events of these past few days, I can see how some might call it an irrational reason, as well—is that I don’t want to further tarnish their memory of Will. My parents have always loved Will, and for the exact same reasons that Dave did, because of how plainly and perfectly Will loved me. The thought of watching their expressions turn sour, of seeing judgment flash across their faces every time his name is brought up at Christmases and birthdays, makes my stomach feel heavy, like there’s a rock lodged at the very bottom.

Dave comes through the back door with his iPad and a bottle of beer, his designer sunglasses hanging from the neck of his polo shirt. “Why’d you hang up on me?”

The great thing about having a twin is that you’re so in sync, and they know what you’re thinking without you having to say a word. Until you’ve got a secret, that is, and then the worst thing about having a twin is that you’re so in sync.

The problem is, I know Dave, and I know if I tell him about the death threat, he’ll glue himself to my side and never leave. As much as I love my brother, the thought of his constant hovering makes me hot and itchy, my skin stretched too tight.

“I didn’t hang up on you,” I lie. “We must have gotten cut off or something.”

He narrows his eyes. “Then why didn’t you call me back?”

“Our conversation was already winding down. What else was there to say? Besides, I was on my way home. I figured we could finish up in person.” I pluck a bottle of water from the fridge and turn to face him. “Like now, for example. Let’s finish now.”

My cell phone buzzes in my pocket, vibrating the skin of my hip and spiking both my pulse and my body temperature. I unzip my hoodie and peel it off, dropping it onto the counter next to my bag.

He cocks his head and studies me, his gaze crawling over my face. “What is up with you? Why are you purple? What are you not telling me?”

“Nothing, Dave. I’m not telling you nothing.”

He throws his hands up in the air by his sides. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Exactly, and neither does this conversation.”

Mom’s sigh is one I’ve heard a million times before. What sounds like an argument to her is just Dave’s and my normal way of communicating...except for now. Now we’re fussing because he’s trying to unpuzzle my secret, and I’m holding the missing piece in my pocket.

“I swear, you two are worse than a couple of toddlers.” She shoves a stack of plates into Dave’s hands. “Set the table, would you?”

He gives me an I’m watching you look, then heads toward the table.

As soon as his back is turned, I slide the phone from my pocket.

678-555-8214: FYI, I know how to get around an alarm system.

UNKNOWN: Why the alarm, Iris? Did something happen?





21

All through dinner, the phone is like a hunk of plutonium pressed against my hip, a silent and deadly thing radiating poison in my pocket. If I had any doubts before that the numbers came from different sources, I certainly don’t now. There’s no way I know how to get around an alarm system and Did something happen? came from the same thumbs.

Unless it’s someone trying to mess with my mind. The thought sours my stomach, churning the spaghetti and meatballs I just choked down into a nauseating mush, because it’s entirely possible. Maybe even the same person who sent the letter in my husband’s hand, which my training tells me could have only come from a sociopath.

“Iris, sweetheart, did you hear a word we said?” Mom says from across the table.

I freeze my fork mid-spaghetti twirl, look up from my plate to find her watching me, her brow furrowed with concern. “I’m sorry, what?”

“We were just talking about our plans, and how James needs to head home this weekend.”

He confirms this with an apologetic smile. “I have a full day of surgery on Monday, and I really need a day or two at home to get my bearings. I hope you understand.”

“You don’t have to apologize for having your own life and career. Go. Of course, go. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll come back next weekend, and we’ll see where we’re at.” He says this to the table, but mostly to Dave, and that’s when it dawns on me that James is planning to return to Savannah alone. He’s leaving my brother here.

I look around at my family, wonder what else of their conversation I missed. “What are everybody else’s plans?”