Something in the Water(98)

I’m numb with shock. I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. I never even noticed. I never noticed any of it. But I loved him, I trusted him, he’s my husband, and we were supposed to be in this together. But then, I never really was very good at reading people, was I? And he always, always, was. Silly me. Silly Erin. I feel my heart thrashing in my throat as I realize. I don’t know this man at all. The man I thought I knew, the man I fell in love with, the man I married: he never really existed.

“It’s gone through,” Mark says, nodding, and he pockets the phone. The money has hit our Swiss account.

“Flash drive,” he says, holding it out at arm’s length to the tall man.

“You don’t mind if I check too?” the man asks, indicating the drive. He wants to make sure it works. He doesn’t trust Mark. But then, why should he? I don’t trust Mark now and I’m married to him.

The man walks away from Mark, careful not to turn his back on him. I see now he’s heading toward a black canvas bag left at the clearing’s edge. He bends. He pulls out a slim silver laptop.

With the laptop open in the crook of his arm, he inserts the flash drive. Both men stand silent in the woods as the sun rises and they wait for the USB to load.

The tall man finally looks up.

“You opened it, I see? But you didn’t decrypt it. Very wise. That makes things easier, right?” He smiles at Mark, a smile devoid of humor.

Mark smirks. So he’d lied to me about that too. He didn’t decrypt it either. He just guessed. He has no more idea than I do what is on the USB. He just knows it’s worth two million euros.

“None of my business. I’d rather not know,” Mark answers.

The other man seems momentarily distracted; he’s focusing on his computer. I wonder what he sees flashing up on that screen. I wonder what secrets worth two million euros look like. I suppose I’ll never know now.

“Happy?” Mark asks. The transaction feels like it’s coming to a close.

“Yes, happy.” The man places the laptop and USB safely back in his bag.

And it’s at this point I realize I’m never going to see Mark again. I’ll never get to touch him, kiss him; I’ll never fall asleep beside him ever again. We’ll never watch our children grow up; we’ll never move to the countryside and get a big dog; we’ll never see a film together or go for a drink. And we’ll never grow old together. Every good thing I’ve ever felt was a lie. And now there is no recourse. He took all of our life together from me. And now he’ll take the rest of it too. Not that it matters now really, but he has access to the Swiss account too. I haven’t checked it for days. He could have syphoned off all the money already, sent it to another account somewhere. That might be where he’s just had the two million euros sent.

And what was he doing in New York yesterday? He can’t have been planning to make an exchange with the Russians, because he didn’t take the USB with him. Maybe he was just trying to find somewhere to live? Maybe that’s where his new life will be? I wonder what he’s really been doing for the past three weeks.

Questions I can’t answer. I should have paid more attention. I should have been less trusting. Too late now.

Mark will disappear and I’ll be left alone, with nothing but an empty house I can’t afford.

Or maybe he will come for me. Maybe he’ll want to clear up the loose ends.

How long has he been planning this?

“I just need the other coordinates now.”

An awkward silence.

A bird screeches in the distance.

“What coordinates?” Mark is frowning.

Ha. Mark has no idea what the guy is talking about. I want to laugh. Schadenfreude. He doesn’t know the tall man needs the plane coordinates too. That last voicemail, the one I got yesterday morning—only I listened to it. Mark only knows about the USB exchange. He has no idea what coordinates the other man is talking about.

“The crash coordinates,” the older man replies. He watches Mark expectantly.

Mark doesn’t know the coordinates. He wrote them down originally, but I was the one who memorized them, in case we ever needed to go back. It had seemed important at the time, in case someone cared for those people. I burned that information the day I burned everything in connection with the Swiss account in our fire pit. I am the only person in the world who knows where that plane is, where those dead passengers lie.

Mark’s made a mistake. He doesn’t know what to say now, so he’ll fake it, he’ll bluff, I know it. I know him.

The silence lengthens. The tall man is beginning to realize something is not quite right. Mark has created a problem.

I hold my breath. Even now, after everything, my heart wants me to shout out and help, but my head screams, Shut the fuck up.

“The plane coordinates. I asked you for the coordinates of the plane. Where did you find this drive? Where is the plane fuselage? We want the location, you understand?”

The situation has shifted up a gear. There’s a sense in the air that things are about to go bad. Very bad.

Mark has no other hand to play. He doesn’t know where the plane is. He must bluff or fold.

He tries doing both.

“I don’t have the coordinates. I don’t have them anymore. But I can give you a rough idea of the—”

“Stop,” the man barks. “Stop talking.”