Miracle Creek(105)

She looked at him then. If she’d looked hurt or scared, he could’ve dealt with that. If she’d yelled, furious and hysterical—that, he’d prepared for. But this woman with a blank face like a mannequin—her features austere, her mouth unmoving—was not his wife of twenty years. It scared him, seeing this face he knew so well and yet didn’t recognize.

“Tell me everything,” she said, her voice like her face: flat, with none of the singsong up-and-down of emotion that, now it was gone, he realized formed its essence.

He swallowed and forced composure into his voice. “You already know everything. You overheard me telling Mary before you ran off. Where did you go?”

Young didn’t answer, didn’t seem to even hear his question. She fixed her eyes on his, and he felt heat, like a laser beam cutting into his eyes, his brain. “You need to look me in the eye and tell me everything. The truth this time.”

He was hoping she’d talk first, that she’d unload her anger by saying exactly what she’d heard, so he could tailor his story. But it was clear. She wasn’t going to talk. He nodded and put his hands on the table—the same spot where, just last night, she’d thrown the bag from the shed and he’d been forced to create plausible-sounding stories on the spot. After this morning, she had to be thinking those were all lies. He had to start there.

“I lied last night,” he said. “The Seoul listings weren’t for my brother. It was for us, to move to after the fire. I’m sorry I lied. I wanted to protect you.”

He expected her to soften at this show of vulnerability and atonement. But if anything, her eyes hardened, her pupils contracting into pinpoints of pure black, making him feel like a criminal. He reminded himself that this was his goal, for her to believe he was the villain, and continued with the mix of truth and lies he’d decided on. He said he called a Realtor and realized they couldn’t afford to move back. He said he decided on arson to get the needed money and called (on someone else’s phone, in case of an investigation) to verify the arson provision.

The part about the protesters was easier—truth always was—and he told her about that day: his frustration with the police for doing nothing, leading to his balloon power-outage plan; his temporary relief after its success, but that woman calling and threatening to return and cause more trouble; his decision to plant a cigarette exactly where their flyer said, to frame them and get them into real trouble so they’d stay away for good.

A few times, he tried to catch Mary’s eyes to warn her not to contradict him, but her gaze was still fixed on the full tea mug. When he was done talking, there was a long silence before Young said, “There’s nothing you left out? That’s really the whole truth?” Her face was composed, but there was pleading in her voice, a core of sadness wrapped by desperate hope, and he wished he could say of course not, she knew him, knew he wasn’t a man who’d endanger people’s lives for money.

But he didn’t. Some things were more important than honesty, even with your wife. He said, “Yes, it’s the whole truth,” and told himself it was for her own good. If she knew the real truth, the entire truth, that would devastate her. He had to protect her. That was his job, his highest duty, as head of the family: protect his family, no matter what. Even if that meant having the woman he loved consider him a callous criminal. Besides, he was responsible. He’d created the plan to frame the protesters for attempted arson. That day, as he lit the cigarette, watching the smoke swirl up from the red tip, his heart had thudded wildly, nervously, picturing pure oxygen flowing mere centimeters away, but he’d still gone ahead, sure he’d thought of everything and nothing would go wrong. Hubris. The worst sin.

Young blinked—rapidly, as if trying not to cry—and said, “So it was all you? You did everything with no help, no involvement from anyone else?”

He forced himself to keep his eyes focused on Young. “Yes. No one else knew. I knew what I was doing was dangerous, and I didn’t want anyone involved. Everything, I did alone.”

“You took Matt’s phone and called the insurance company?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You called the Realtor about Seoul?”

“Yes.”

“You hid the listings in the shed?”

He nodded.

“You bought Camels and hid them in the tin case?”

Pak nodded, kept nodding as the questions kept coming with shorter pauses between, feeling like one of those bobblehead dolls. It made him nervous, her asking only about the things he’d lied about. And asking leading questions, like Shannon in court—was she goading him into a trap?

“And you meant for the cigarette to actually start a fire? You were really trying to get insurance, not just get the protesters in trouble?”

He felt dizzy, like he’d fallen underwater and he couldn’t figure out which way was up. “Yes,” he managed to say. Softly. Barely audible, even to him.

Young closed her eyes, her face pale and still, and he thought of a corpse. Without opening her eyes, she said, “I came back just now, thinking maybe, just maybe, you’d be honest with me. That’s why I didn’t tell you what I found out. I wanted to give you a chance to tell me yourself. I don’t know whether to be impressed or upset that you’ve put so much effort into making up such a complicated story to deceive me.”