The Marriage Lie(65)

“Does your husband have any reason to be threatening you?”

Evan slaps a palm to the desk and leans in. “Her husband is dead, Detective. Remember?”

She doesn’t take her eyes off me. “Does he?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And you’re sure your husband was on that plane.” It’s neither a question nor a statement but somewhere in between. “You’re absolutely positive.”

I want to spring over this lady’s pristine desk, grab her by the ears and kiss her full on the mouth because, no, I’m not positive. I’ve not been positive since the very second Mom called before Liberty Air did. What if it wasn’t a blunder but confusion, because Will was behind a computer somewhere, hacking his name on to that passenger manifest?

“No,” I say, at the same time Evan barks, “Of course she’s positive.”

The detective ignores him, her gaze hot on mine. “No, you’re not positive, or no, it’s not true?”

I swallow, flashing an apologetic glance at Evan, who is shaking his head. “No, I’m not positive.”

Evan’s lawyer face clamps down, and he latches onto my biceps, hauls me out of my chair and steers me over to the edge of the room, up against an empty spot of wall, pressed between a filing cabinet and a watercooler.

“I don’t even know where to start. No, scratch that. I do know. Iris, Will is dead.”

“Allegedly,” I say, using his own term on him, and he throws up his hands. “Look, I know how weird it sounds—”

“It doesn’t sound weird. It sounds certifiably insane. Will’s name was on the passenger manifest. They found his ring at the crash site.”

“Without a single scratch on it. How does that even happen? And they still haven’t found any of his DNA.”

“Because they’re still pulling body parts from the earth! Jesus, Iris, think about it! It’ll be months before they identify everyone.”

“Okay, so what about the texts from the blocked number? Will’s the only one who stands to lose anything by me being in Seattle, and he could track my phone to see when I was there and when I got back. And he would for sure know how to text me from an untraceable number. And then there’s the letter that mysteriously appeared on my bathroom countertop, in Will’s handwriting and postmarked after the crash, telling me he’s so sorry. I think he meant for leaving, for making me think he’s dead, for breaking my heart.”

“The letter didn’t mysteriously appear, it was delivered to your house by the United States Postal Service. It could be ten years old, for all we know. Do you know how hard it is to fake your death?”

“I’ve already done this, you know, had this argument with myself. Over and over and over, a million times in my head. And of course I know how certifiably insane it makes me sound. It’s the reason I kept quiet for over a week now, even though I should have been listening to my gut, which is telling me he’s not dead. It’s telling me to find the money, because that’s where Will is, too.”

Evan pulls a hand down his face. “I really wish you told me this before we walked through the door.”

“Why, so you could give me my five bucks back and tell me to hit the road?” My tone is teasing, my voice stretched with a smile—my pathetic attempt at an apology even though I’m not sorry. If the detective and I are right, if Will is not dead, then whatever I say or do to find him is something I’ll never apologize for.

But Evan doesn’t crack the slightest smile. “No, so I could tell you that faking your death isn’t technically illegal, but it’s impossible to do without committing a crime. Beyond the identity fraud and tax evasion, that money from Liberty Air and Will’s life insurance? If you take it, you’ll essentially be stealing it.”

His message sinks my smile. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” His gaze fishes over my shoulder, and his expression goes carefully blank. I turn and the detective is still at her desk, watching us with an expression I can’t read. He gives her his back and steps between us, so that all I see is Evan. “Okay, new plan. Let’s go back over there, explain to Detective What’s-her-name that you’re a grieving widow with an active imagination and some very wishful thinking, then get the hell out of here.”

*

On the ride back to the office, Evan and I agree to a couple of things. First, to table the is he or isn’t he argument until either the airline finds biological evidence of Will being on that plane, or I receive another message from the blocked number. I’m also to document every text I receive from both numbers by making screenshots and saving them to a mutual Dropbox account Evan’s assistant will set up for us. And finally, Evan will pass the 678 number along to a private detective he’s worked with in the past for tracing.

“The Atlanta PD are good,” he says, pulling to a stop behind my car in the parking garage, “but they’re monumentally overworked and underpaid. My guy’ll be much faster. In the meantime, set your house alarm and call me the second you receive another threat, okay?”

I agree, but I don’t reach for the door. “Evan, I want to apologize for what happened back there. I know I should have shared my suspicions long before we sat down with the detective, but who even comes up with that? Not a sane person, that’s for sure. Until someone else voiced the idea that Will might still be alive, I didn’t permit myself to think it even in my own head, because I didn’t want to get my hopes up.” I shake my head. “I’m not doing a very good job of explaining, am I? None of this makes any sense.”