If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(31)

Stan’s bushy brows tightened. “Could be. Do you have that phone number? I’m not legally allowed to track that, but the police could . . . if you get them involved.”

“It’s in my recent-calls list.” I let the remark about the cops pass as if I hadn’t heard it. “Anyway, Lyle loves boats. He could’ve been fantasizing about what he’d buy when his deal paid off.”

Even I heard the pathetic hope in my voice.

“Maybe.” Stan flipped through his notes some more. “I also found searches for foreign incorporations and banks—the Caymans, BVI, Isle of Man, and such.”

Isle of Man?

I didn’t know anything about the law, but movies had taught me enough to know that people hid money in the Caymans. Did he plan to hide his business income in order to reduce alimony and child support payments?

My heart rate skyrocketed, which was bad for the baby. I must’ve been blanching, because Stan touched my hand.

“Amanda, relax. Breathe and drink more tea, or maybe get some water. I know things don’t sound promising, but I swear to you, if he’s hiding money, we’ll find him and get justice.”

How sweet of him to pretend that Lyle was not up to tricks, but I knew he didn’t believe it. Even I now experienced doubts, but I nodded nonetheless. “What if he’s plotting something . . .”

“Here’s the good news. The vast majority of these guys aren’t nearly as smart as they think they are. Like in this case, with him failing to scrub his browser and such, they leave clues. And this woman—Ebba—she’ll have left clues, too.”

“Will you be talking to people about her?” I bit my lip. Half of me desperately wanted to learn every detail; the other half would rather know nothing.

“She’s a big piece of the puzzle.”

“But then people in town will talk.” I practically slumped onto the table. It would be harder to patch my life back together—with or without Lyle—with everyone whispering and judging me. “Could there be another explanation . . . maybe the Cayman Islands have something to do with this Florida deal?”

A stretch, but hope was seductive.

I covered my face with my hands and drew a deep breath.

“Amanda, I’m very sorry. And trust me, you’re not alone. Many wives have been where you are, looking for ways to protect their families and their children’s future from men who’ve let them down.”

“You must think my holding out hope is foolish.”

“No. Don’t let anyone make you ashamed to have invested your heart in your marriage. And it’s not uncommon for wives to refuse to involve the cops for a bunch of reasons, so don’t feel guilty about turning to me first. Or for holding out hope. There’s still a lot we don’t know, and maybe he’ll snap out of this midlife crisis before things go much further. I’ll certainly exercise discretion while looking into Miss Nilsson’s life.”

“Thank you for your kindness.” I pushed my hair back. “I wish I didn’t feel so powerless. Weak. Idiotic.”

“From what I can see, your husband is the idiot not to appreciate the life he had here.” He smiled, and I again subdued the urge to seek a hug.

“Worst-case scenario—what happens if there is no deed and he runs before we find him?”

“Let’s not jump ahead. He’s promised to send the deed, and he might make a timely payment to your mom. Like you’ve said, being an adulterer doesn’t make him a thief, too. I hope, for your sake, that’s the case.”

He hadn’t answered my worst-case question, which told me that my options were limited. “Thank you for your discretion. I’ll forward the deed when it comes and let you know if I learn anything more.”

We both stood, and Stan followed me through the entry to the front door.

“I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, take care of yourself and that baby. Whatever happens, don’t panic. Your family will help you through.” He patted my shoulder before walking to his car.

I closed the door, grateful to Kevin for sending me the perfect PI. Having a family to lean on made me lucky.

I dragged myself back upstairs to our closet, where the majority of Lyle’s clothes and shoes remained neatly organized. No wonder I’d had no clue that he’d planned an extended getaway.

As I fingered his jackets, his cologne wafted through the closet, stirring a vision of him in the midst of his morning routine. He’d shower, shave, then do twenty quick push-ups—just enough to open his pores—before spritzing himself with Terre d’Hermès. Sometimes, when he had an especially important client meeting, he’d ask me to assist with his tie and cuff links. I’d enjoyed helping him put himself together—like teammates—and then sending him off with a kiss.

The toxic brew of fond memories and sorrow gave me a headache. What made me so dispensable? With my father for Erin. Tommy Cantor for Jasmine Berry. Now Lyle for Ebba. I’d given my all to make those men happy. To make them proud of me. To earn their love and respect. Still, when push came to shove, they each preferred the company of someone else. Someone more carefree . . .

I eyed that box with Lyle’s father’s last-known contact information. If I crossed that line, Ebba would win, because Lyle would never forgive me.

The phone rang. Mom. “Hi, Mom.”