The Marriage Lie(63)

“What a bunch of incompetent morons.” He shakes his head, and a scowl screws up his face. “You know you can name your price now, right? If you threaten to take their blunder to the press, they’ll pay you any amount you want, just to keep you quiet.”

Ann Margaret Myers’s face flashes across my mind, her mask of exaggerated empathy at the Family Assistance Center when she pushed the check for fifty-four thousand dollars across the desk, her smug-ass smile when she told me there would be more coming.

“I don’t want anything from them, least of all their blood money.”

“You say that now, but what about a couple of months down the road, when the bills are piling up and your bank account is down by one salary? What if you are pregnant? You’re going to need every penny.”

“No, I won’t. I found Will’s life insurance policies a couple of days ago. There are three, and for a total of two and a half million dollars. Financially, I’ll be fine.”

Evan cocks his head. “Are you telling me you didn’t know he had those policies?”

“I only knew about one. The smallest one. The other two he bought without telling me.”

“Why do you think he did that, and why for so much? The national average for someone in his shoes—married, no kids—is less than half that amount.”

I lift my shoulders up to my ears. “I never thought he’d steal or commit arson, either, so your guess is as good as mine.”

“Murder.”

“What?”

“If he was the one who set the fire that killed his mother and those two kids, then technically he committed murder.”

A chill shimmies its way down my spine.

Evan takes a long pull from his glass, then crunches on a chunk of ice. “Okay, so we’ve got a couple of things going on here. If his boss is able to prove Will’s the one behind the embezzlement, he can come after you now but only if Will used any of that money to pay for things you own together. Georgia is an equitable property state, which means if any of those funds benefited you in any way, AppSec can and will hold you accountable for restitution, maybe even fines. They’re going to come after the ring, for sure.”

I roll the Cartier as far as it will go up my finger, squeeze my hand into a fist. “Will gave it to me the day he died. They’ll have to chop off my finger to get it.”

“I’ll make sure they don’t have to, though more than likely, you’ll have to fork up the cash to cover the cost. And if they find out about the two and a half million insurance payout, they’ll come after that, too.”

“They can do that?”

“I didn’t say they’d get it, only that they’d try. And I know it doesn’t feel like it, but in terms of your liability in the embezzlement charges, this hidden-past angle is a good thing. We can use it to demonstrate there were a lot of secrets in your marriage, parts of your husband you weren’t privy to. His past life in Seattle, the father-in-law you never knew about, all these things are going to work in our favor.” He gives me a few moments to digest this news, filling the silence by refilling both of our waters. “Okay. Let’s move on to the texts. Did you report them to the police?”

“Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“As much as I applaud your waiting—you wouldn’t believe how many convictions I’ve nailed because some idiot didn’t think to consult his attorney first—you’ve been physically threatened now, twice.”

“From someone who wants money I didn’t steal and don’t have access to. Won’t the police have lots of questions?”

“Oh, you can count on it, especially if Will’s boss has started up an investigation already. But, Iris, as your lawyer, I do have to ask. Have you told me everything I need to know? I can’t help you unless I know all the facts, and I hate walking into anywhere blind.”

“Yes, of course. I don’t have anything to lie about. Honestly. I’ve told you everything I can remember.”

A niggle of guilt pings me between the ribs, and I look away before he sees. There is one thing I haven’t told him, one thing I don’t dare to say out loud. It’s too far-fetched, and it will make me sound too crazy.

“In that case...” He slaps both palms to the table, pushes to a stand and flicks his head at the door. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“To the police station. To file a report.”

“What, now?”

He gives me a crooked grin. It’s tight and it’s forced, but I catch a whiff of the old, playful Evan, before plane crashes and empty cribs sucked the joy out of life. “I won’t charge you extra, I promise.”

*

Evan drives us to the station closest to my home, a gray stone building on Hosea Williams Drive, one that seems much too small to be serving a city of more than six million. The inside is like a public bathroom, crowded and dingy and reeking of industrial-strength cleaner mixed with body odor and the stench of fear. Men in rumpled clothes line the lobby’s right wall bench, their wrists cuffed to a metal bar. Their oily gazes slide over me, and I shuffle a little closer to Evan.

The desk sergeant, a grizzly-haired man easily in his sixties, greets Evan by name. The acknowledgment is courteous but not the least bit friendly, despite Evan’s easygoing manner. He leans an elbow on the desk like it’s a bar, explaining the situation and requesting an aggravated harassment form in a tone that makes it sound like the sergeant is an old drinking buddy. The man passes Evan the form without comment.