The Marriage Lie(66)

“No, it makes perfect sense. And you’re not crazy, this situation is. For the record, my response was less about an attorney looking out for his client, and more about me trying to muster up genuine happiness for someone who found her husband alive, and then coming up empty. All I found was envy. I know that makes me sound like a miserable, petty asshole, but there it is. I’m a miserable, petty asshole.”

“You lost your family. You’re allowed to be all those things.”

The shadows under his eyes seem darker suddenly, the line of worry indented in his forehead deeper.

We say goodbye, and I yank on the door handle, then think of one more thing. “What was her name?”

“Whose name, the detective’s?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Your daughter’s. What did you and Susanna name her?”

Evan is still for a long moment. “Emmaline.” He clears his throat and says it again, offering up the word with a quiet reverence. “Emmaline. We called her Emma.”

“Beautiful.” I give his arm a quick squeeze, then slide out of his passenger’s seat. “I’ll think of her every time I hear the name.”





23

On Sunday, Mom doesn’t want to leave.

“There are two casseroles in the freezer, both big enough to share with half an army,” she says. We’re standing on my front porch, watching Dad shove the last of their things into the trunk down at the street. Dave and James left yesterday afternoon, and now Mom is milking every last second out of this goodbye. “I thought maybe you’d invite a couple of your girlfriends over this week. Call Lisa or Elizabeth or Christy. Ask them to keep you company.”

“Good idea.” I’m not quite as enthusiastic as I make it sound. I love my friends as much as any other girl, but after almost two weeks of constant company, I’m looking forward to a little quiet. Grief, after all, is a solitary venture.

“And I froze the soup in individual portions. I thought you could take it in to work for lunch or something. There are cookie balls in there, too, in a plastic bag. Just pop them in the oven whenever you need something sweet.”

“Mom, there’s enough food in the freezer to last me until Christmas.”

“I know, it’s just...” Worry crumples her forehead. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay? I just hate the thought of you here all alone.”

“I won’t be here most of the time. I’ll be at work, and probably pulling extra hours. It’s college acceptance season, so I’m sure there’s plenty of drama to catch up on.”

“It’s only five days, Jules,” my father calls up the yard. “She’ll be fine.”

She gears up to protest, and I link my arm through hers and pull her close. “He’s right, Mom, I’ll be fine. I promise.”

She pushes up a watery grin. “I’m supposed to be the one comforting you, you know. Not the other way around.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll promise to be a big fat mess when I see you again on Friday.”

She laughs and pulls me into a tearful hug. “Call me anytime, okay? I can be here in three and a half hours.”

“I know.”

“And you’ll look at those venues like you promised? I left the addresses on the kitchen counter.”

“I will, I promise.”

I walk her down to the car, dole out another round of hugs, and smile and wave until Dad steers their car around the corner. And then I head back up the yard to the house.

The afternoon stretches in front of me like an open, empty road.

I know just how I’m going to fill it.

*

Back in the house, I slide my phone from my pocket. “Siri, where can you hide four and a half million dollars?”

Siri spits out a list of possible answers, from which I glean that a million dollars in tightly packed ones would fit into a grocery bag, a refrigerator crisper drawer and a microwave. The information is both informative and ridiculous. Why would anyone want a million dollars in one-dollar bills? But, okay, assuming Will packed the money in hundreds or thousands instead, the dimensions would still be manageable. Even with the new alarm, this house isn’t exactly the Federal Reserve, and there are only so many places in it to hide a wad of cash that large. Then again, Will is a techie. It would never occur to him to shove cash into a bag and lug it around with him. Any money movement would occur where he felt most comfortable: online.

Okay, so I should be searching for...what? An account number scribbled on a scrap of paper? A discarded and forgotten flash drive? The key to a safety-deposit box? I groan at the prospect of searching for an unknown object the size of my pinkie finger.

I decide to start in the attic and work my way down. I dump out boxes and bags, check behind rafters and in suitcases, search in closets and under beds. I move furniture and pull up carpets. I fetch a screwdriver from the kitchen and open every vent, reaching inside as far as my arm will go. I check the freezer and in toilet tanks.

The entire house is an emotional minefield, every room rigged with explosives. Will’s jacket hanging on a hook by the back door. His favorite orange juice in the fridge, shoved behind a carton of creamer he never got a chance to put in his coffee. The framed poster we picked out together on a trip to New York City hanging in the hall, the couch pillows he always thought were too many and would toss onto the floor, his razor and a half-empty bottle of aftershave on the rim of his sink. I twist off the cap and press it to my nose, and the familiar scent makes me smile at the same time my eyes build with tears.