The Marriage Lie(62)

“The story hasn’t broken yet, so she might be—”

He pounds a fist on the table, rattling the ice in the bucket. “I knew it. I knew these fuckers were hiding something. A plane doesn’t just fall from the sky unless...” He pauses to pant, three quick breaths that flutter the papers on the table. “If this is true, if there was even a whiff of misconduct by anyone inside that cockpit, I will make it my personal mission to take down that airline and everybody in it. I guarantee you that much.”

“The psychologist in me says revenge won’t change anything. Your wife and baby girl, my Will...they’ll all still be dead.”

“What does the widow say?”

I don’t have to think about my answer, not even for a second. “The widow in me says obliterate the bastards.”

“Done. I’ll talk to Tiffany personally, fly there myself if I have to.” He scrubs a hand down his face, and his fury dissipates as quickly as it came, morphing into sorrow. “God help me, if my girls died because some asshole was too cocky to call in sick...”

At the mention of his family, he looks on the verge of tears again, and I know how he feels, like his emotions have multiple personality disorder. Why do they call it grief, when really it’s a whole gamut of awful emotions, confusion and regret and anger and guilt and loneliness, wrapped up into one little word?

“I can’t keep food down,” I hear myself say. Evan’s honesty has loosened something up in me, and the words come out on their own accord. “Everything tastes like cardboard, even when I’m starving. I’ll eat it, then throw it right back up. And every time I’m hanging over the toilet, puking up my guts, I get this secret little thrill because I think maybe I’m pregnant.”

“I take it you and Will were trying?”

I nod. “But not for very long, so the odds aren’t exactly in my favor. The nausea is probably psychosomatic or wishful thinking or just plain old heartbreak, I don’t know. But I can’t help from thinking that if I had a baby, if I had this little nugget of my husband growing inside me, it would make things a little easier.”

“I think it would make things a lot easier. Then you’d feel like you had something to live for.”

His words trigger a warning in my psychologist’s brain. “Are you saying you don’t?”

“I’m saying it’s awfully hard to remember that I do sometimes. Especially at 4:00 a.m., when I’m standing in my daughter’s dark, empty room, staring into her empty crib while her cries echo in my head.”

A surge of sadness for this man jabs me in the center of the chest, telling me that even though my own heart may be broken to bits, things could be worse. I reach across the table, give his big hand a squeeze. The gesture is empathy, sympathy and solidarity, all at the same time.

He pulls his hand out of mine and drops his head into both of his, blowing a long breath out through his fingers. “I’m sorry. You didn’t come all the way here to have me cry on your shoulder.” He looks up, his mask molded into something semiprofessional. “You said something about needing some legal advice. Does it have anything to do with the crash?”

“No. Yes. Well, sort of, but in a Twilight Zone sort of way.” I force a laugh, but it comes out loud and abrupt like a sneeze. I follow Evan’s lead and become serious. “I need to know if I can be held accountable for my husband’s alleged crimes.”

His face remains carefully blank. “What kind of crimes are we talking about here?”

“Embezzlement, mostly.”

“Mostly, huh?” He fills two glasses with ice and pushes one my way, offering me one of the dozen bottles of water. I select a can of Perrier, and he pops it open with a hiss. “This sounds like the part where I should warn you our attorney-client confidentiality doesn’t kick in until you pay me a retainer.” I’m about to ask him if he’s serious—I always assumed that was a Hollywood plot device—when he adds, “If we were in a bar, I’d say buy me a beer, but since we’re not, a couple of bucks’ll do.”

I dig five singles from my wallet and slide them across the table.

“Start at the beginning,” Evan says, pocketing the cash.

So I do. I tell Evan everything, beginning with the morning of the crash. I tell him about the Orlando conference and the job that wasn’t in Seattle. I tell him about how a condolence card led me to Coach Miller and Rainier Vista and the fire. I tell him about the I’m so sorry letter and my coffee with Corban and the fact Will asked him to look after me. I tell him about my BeltLine stroll with Nick and how a forensic accountant is ferreting through AppSec’s books as we speak, in search of the missing four and a half million. I tell him about the Cartier ring and the texts from both the blocked and the 678 number, and how the threats prompted me to install a brand-new, mac-daddy alarm system. It’s a tremendous relief to finally tell somebody, and the words flow without effort, without hesitation. Evan takes them all in with a serious but stony expression, and without scribbling a single word onto his yellow legal pad.

When I’m done, he pushes the pad aside and leans on the table with both forearms. “Okay, so first things first. Liberty Air released Will’s name before contacting you?”

“Yes. Only by a half an hour or so, but long enough my mom called me before they did.”