Unmissing(53)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


LYDIA

“Can I help you?” A college-aged receptionist greets me in the front of the Brian Hoffmeier Insurance Agency in downtown Bent Creek Monday afternoon.

Canned music pipes from speakers in the ceiling, and the chairs in the waiting room make my back hurt just looking at them. A fake potted tree, magazine rack, and water cooler complete the look.

“Hi.” I step closer to her, shoving my manila packet under my arm and tucking my hands in my pockets to hide their fidgeting. “Is Brian available?”

“Do you have an appointment?” She cradles the reception phone on her shoulder.

“No, actually. I was just hoping I could have a minute of his time?”

Her round eyes drag the length of me. She’s probably wondering if I’m selling something—magazine subscriptions or religion or something. This town is full of those types.

“I have some questions about a life insurance policy he sold.” I wave the packet. “I’ll be superquick, I promise.”

Her overplucked brows meet and she double-clicks her computer mouse, squinting at the screen. “His next appointment should be here any minute . . .”

“Two minutes,” I say with a friendly smile.

She tucks a strand of bleached-blonde hair behind one ear before punching in a couple of numbers and mumbling something into the phone.

“He’ll be out in a sec,” she says. “Feel free to have a seat.”

Five minutes later, a fortysomething man with a garage-gym body and thinning silver hair steps into the waiting area, rubbing his hands together like a coach about to go over a football play.

“You must be the young lady with the quick question?” he asks with a wholesome chuckle. A gold cross necklace hangs from his neck, peeking out from his insurance-logo’d polo. “Come on back. I’ve only got a few minutes, but let’s see what we can do for you.”

He closes the office door behind us and folds himself into his desk chair while I pull the declaration pages out of my envelope, ensuring I don’t spill any cash in the process.

Glancing over the top page, he chews the inside of his lip. “This looks like an old policy . . . yeah . . . this one expired about seven, eight years ago. At least according to this declaration page.”

“Was it cashed out?” I ask despite knowing the answer.

“I’m afraid I can only disclose that to the policy holder.” He leans over the page again. “Luca Coletto. Ah, yes. I know Mr. Coletto. Nice man.”

Hardly.

“Sorry to hear about his first wife. What a tragedy,” he adds.

I don’t tell him he’s looking at her.

“So can anyone get a two-million-dollar life insurance policy on someone else?” I ask.

His hands fold into a temple near his lips as he studies me. “In theory, yes. Certain underwriters require specific thresholds or have different requirements. For instance, someone making twenty grand a year can’t go out and get a five-million-dollar policy. Too big of a spread. Tends to be a red flag—especially if it’s not someone’s spouse or domestic partner. Of course there are always exceptions. Just depends on the company. Open market varies quite a bit. Always changing.”

“So wouldn’t a two-million-dollar policy on a small-town waitress be a red flag?” I ask.

“Could be,” he says. “Depends on the other factors. If they’re married, some insurers will disregard that.”

“What if they’ve only been married a short time?” I ask.

He offers a strained smile, like he’s trying to be polite despite his confusion. “Lots of variables in these situations and not nearly enough time to go over them. Besides, I’m afraid I only sell the policies—I don’t underwrite them.”

“How long does someone have to be dead before you can file a claim on their policy?” I ask my next question knowing our time together is dwindling by the second.

“Most people file a claim within thirty days of getting a death certificate,” he says. “Not everyone, but I’d say the majority do. Tends to be paid out fairly quickly. Considered nontaxable income.”

“What’s a policy like this cost?” I ask next.

He frowns. “Again, lots of variables. Depends on the agency, the company paying out, the health of the insured, that sort of thing.”

“What if it’s someone young and healthy?” I point to my name on the page. “Like a twenty-year-old?”

“Those tend to be more affordable,” he says. “Two, maybe three thousand for a policy of this size? At the most? And if we’re talking ten years ago, could be considerably less. Hard to say. Depends on the physical, too.”

“What if there was no physical?”

“That’s rare, but it happens. Those kinds of policies tend to cost a little more than average.”

I was taken in July, a week after Independence Day. By late August, the search efforts were officially called off after authorities declared they’d done all they could. Within four years, Luca had filed a case with the local courts to have me legally declared dead, and it took another year to finalize it after all the formalities. Lots of hoops to jump through, but a clean two million would be enough to motivate the laziest of individuals to stay the course.