Trespassing(41)

After a few moments of silence, he says, “It does mean something that you proactively reached out. I’m grateful you called to tell me where you were going. It saves me some work. But I have to remind you, Mrs. Cavanaugh. You’re a person of interest in this case.”

“You think I know something I’m not telling.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the life insurance policy Micah took out last March?”

“The life insurance? I mean, I guess . . . of course he took out another policy. We were expecting twins, detective.”

“Twins to the tune of two-point-five million?”

“Two and a half million dollars?” I can barely speak the words. I blink hard. “Why would he need . . . two and a half million? I didn’t know—”

“Listen,” he continues. “You’re well within your rights to leave the state. Legally, I can’t demand that you stay here, but I asked you not to go. You have to agree this doesn’t look good.”

“That’s not why I left. I was scared.”

“Does the name Diamante mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“It meant something to your husband. When I traced the routing number on the electronic transfers at the bank, it led me to a corporation by that name. Based in the Dominican Republic.”

“Diamante. It’s Spanish?”

“It means ‘diamond,’” he says. “Found it interesting, given you thought your husband worked for Diamond Corporation.”

“The pay stubs said Diamond. Micah told me it was Diamond. I didn’t just make it up.”

A beat of silence answers me.

“If I agree to share with you everything I find in Key West,” I say, “will you believe that I’m not party to a conspiracy? My husband was my world—”

“So you’ve said.”

“And losing him is killing me. Killing me.”

“I’ll have eyes on you in Key West,” he reminds me.

“Okay. Thank you. I’ll feel safer knowing someone’s looking out for me.”

“Looking out for you, watching you. Whatever you prefer to call it.”





Chapter 19

November 22

Every time I close my eyes for the slightest amount of sleep, I remember her, my mother, calling to me. They’re coming for you. Even your earrings have faces.

And I picture them, the ruby crystals for marquis eyes, the cubic zirconia mouth in a solitaire O. Alien faces from Area 51. A perpetual expression of shock in the gems dangling from my earlobes.

They see. They know. They know what you’re doing. They know what you’ve done.

I hear a tapping at the glass.

Mama stands on the outside, looking in at her blue table, at the stones scattered over the pine surface.

I gather the stones and categorize them by size, shape, and color.

She’s pounding on the window with a tight fist, so small and brittle-looking that I fear her bones might shatter before she manages to crack the glass panes. Don’t you touch those stones, little Veri. Your human hands will poison their beauty.

The pounding grows ferocious. I feel its beat in my bones, hear its ring in my ears, cacophonic in combination with the chirp of the tines raking over the barrel in my music box.

I startle as I awaken.

No one is tapping on the glass.

The car is locked, and we’re parked in bright daylight at a rest stop. Safe.

Only seven minutes have passed since I surrendered to my heavy eyelids, but it’s enough.

I start the car and put it in gear, ready to blaze down the last stretch of road before me.

The route is self-explanatory. In order to arrive at the southernmost point in the United States, you have to drive south. If you take a wrong turn, you simply take the next fork south. In a way, all roads lead to where I’m going.

Now, we’re breezing down A1A amid an apricot sunset.

Water to the left, water to the right.

Everything is green and thriving, despite the apparent “cold snap” rushing through the Florida Keys. It’s sixty-eight degrees this evening, the lowest low they’ve had all week.

I look to my parka and Bella’s, stowed on the front passenger seat. The coats seem out of place with the mild breeze whipping through our open windows. I consider the possibility of tossing them into the first trash bin I see, which is silly. It’s not as if we’re never going back.

Micah’s body should be arriving at the funeral home soon. If for no other reason, I have to be back to put him to rest.

“Mommy?” Elizabella says from the back seat. “Nini’s hungry.”

“Tell Nini we’ll get her some nuggets and fries in just a bit.” I cross over the last bridge from Boca Chica to Key West. In all, we’ve been en route for the better part of three days, with a little more than twenty-six hours of driving time, considering I’d traveled into Wisconsin first. Talk about a roundabout route.

After a roll or two around the island—it’s only about two-by-four miles—I see the newel post for Elizabeth Street.

A length of road later, I spot a lamppost with a small rectangular sign hanging by chains from a crossbar and boasting the address of the house I own. There is a car coming up behind me, so I turn onto the pink-brick driveway lined with flowering trees. About ten feet in from the street, the drive bends to the right, and I find myself driving through a masonry archway with the words GODDESS ISLAND GARDENS lettered along the arc. Some letters are missing, as if they’ve fallen victim to age: the DESS in goddess, and IS in island.