The Wife Between Us(87)

I closed the door quickly.

I untied the ribbon on the bag and saw a box inside. When I lifted the lid, it revealed a thick gold cuff from Verdura, at least two inches in diameter.

I reached into the box and held it up. The bracelet Richard had sent would perfectly cover the ugly bruises ringing my wrist.

Before I even had the chance to decide if I would ever be able to wear it, we got the call that my mother had died.


For years, I have allowed fear to dominate me. But as I sit in the cab, I realize another emotion is rising to the surface: anger. It felt cathartic to unleash my rage at Richard after absorbing his for so long.

I suffocated my feelings during our marriage. I doused them with alcohol; I buried them in denial. I tiptoed around my husband’s moods, hoping that if I created a pleasing enough environment—if I said and did the right things—I could control the climate of our household, just as I used to Velcro a smiling sun to the weather chart in my Cubs’ classroom.

Sometimes I was successful. My collection of jewelry—the Verdura cuff was the first of the items Richard had delivered to me following what he called our “misunderstandings”—reminds me of the times I was not. I didn’t consider packing those pieces when I left. Even if I sold them, the money I received would feel tainted.

During my marriage and even beyond it, Richard’s words would echo in my mind, causing me to constantly second-guess myself, and limiting my actions. But now I remember what Aunt Charlotte said to me just this morning: I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship.

I close my eyes and inhale the June air streaming through my open window, clearing away the last of Richard’s scent.

It’s not enough that I’ve escaped from my husband. And I know it won’t be enough to simply stop the wedding. Even if Emma leaves Richard, I am certain he’ll just move on to another young woman. Yet another replacement.

What I must do is find a way to stop Richard.

Where is he at this exact moment? I see him folding Emma into a hug, telling her how sorry he is that his ex is targeting her. He pulls the letter out of her hand and scans it, then crumples it into a ball. He is angry—but perhaps she thinks it is justified given my actions. What I hope, though, is that I’ve convinced her to reexamine their past, to look at their history through a new lens. Maybe she is recalling times when Richard’s reactions had seemed slightly off. When his need for control revealed itself in subtle ways.

What will be his next move?

He will retaliate against me.

I think hard. Then I open my eyes and lean forward.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I tell the cabdriver, who is taking me to Aunt Charlotte’s apartment. “I need to make a different stop.” I pull up an address on my phone and recite it.

He drops me off in front of a Midtown Citibank branch. It’s where Richard keeps his accounts.

When Richard left me the check, he told me to use the money to get help. He even alerted the bank that I’d be depositing it. But with my delivery of Duke’s photo and the letter to Emma, I’ve shown him I’m not going to quietly disappear.

I suspect he will try to stop payment on the check today. This is how Richard will begin my punishment; it’s a relatively easy way for him to signal he won’t tolerate my insubordination.

I need to cash his check instead, before he has a chance to tell the bank he has changed his mind.

There are two free tellers; one is a young guy in a white shirt and tie. The other is a middle-aged woman. Although the man is closer to me, I approach the woman’s window. She greets me with a warm smile. Her name tag reads BETTY.

I reach into my wallet for Richard’s check. “I’d like to cash this.”

Betty nods, then glances at the amount. Her brow furrows. “Cash it?” She looks back at the piece of paper.

“Yes.” My foot begins to tap against the floor and I still it. I worry Richard may be phoning the bank as I stand there.

“Can you take a seat? I think it would be better if my supervisor helped you with this.”

I glance at her left hand. She isn’t wearing a wedding ring.

It isn’t difficult to dodge questions once you learn the tricks. Tell colorful, drawn-out stories that deflect attention from the fact that you aren’t actually sharing anything. Avoid specifics. Be vague. Lie, but only when completely necessary.

I lean as close to the window as possible. “Look, Betty . . . Wow, that is, I mean it was, my mother’s name. She passed away recently.” This lie is necessary.

“I’m sorry.” Her expression is sympathetic. I chose the right teller.

“I’m going to be honest with you.” I pause. “My husband—Mr. Thompson—is divorcing me.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeats.

“Yeah, me, too. He’s getting remarried this summer.” I smile wryly. “Anyway, this check is from him, and I need the money because I’m trying to rent an apartment. His pretty, young fiancée has already moved in with him.” As I speak, I picture Richard jabbing the bank’s numbers on his phone.

“It’s just that it’s such a large amount.”

“Not to him. As you can see, our last names match.” I reach into my bag and pass her my driver’s license. “And we still have the same address, although I’ve moved out. I’m in a dingy little hotel a few blocks away from here now.”