When we’re in the car, I put the plant on my lap, and Oliver seems to see it for the first time.
“An apology from the Grand Forks PD?” he says.
I snort and shake my head.
He goes still. Then he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Is that from Dean Castillo?”
I shrug. “He feels bad about not getting my texts. Which he shouldn’t. He’d been up working all night. He was entitled to a nap. Just bad timing.”
“Hmm.”
Oliver backs the car out, and it’s only then that I notice it’s not his car. Because that would be impounded for evidence. I open my mouth to ask about that, when he says, “How well do you know him, Amy? I had the impression it was his boss who worked for you.”
“His partner, yes, but she’s on a case in Toronto.”
The silence stretches as he navigates through the downtown core. The tension has me hoping he’s just going to drop this, because I have an uncomfortable sense I won’t like where he’s—
“I understand he feels guilty,” Oliver says slowly. “But bringing you flowers?”
“It’s a potted plant.”
“And taking you out for drinks?”
“Dinner. Because I just spent two days being held captive, and I wanted to go out.”
His fingers resume drumming the steering wheel.
“If you have something to ask me,” I say, “then ask.”
“He just seems . . . interested in you beyond a professional capacity.”
“Are you asking whether I’m seeing him?”
“What? No. He’s not . . . No. He isn’t your type. He’s not on your . . . You know.”
I sit there, silently seething, knowing exactly what Oliver is implying. I saw the way he looked at Castillo, dismissing him in a glance.
“I just want you to be careful, Ames. You’re a very pretty girl—”
“I’m twenty-eight. Not a girl.”
“That came out wrong.”
“It came out patronizing. There’s a difference.”
He takes a deep breath and then blurts, “You were kidnapped, Ames. Taken captive by Laura and at least one accomplice, and the person you reached out to was this Dean guy, who conveniently didn’t get your messages.”
“You think Dean—?” I don’t even finish that, just shake my head. “No, Oliver. Dean was not in cahoots with Laura, and if you insist on continuing in that direction, you can drop me off at the next corner.”
“I’m asking how well you know him. How well Dinah knows him. He’s . . . rough. I know that sounds horribly elitist, but he got those scars somewhere.”
“In a war zone, Oliver. He was an American soldier. That’s shrapnel scarring.”
“Are you sure?”
“Jesus, seriously?” I wave at the red light ahead. “Drop me off there. Please.”
Oliver sighs. “I’m handling this wrong.”
“You keep saying that . . . and then you dig the hole deeper.”
He stops at the light and looks at me. “You were kidnapped. By someone I brought into your life. Then you were framed for killing her. Am I overreacting about Dean Castillo? Yes, I am. But at this point, I want dossiers on all your neighbors and your classmates and everyone who comes within fifteen meters of you. I’m freaking out. It will pass. Just . . . let me get my footing, okay? And yes, if I’m out of line, say so.”
“You’re out of line.”
“Noted. Dean Castillo is no longer a topic of conversation.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, where were you going for tacos?”
I hesitate, still feeling surly, but he gives me a pleading look, “Amy . . .”
I sigh and tell him.
We pick up dinner. Oliver also insists on getting margarita fixings at the liquor store. Then we head out of the city.
“I rented a house,” he says when I ask. “There’s been media camped outside at my place since I was released this morning, and there’s been suspicious activity at your apartment, too. Dinah and I discussed it, and we agreed she should rent us a house under her name. It’s temporary.”
“Okay.”
“Also . . .” He hits buttons on the dash. When Dinah answers, he says, “It’s Oliver. Can you please confirm that you rented a place for us and where it’s located?”
“It’s a new house on Dingle Road, just south of the city limits. Two stories. Four bedrooms.” Dinah pauses. “Is Amy giving you a look?”
He chuckles. “She is.”
“Amy?” Dinah says. “This is how we’re proceeding from here on, at Oliver’s insistence, which I agree with. Someone out there wishes you harm. We aren’t taking any chances.”
“Including the chance that my brother is secretly kidnapping me?”
“No chances,” Oliver says. “I don’t know what Laura said to you. I’m afraid to ask. I want you to be one hundred percent confident that I am who you’ve always thought I was, no matter what Laura said.”
“We are going to need to talk about what she said,” Dinah says. “Whoever killed her, presumably her accomplice, is still out there. We didn’t go through that in the police questioning—no need to put a bigger target on Oliver—but we have to be on top of this.”
“Honestly?” I say. “She didn’t say anything specific about Oliver. I actually tried to get her to do that, and she refused. It was all vague accusations.”
Dinah pauses, and it takes me a moment to realize why.
“I’m not saying that to protect Oliver,” I say. “I understand attorney-client privilege, and I agree that if Laura told her accomplice about specific grievances or abuses, then you both need to know what they were. But she didn’t tell me anything specific.”
“Because she didn’t have anything to tell,” Oliver grumbles under his breath. Then he sighs, “That sounded defensive.”
“No, it sounded like a man who has been framed,” Dinah says.
“Do we know why she faked her death?” I say. “I asked, and she wouldn’t answer.”
When silence falls, Dinah says gently, “Oliver? We’ve discussed this. That’s going to be everyone’s question, and if you don’t answer, it looks like you were the reason. That she was so scared of you she faked her death.”
“Money,” he says, finally, as if it’s a dirty word. “We were having marital problems. She offered to let me buy my way out of the marriage for a million bucks. I refused because I wanted to work on the relationship. After she died, I discovered money missing from accounts that I didn’t think she had access to. Over half a million. I presumed she was siphoning it off, preparing to leave and take the million whether I gave it to her or not. Then she died.”
“I can verify all that,” Dinah says. “Oliver came to me when he found the missing money. It was after the police declined to charge him in her death. He wanted to know what to do about it. I said he could tell the police she’d taken it and then try to recover it from wherever she stashed it. But if he did, it gave the police cause to reopen the investigation.”
“It gave him a motive to drown her,” I say. “He found out she’d been siphoning money to get around the prenup, so he killed her.”
“Yes. I would now presume she took as much as she dared and then faked her death. Three years later, she decided to come back for more.”
“Money,” I whisper. “She did it all for money.”
I struggle to comprehend that, but even as I do, I’m ashamed of myself for the struggle. I don’t get it because money isn’t important to me. It’s not important to me because I’ve always had enough.
Laura must have married Oliver thinking, if things went south, she could get around the prenup. When she couldn’t, she took what she could. She must have thought it would be enough. It wasn’t. It never would have been, as long as Oliver was alive and willing to shell out more.
The house is a mini-mansion in a new semirural subdivision. When we pull into the drive, Oliver slows and looks around.
“This is . . . isolated,” he says.
“Not what you expected?”
He shakes his head. “The rental agent said it was in a quiet neighborhood, but I expected other houses.”
There are houses on either side . . . They just aren’t finished construction yet. Even when they are, they’ll be a hundred meters away.
“Is this okay?” Oliver says. “Please feel free to say it’s not. After what you went through, maybe you’d be happier in the city.”
“No, this is fine.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “I could use the peace and quiet.”
I’ve had my tacos and my drink and . . . how awful is it if I say that I spent the whole time wishing I was on a patio with Castillo instead? I love Oliver, I really do. I love catching up with him over lunch or hanging out at his place for an evening, watching a movie. But for eight years, he’s been my big brother, with all that entails. He’s an older sibling, not a friend.
Of course, two weeks ago, I’d have done everything in my power to avoid going out for dinner with Castillo, certain it would be awkward and intolerable. I won’t say we’re friends, but there’s a different vibe now. Once we chiseled away the mutual preconceptions, I could relax, knowing that I’m not what he expected. And he’s not what I expected, either.
With Oliver, I’m always a little not quite myself. I want him to be proud of me. I want to fit into his world. I might come from an upper-middle-class home, but it wasn’t the same as Oliver’s. When Mom came home from work, she kicked off her heels and pulled on sweatpants, and we binged reality shows with pizza.
I could have gone with Castillo to that restaurant, wearing no makeup, my hair in desperate need of a wash, my clothing rumpled, and not only would he not have cared, but I wouldn’t have given a shit, either. I’d been through an ordeal, and I deserved a break.
Oliver and I eat dinner in the living room while watching a movie on the wall-sized TV. Then I declare it’s time for my shower.
“Anytime you want to talk, I’m here,” Oliver says as he turns off the movie. “Or if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine, too.”
“Maybe later. I’m just feeling . . .” I shrug.
He comes over and puts an arm around me. “It’s okay. I’m still getting my footing myself. Part of me wants to jump into work like nothing happened, and part of me wants to go to bed and stay there for three days.”
“Exactly.”
“Which means I won’t judge any choices you make right now, Ames. As long as you’re safe, you can do whatever you like. You’re safe here.”
I nod and look out the front window.
“There’s a security system,” he says, as if that’s what I was thinking. “I changed the code as soon as we arrived. If there’s anything . . . Wait. Your phone. I should have gotten the pickup notice by now.”
He takes out his cell and frowns at the apparent lack of messages.
“It’s fine,” I say.
“No, it’s not. Let me see what’s going on.”
I planned on taking a shower, but then I walk into my room and see an ensuite bathroom and clawfoot tub. Luxury-brand bath bombs sit atop a tray, and that seals the deal. I start the water and plunk one in. When the tub is full, I turn off the taps to hear the distant sound of an angry voice. I open the bathroom door. Oliver’s voice wafts up from downstairs.
“I was promised the phone would be ready today. In fact, I chose this particular model because you could have it ready today.”
“It’s fine,” I say when he comes to the bottom of the stairs to tell me.
“No, it’s not,” he repeats. “I’ve called another store. I can pick up one tonight. Are you okay being here while I do that?”
I hesitate. Am I okay being alone at night? To get a phone I don’t urgently need?
“Tomorrow is fine,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“I am.”