It's One of Us(30)

Never again. Erica Pearl can go to hell.

Despite the jitters in his hands and a griping in his belly, he gets a fresh cup of coffee and flees the oppressive emptiness of the house for his office. No matter what’s happening, before he does anything else, he needs to get some money flowing in, and he needs to do it quickly. He’s ahead of schedule on the latest manuscript. Maybe he can get a partial payment if he turns in the pages early.

He unlocks the shed and steps inside. The huge computer screen is dark, the desk littered with papers and research books and pages of the latest novel, detritus of the creative life.

Something, though, is off. The holder of his beloved Pilots is broken, the pens scattered on his desk. The filing cabinet stands open. Glass litters the floor, shards sparkling in the sun like a handful of diamonds dashed across the Batik rug. The desk drawer is ajar, and the key and combination to the safe are missing.

“Shit.” He goes first to the safe to see if it’s been opened, and sure enough, it has. The door has been pushed closed, but the lock hasn’t caught. The cash is gone. So are his contracts and annual income statements, birth certificate, passport, and the Glock. What else was in here yesterday? The tiny gold ingots are still in their envelope, but the Winterborn files, they’re missing. His backup thumb drive, too.

Who would want those files?

The shed is alarmed, but he disengaged it when he entered. Didn’t he? He always locks the shed at night and sets the alarm, but is it possible, with everything happening, he forgot?

He sets the mug down on the desk but misses the edge, and spills coffee all over the papers. Cursing, he tries to mop up the mess and only succeeds in making the brown liquid drip down the leg of his desk.

Good job, asshole. That’s twice this morning. And now you’ve probably destroyed evidence.

He takes a picture of the space with his phone, then backs out, closing the door with his elbow. Though what’s the point? He’s already touched the handle, already smudged whatever prints might have been left behind.

The sense of being watched creeps up his spine, and he whirls around to the woods, searching, searching, for whatever—whoever—is there, watching him.

He sees nothing, only the darkness peeking between the thick trees. But the birds have stopped chittering, and the forest is still. Waiting.

Shaking off the eerie feeling, he hurries back to the house. He needs to call the detectives.

He needs to call his wife.

Needs to avoid the reporter.

Instead of picking up the phone, he walks the house, just to be sure no one has gotten in. He sees nothing amiss on the first floors, no windows unlocked or screens askew. The second floor is too warm, reinforcing why they don’t turn on the heat until it gets damn cold out.

He stops at the room they’ve slated to be a nursery when the time comes. The first pregnancy, they’d gone hog wild, moving out the guest bed and furniture, painting the room a soft green, adding elegant animal murals—an artist friend of Olivia’s who does the nurseries in her houses came by one sunny afternoon and sketched the animals—giraffes, lions, an elephant peeking from the corner. The sketches are simple lines, just a few strokes, almost a shadow of what they could be. Fitting, really, to have shadow animals in this desolate space.

They haven’t touched it since the first miscarriage. No more blankets and booties bought, no more paint and lampshades. No crib. No nursing chair. Just a shaggy throw on top of the gray carpet and the lurking animals with no one to watch over.

He stands there, leaning against the frame, letting his imagination fill in the blanks of what he should be seeing, until his eyes blur with unshed tears and he has to close the door to lock in the possibilities.

Their lives are coming apart, and he can do nothing to stop it.



15


THE WIFE

Olivia’s phone chiming halfway through Park’s recitation of his moments of glory in graduate school gives her exactly what she needs. With half-hearted apologies and promises to check in later, she excuses herself from the meeting. She has never been as grateful for an expedited granite delivery as she is this morning.

Park looks astonished, but the cops only glance at her, don’t push back at all. She is not their primary target, this she knows. They’ll take advantage of having Park to themselves to dive deeper into his sordid past, all the things he can’t—won’t—admit in front of her. She hadn’t been with him when the murder happened in Chapel Hill. She’d been pining away here in Nashville, going to design school and trying to decide which Bender brother she hated more.

She’s managed not to think about it, but God, Perry is coming home. Could he have picked a worse time to make his grand re-entrance into their lives?

She can’t fathom this situation they’ve found themselves in, and the only way she can cope is to work. She will lose herself in samples and glory in architectural drawings. It is the only way she knows to move forward.

On the way to the build, she dials Lindsey, who answers on the first ring.

“Hey, girl. What’s shakin’?”

“Have you talked to Park?”

“No. I was trying to give y’all some space. Why, what’s happening?”

“Oh, it gets better. Or worse. I don’t know what to call it. Did you know Park donated sperm back in grad school?”

“Um...no. And eww. Sorry, talking about my brother’s sperm isn’t something high on our chat list. So that’s how he has a kid, huh? That’s wild.”