Trespassing(57)

“Any word on your husband?”

I feel my brows come together. That would be a trick and a half.

The officer probes: “He hasn’t contacted you?”

“How would he . . . he’s . . . Officer Laughlin . . .” My eyes rim with tears. I shake my head. “They didn’t tell you? My husband . . . he’s dead. He was declared dead.”

Laughlin flips closed the cover of his notebook and stares at me for what seems to be an eon. Is he daring me to speak?

I point to the east. “There was a plane crash off the coast.” I don’t know what else to say. “They came to tell me in Chicago. They’re sending his body back. I told you yesterday that we lost him.”

I wish he weren’t wearing sunglasses. I can’t gauge his expression.

Finally, he pockets the notebook. “I’ll have a look around the grounds. If I see anything—footprints, cigarette butts—I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Thank you.” I close the door as he descends the porch stairs.

Elizabella’s voice carries down from upstairs, where she is busy playing with the dollhouse in the room she insists is hers. I might have to make an exception to tossing everything in the house. Not only does the dollhouse keep her occupied, it’s a healthier option than television. Besides, listening to Nini-isms through the proxy of a dollhouse resident isn’t nearly as creepy as hearing my child’s one-sided version of their conversations.

But Laughlin’s silent stance chews at me. Maybe I should have told him about Micah’s infidelity. Or maybe I should tell Guidry first. He’s been working the case longer, after all, and Laughlin is here, essentially, to make sure I don’t go rogue.

There’s so much to do. It’s not even ten in the morning, and I’m so tired that it feels like ten at night. I suppose I didn’t sleep much. But I did manage to empty the closets and cabinets in every room on the first floor. The place looks like a rummage sale drop-off site. But I’m guessing this house, like my life, is going to go through a period of upheaval before I can put it all back together.

I can’t concentrate. The way Laughlin was looking at me . . . the way Guidry expects the worst of me . . . I wish they understood that no one in her right mind would choose to go through what I’m going through.

I pull my cell phone from my pocket and dial Guidry.





Chapter 28

Guidry picks up on the first ring. “Veronica. I just got a call from Key West PD.”

That was fast.

“Seems you’ve insinuated some interesting things,” he says.

“Interesting? Well, I wasn’t sure anyone was really in the garden last night, so—”

“You informed the responding officer your husband is dead.”

“Yes.” I’m pacing through the hallway now. “Is that classified information?”

A long pause precedes his clearing his throat. “We received the FAA’s investigation report about the small plane crash off the coast of Florida.”

“Right.” None of this is news.

“If I may ask,” Guidry says. “You keep insisting your husband is dead, when we don’t know where he is. You’ve told Claudette Winters your husband is dead. You told your mother-in-law his body would be sent to Paxon Funeral Home and Crematorium, that you’d plan his memorial service. You’ve inferred, when speaking with me, you don’t expect him back. You confirmed it with Officer Laughlin.”

“Detective, I’m . . . I’m sorry. I’m confused. Am I not supposed to . . . ?”

“You’re telling people he’s dead before we have confirmation of that fact.”

“But I thought . . . the federal agents . . . they visited me at home. They told me Micah was dead. Is that not confirmation?”

“Veronica.”

“I told you about the agent. He was at the bank. He was in the kitchen, remember?”

“No federal agents have been assigned to your husband’s case.”

My knees weaken. I slump against the walls in the hallway. “But they were there. At my house. Claudette was there. She can verify what they said.”

I stop myself. Actually, no. She wasn’t there for the conversation. She took the kids to the screened porch while I sat down with two men I’d assumed were federal agents. “I didn’t invent this, detective.”

Or did I? Haven’t I had trouble the past few days determining what’s real and what’s imagined?

Just like Mama at the end, when she told me the voices in her head wanted her to smash my head in with a baseball bat while I slept.

A sob catches in my throat.

What’s happening to me?

What if my entire marriage—my entire life—has been nothing more than illusion? Drama created in my head?

“Why would I . . . ,” I whisper. “Can you give me one good reason why I would prefer to think my husband is dead?”

“I can give you two and a half million reasons.”

“I didn’t even know about the insurance policy.” I’m pleading with him. “And I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it. His life is worth more than that money.” I wipe tears from my eyes. “I wish I had him back. Because then he could explain to you all of the things I don’t know enough about to explain.”