Until the Day I Die(67)

Dele parks down the street, and we sit in the car, looking over our shoulders at the white shingled house with a dark-plum door and shutters.

“What now?” Rhys asks.

“We break in,” Dele says.

“Seriously?” Rhys asks.

“You have a problem with breaking and entering? The guy who’s running a massive criminal enterprise out of his bedroom?” Dele says.

“Hold your horses, Woodward,” I say to Dele. “We don’t have to break in.” My eye on the little cottage, I climb out of the car, and they all follow suit.

“Woodward didn’t break into the Watergate, FYI,” Dele grumbles. “He just reported it.”

“Come on.” I motion them to follow.

The back gate’s unlocked. When we enter the small backyard, which consists of a tiny stone patio, a gas grill, and a bedraggled vegetable garden at the far end of the fence, the only thing I’m worried about is Tiger. But he’s nowhere in sight. He’s probably crated inside.

And then, unexpectedly, bitterness coils through my gut. I spent countless summer nights running through this yard. Whenever Ben and Sabine had us over to grill out, or when Mom and Dad had to stop by on Jax business. I can’t believe Ben would throw all of this away. I can’t believe how little he values us.

I lead everyone around the back of the small shed, paint flaking and boards half-rotted along the eaves. The key’s stuck in the space between two boards on the side of the cobwebby building, right where it’s always been. It slides out easily.

Inside, Ben and Sabine’s kitchen is cozy, nothing fancy, just the maple cabinets and granite they put in when they bought the place. In fact, the whole house is simply decorated, filled with comfortable, worn furniture, bright rugs, and simple art.

“No offense,” Dele says, “but I thought you Jax people were millionaires.”

“A valuation is hypothetical,” I tell her. “Formulated for a fundraising round or an IPO. You don’t get the real money until you sell the company.”

“It’s real money for Ben now,” Rhys says. “And whoever his partner in crime happens to be.”

Rhys heads to the front door to keep an eye on the street. I lead Dele down the hall to Ben’s office. It’s messier than the rest of the house. The only modern things in the room are the three sleek monitors and black keyboard. The desk is an oak farm table set against the double window that looks out over the front yard and the road, with a scarred metal desk chair on wheels and a couple of metal filing cabinets along the side wall. Dele flings open the file drawers.

I move to a bookshelf filled with rows of dusty books and frames of faded pictures. A curled, yellowed concert ticket rests against a picture of my mom, dad, Ben, and Sabine. It must’ve been taken back in their college days. Mom and Sabine have big hair and giant hoop earrings. Ben and Dad look apple cheeked and shaggy haired.

I pick up the ticket. Ruffino-Vaughn presents the Ramones. Boutwell Auditorium, Birmingham, Alabama, December 17, 1989, Sunday, 7:30 p.m.

“There’s nothing in here that looks like a journal,” Dele says. “Just contracts and stuff. I can’t believe a computer developer keeps paper copies.” She slams the file cabinet shut, heads for the desk, and opens a drawer. “Oh, look at this.”

I move closer. She’s holding up a tiny gold letter M.

“It’s a charm,” I say. “Layton wears a charm bracelet. It was her grandmother’s. M for Marko.”

We stare at each other.

“Just because he has one of her charms in his desk doesn’t prove Ben’s having an affair with Layton,” Dele says. “But it is a little wonky.”

“Yeah, wonky,” I say. “Let’s keep going.”

“I’ll check the bedrooms,” Dele says, then yells, “Rhys? All clear?”

“Check!” he yells back, and I can’t help but smile. I prop the ticket back in its place against the picture, which is next to a small, antique-looking book. Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. I slide the book out and open the front cover. There’s an inscription on the flyleaf.

3/19/95

Ben,

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

I say yes.

Erin

I study the words. Mom and Dad got married in 1995, Ben and Sabine the very same year. But had Mom and Ben had some sort of relationship back then? Something more than just a friendship? It’s hard to tell from this inscription, but something about the words feels significant.

In my head, I play out the if-then-else.

If Mom and Ben were always just friends, maybe they’d only recently started an affair. But even if that’s true, why would my mother agree to skimming money from her own business, which she’d worked tirelessly to establish and ultimately to sell? It made no sense.

The else made more sense. Ben, pining for my mom—the one who got away—but unable to win her over, moved on. Maybe he’d even had his romantic revenge on Mom by sleeping with Layton and stealing from Jax.

Protectiveness wells up in me. For my father, my mom, everybody who’s put any of their heart into Jax. And a feeling of hopelessness. I’ve always liked Ben, and even when I figured out he was cheating on Sabine, I never dreamed he would be capable of such vindictiveness.

“Shorie!”