The Marriage Lie(60)

“Got it.”

“Good. Now, your duress code is set to straight down the middle of the keypad—2580. That’s another one you’ll want to change to your own as soon as I’m done.”

“Why would I use a duress code instead of a panic button?”

“In case somebody’s holding a gun to your head and watching over your shoulder while you disarm the system.”

My eyes blow wide. “That actually happens?”

Big Jim nods, his fleshy jowls bobbing. “Just happened to a young couple in Buckhead. Two armed men surprised the husband as he was coming in from the garage, pistol-whipped ’em both until they forked over all their cash and valuables. Husband used the duress code, otherwise they’d probably both be dead.”

“Jesus.” I haul a calming breath, but it doesn’t work. The idea of someone chasing me into my own home, pistol-whipping me until I fork over four and a half million dollars I don’t have, sends an army of ants crawling under my skin.

He points to an 800 number on the inside cover of the keypad. “Call this number first thing after I’m gone and set up your code word. It’s an added security measure, and our operators’ll ask for it every time they call. If the bad guy is standing next to you, give ’em the wrong word, and that’s their signal to send in the cavalry. Don’t worry if you forget any of this. It’s all explained in detail in the owner’s manual, which I’ll get you before I leave.”

“Give it to my father, will you? He’s got your payment, and Mom’s holding dinner for you downstairs whenever you’re ready.”

Big Jim pats his gut and grins. “I’m pretty much always ready.”

After he’s gone, I toe out of my sneakers, dig my cell phone out of my pocket and collapse onto my bed. There are no new texts, nothing from either number, and I don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Both, maybe. Relief for the one, disappointment for the other.

I pull up the string with the 678 number, the one ending in two threats. Tell me where Will hid the money or you’ll be joining him. FYI, I know how to get around an alarm system. No way I’m touching either one of those.

I back up, click on the conversation with the blocked number. Why the alarm, Iris? Did something happen?

I think about who would be worried about me besides the people cleaning my kitchen downstairs—my colleagues, my girlfriends, the friendly neighbors to our left and across the street. None of them would text me from a blocked number. I press my fingers to my eyes and rub. Maybe I’m too tired. Stressed. Wrecked and confused from lying in the bed I once shared with Will. None of this makes any sense.

Before I can think through the pros and cons of engaging whoever is on the other end of the blocked number, my thumbs start typing. Why do you care? Who are you?

The reply pings my screen two seconds later, as if whoever is on the other end has been waiting for me all this time, thumbs pressed to the screen. I’m a friend, and I want you to be safe. Tell me who’s after you and why. I want to help.

ME: Don’t play games with me. If you knew that I was in Seattle and got an alarm, you know about the stolen money, too.

UNKNOWN: I know about the money. I just wasn’t sure that you did.

My heart rides into my throat as I type the next words.

ME: Are you the one who stole it?

UNKNOWN: That depends on who you believe.

The last text comes with a whiplike lash. So far, the only theory I’ve heard for who took the money is Will, which means...

Not possible. A dead man can’t send texts.

I’m considering my next move when another text lights up my screen.

UNKNOWN: Please tell me what I can do to help you.

ME: I don’t think so. Not until you tell me who you are.

UNKNOWN: I want nothing more, believe me. But it’s better for both of us if I remain anonymous.

ME: Then what’s the point? Why bother texting me at all?

UNKNOWN: Because it’s the next best thing to actually being there.





22

The law offices of Rogers, Sheffield and Shea are located in the heart of Midtown, high in the clouds looming over Peachtree Street. Their lobby is everything you’d expect from Atlanta’s most prestigious attorney firm. Modern furnishings, seamless glass walls providing sweeping views of downtown and a twenty-foot trek to a dark-haired receptionist who could moonlight as a model.

“Iris Griffith here to see Evan Sheffield.”

She gestures to a row of leather chairs by the window. “His assistant will be right out. In the meantime, may I get you something to drink?”

“I’d love a water, thanks.”

What I’d really love is to get the hell out of here. To take the elevator back down to the parking deck, make a dash for my car and gun the gas for home. It’s not so much that I’m dreading what I’m here to tell him, though admitting my husband is a liar and a thief is certainly bad enough. No, my urge to beat a retreat is more fueled by fear. The last time I saw Evan, his eyes were haunted, and they’ve haunted me ever since.

His assistant leads me into his corner office, where Evan is seated at a round table by the far wall. He’s grown a beard since I’ve seen him last, a scruffy patch of dirty-blond fur that sprouts from the lower half of his face, either a bold middle finger to the corporate world or a testament that the weight of his grief is too heavy a load to bear.