What You Don't Know(12)

“When will I be able to move back in?” she’d asked a few weeks ago. She was tired of the apartment. Corporate housing they call it, but it was as bad as staying at a motel. Worse. It kept her up at night, wondering how many people had slept in the bed, had used the chipped dishes in the cupboard and sat on the stiff sofa.

“What do you mean?” the cop had asked. There were two of them, and they always traveled in pairs, like a matched set. They were the ones who’d sat in front of her house, and one was younger and handsome, but the other was mean. She could never remember either of their names, didn’t even try. She didn’t like them. “You can’t move back in there.”

“What’re you talking about? That’s my house. I own it.”

The two men looked at each other, seeming amused. She hated them for that. Like she was a child demanding a toy she couldn’t have, because she didn’t know any better.

“The house is going to be torn down, Mrs. Seever,” the young one said. At least he was polite, not like the other one, who was always watching her, a weird smile on his face. “Completely demolished.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid it is.”

“Jacky said I could live there, even if he was in prison.”

“Jacky doesn’t get a say in things these days,” the old one said. Loren, she remembered. Detective Loren. He was grimacing, his lips pulled back far enough that she could see every tooth in his head, and most of his gums. “You lose your vote when you murder a bunch of people.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The house has been sold.”

“But I live there.”

“I guess your sweetie-pie husband never told you that you’re dead broke,” Loren said. “He had his lawyer sell everything to pay for his defense. The house. His car. All your assets. You didn’t think that fancy lawyer-man was defending Jacky out of the goodness of his heart, did you?”

She tightened her hands on her purse, her nails sinking into the leather.

“But those all belonged to me too,” she said. “He couldn’t have sold it all without me knowing.”

“Technically, nothing belongs to you,” Loren said. “Your name wasn’t on anything, so Jacky was able to do whatever the hell he wanted. And he did. Without ever letting you know.”

He was right, she realized. Jacky had always taken care of everything, all the finances, all the paperwork, and she’d never been involved. Not once. She’d never known how much money they had, how things were going, but it had always been easy to believe that everything was fine, because it always seemed to be, and she’d never questioned anything as long as her credit cards still worked and her checks still cleared without issues. He’d bought the house without her, as a surprise, and he’d always gone to the car dealership alone. The only paper she’d ever signed with Jacky was her marriage license, and that’s all he’d needed to bring her up in the world, then tear her down so low.

“But the diners—” she started, but then paused. She hadn’t set foot in any of them since Jacky’s arrest, had never even called to check on them. There’d been so many other things to deal with, and Jacky had assured her that he had the managers running things, that she didn’t have a single thing to worry about. I’ll be out of here before you know it, he’d told her during one of their visits at the county jail. You don’t have to lift one finger. Don’t worry. “Are they gone too?”

“Yes,” said the young cop, shooting her a pitying look. She could’ve killed him for it.

“Who bought the house? And the diners?” she asked. “I’ll buy them all back. They’re mine.”

She regretted saying the words as soon as they left her mouth, because she thought—no, she knew, she couldn’t afford to be na?ve, not anymore—she had nothing left. If Jacky had sold the house and the restaurants, all behind her back, of course he would’ve cleaned out their bank accounts too. If she was lucky he might’ve left her enough to live on for a while, but who was she kidding? Jacky was the one in prison, but she might as well have been too, and she’d built it herself, slid every brick into place with her own two hands. A prison built out of complete and utter stupidity.

Sucker, that’s what her father would’ve called her. He would’ve smacked his lips together pleasurably when he said it. A goddamn sucker.

“The diners sold to new owners, and the house was bought by some foundation here in town. They work to improve the quality of life in Denver, and the plan is to destroy the house,” the young cop said. He seemed embarrassed. “Have it leveled completely. I’ve heard talks about a playground being built there. Maybe a community garden.”

“Why would they do that?” she cried.

“Because their check cleared, and they can,” Loren said. “And because people need to forget what happened there.”

“Forget what?” she said. She’d been scrubbing at her mouth with a tissue, meaning to wipe away the lipstick she’d forgotten to apply, and her lower lip had cracked open and begun to bleed.

“They need to forget your husband’s a fucking psychopath.”

“Jacky never hurt anyone in his life.”