Trespassing(17)

The detective awards me with only a momentary glance, but I see something in his eyes in that split second—suspicion, maybe?—that propels me to explain. “He and Shell are together. In Europe.”

Guidry is unfazed.

“He and Micah don’t get along. We don’t have a relationship.”

“I see.”

“He and Shell were separated when Micah and I met. They’re back together now, but Micah never forgave his father for whatever it was he put his mother through.”

“A shame.”

He’s looking at me like he wants more elaboration, but I don’t know much more than that. I know Mick had found someone else. I know he came to his senses just in time to save his marriage. Typical midlife crisis stuff: motorcycle, sports car, younger woman. Shell forgave him, or maybe she simply chose to overlook it, but Micah wrote him off. That’s the way it is with Micah. He’s your biggest fan until you do something unforgiveable.

“Mick practically lives up north now, at their lake house. Shell’s a butterfly. When she isn’t planning charity events, she travels quite a bit and sometimes drags Mick with her. This time, he went.”

“Mick doesn’t see your daughter?”

I shake my head. “Micah wouldn’t allow it . . . he doesn’t want him in our lives.”

Guidry nods. “And it’s because of whatever happened between his parents.”

“That’s what he said.”

“The rift had nothing to do with Micah’s stealing money from his father ten years ago?”

“What money?” My eyes widen. “Ten years ago was right around the time we were graduating from college. We were together then, but I . . . I don’t know anything about that.”

“There was a report filed. Your father-in-law pressed charges. Dropped them shortly after.”

I chew on a nail. I can’t picture Micah stealing, but why would he have kept the accusation from me? “I don’t know. I mean, he never mentioned anything like that. What kind of money are we talking?”

“Quite a bit.”

“There’s a record of it? Of the filed charges?”

“When your call came through, the first thing I did was enter your husband’s name into the system. This old charge popped up.”

“Anything else?”

Guidry shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”

I’ve bitten my nail off. Is it possible there’s more to Micah—and his relationship with his father—than I understand? But I don’t have time to ponder it because Guidry’s continuing.

“And you’ve contacted Micah’s employer?”

I hand over all the correspondence I’ve found from Diamond Corporation during the past hour. Bundled with a rubber band are salary transfer confirmations and his offer letter, as well as the corporate employee handbook, which I’d never seen Micah open. But it’s proof that he was, indeed, hired and employed by Diamond.

“You said the Diamond Corporation,” Guidry says.

“Yes.”

“There’s no the.”

“What?”

“The automatic deposit stubs. The stationery. There’s no the. It’s just Diamond Corporation.”

“Okay.”

“So maybe you were in touch with the wrong company.”

“The wrong company based in Chicago on LaSalle Street, with satellites in New York and Miami?”

“It seems silly, but sometimes, things are as simple as a word out of line. We’ll follow up on it.”

“Detective?”

I look over my shoulder to see an officer standing over me. Suddenly, Bella is climbing onto my lap—I wince as one of her knees presses too hard against my swollen left ovary—and one of the officers laden with the task of entertaining her is leaning down to whisper into Guidry’s ear.

His split-second glance again flickers over me but then settles on my daughter. “Elizabella?”

She’s pressing her hands against my cheeks. “It’s okay, Mommy.”

“Elizabella?” Guidry tries again. “Can you show me what you drew?”

She nudges my stomach again when she spins and plops her bottom down on my lap. “I didn’t draw it. Nini did.”

“Your mommy did?” Guidry asks.

“No! Nini.”

“It’s her imaginary friend,” I say.

“She’s real.”

“And she drew this picture?” Guidry asks, gesturing to the page an officer plants in front of him.

“We took photos of it, Lieutenant,” the officer says.

“What did she draw?” I ask. Guidry peruses the sketch, which appears to be a lighthouse of sorts—a bullet-shaped object of red, yellow, and black horizontal stripes, with water in the background.

“I told Nini it was bad,” Elizabella says. “Markers are off-limits.”

“Are you sure your mommy didn’t draw this?”

I shake my head, confused. It looks like a child’s drawing. “Why would I . . . unless you’re trying to insinuate I’m putting thoughts into my daughter’s head—”

“Not Mommy! Nini!”

“She draws pictures all the time,” I say.