I awaken in a strange room, and it takes me a second or two to remember where I am. Evan’s guest room, with its private bath and lock on the door. He was right; the bed is beyond comfortable. I stretch out over the king-sized mattress, wondering how I got here. The last thing I remember was Evan telling me to rest. When my eyes slid shut, we hadn’t even made it out of my neighborhood yet.
Last night’s events play out in freeze-frames in my mind. A black body sliding from the shadows of my front room. Will’s voice in my ear, telling me to get out. Corban’s lecherous grin. His brains splattered on my den wall, his skull leaking a thick and gooey puddle onto the carpet. So, so much blood.
Without warning, a wave of nausea pitches up my throat. I lurch out of bed and sprint to the toilet, barely making it on time. My last meal was ages ago, and there’s little in my stomach, but I throw it all up, over and over, until all that’s left is bile. I flush the sick down, but the dizziness doesn’t pass.
Will was there, I’m sure of it. He was, what, twenty feet away? His voice haunts me—Iris, get out of there. I’m on my way. Despite Corban’s threats and my terror, the only thing I felt when Will’s words traveled down the line was relief. Relief that he was alive, that he was coming for me, that finally, after all the heartache and drama, I would see him again.
And now? Now all I feel is a ten-ton weight of disappointment that I didn’t and a looming sense of dread for what comes next.
I brush my teeth with a new toothbrush and mini tube of toothpaste on the bathroom counter, select a T-shirt and pair of yoga leggings from the stack of Susanna’s clothes Evan left on the dresser for me, then make my way into the hall.
Evan’s house is gorgeous. High ceilings, generous moldings, sunny, spacious rooms decorated in neutral colors, each one prettier than the next. I take my time moving down the hall, swinging my head left and right, admiring Susanna’s exquisite taste, until I come to a closed door. The last room on the left, and I know whose it is. If I push the door open, I’m certain the walls inside will be painted pink.
By the stairs, I pause at a wall of framed photographs, wedding portraits and vacation snapshots interspersed with more recent baby pictures. A black-and-white shot of a gorgeous dark-haired woman is in the dead center, a tiny infant on her chest. My heart twists for two people I never knew, but mostly for the man I hear banging around downstairs. How does he walk by this picture every day? Does he cover his eyes? Does he look away? I wouldn’t be able to stand it.
I pad downstairs, where the scent of something scorched wrings another wave of nausea from my empty stomach. I wait until it passes, then follow the noise into a chef’s kitchen, dark cabinets and gleaming stainless appliances. Evan stands behind the island, slicing a red pepper into long, thin strips on a chopping block.
“Hey,” I say.
He glances up, then sucks a breath, quick and sudden, through his nose. It’s a reflex, one of those involuntary responses to pain, the lung’s version of a flinch. I know because it happens to me, too, those memories that slam into me when I least expect them.
“Sorry,” I say, already backing out of the room. “I’ll go change.”
“No. No, that’s okay, I’m fine.” He clears his throat, shakes his head. “Well, not fine fine, but I will be. Soon.”
This is why I didn’t want to come. Because I’d be stepping into memories that aren’t mine, treading onto territory where I don’t belong or feel welcome.
“You sure?” I pluck at Susanna’s T-shirt. “Because I don’t mind.”
“No, keep ’em on. Yours are filthy. I figured y’all were about the same size.” He waves me in with the blade of his knife, gestures to a seat across the island. “Come on in, sit down. I’m just making dinner.”
Dinner? I look around for a clock. “What time is it?”
“Just past six. You slept for almost seventeen hours.”
My eyes go wide, and I sink into a stool. “Seventeen hours, how is that even possible? I haven’t slept that long since...since junior year, when Scott Smith gave me mono. And I did it without one of my brother’s little blue pills.”
Evan snorts. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned these past two weeks, it’s that grief is exhausting.”
“I need to call my boss. He’s—”
“No need, I already talked to Ted. Your mom, too. She’s a trip, by the way. She said to call her the second you get a chance. Ted said to take however long you need.”
“What about the police?”
“Detective Johnson was a great deal less understanding. She said if you weren’t awake by the morning, she was coming over here to see for herself. I assured her that wouldn’t be necessary, that we would drop by the station first thing tomorrow to make a statement.”
“Did she give you any news?”
“Some. I thought I’d fill you in over dinner. Then we’ll hammer out a plan.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder to the stove, where black steam is rising from a pan like a smokestack. “I’m making enchiladas.”
“Okay, but, um...” I point, and Evan turns to look. He lunges for the pan, jerking it up off the gas, but it’s too late. The contents are already chunks of charred cement.
He dumps it, pan and all, into the sink and turns on the water with a hiss. “New plan. What do you like on your pizza?”
* * *
“I want to come stay with you,” Mom says into the phone, and I picture her standing in her foyer with her overnight bag, car keys clutched in a fist. “When can I come?”
I’m seated at Evan’s kitchen table, watching him scrub the pan with steel wool and elbow grease. He doesn’t seem to be making any progress. Every time he rinses the soap off to check, he starts in all over again.
“As soon as I get my house back.” Unlike Mom’s voice, shrill and verging on hysterical, I’m careful to keep mine even. “It’s still a crime scene, and I’m still at Evan’s.”
When he hears his name, he gives me a chin lift.
“That sweet man,” Mom says. “Give him a big hug from me, will you? Tell him I can’t thank him enough. Tell him right now.”
A warm rush of affection pushes a smile up my cheeks, because Mom’s right. Evan Sheffield is a gem. He’s one of the good guys. Despite the horrendous calamity that collided our two worlds together, I feel like I’ve somehow won a prize.
“Mom says she can’t thank you enough.”
Evan looks up from the sink with a grin, then flips off the faucet and chucks the pan in the trash. “Tell her I like pie. Cherry especially.”
I do, and Mom promises to bake him one very soon. She sighs, a long release of stress and relief. “I’m just so glad you’re okay.”
We chat a bit longer, but I don’t tell her about talking to Will. I’m not ready. I need to hammer out a plan with Evan first; and until I’m certain about what I’m going to say to Detective Johnson, I don’t want to involve anyone else, least of all my mother, in either lies or half-truths. I plead exhaustion and promise a longer call tomorrow, and then we hang up.
Evan slides an icy bottle of beer across the table to me and sinks into a chair. “The police found the missing AppSec money.”
“All of it?”
“Almost all. Looks like it’s short a couple hundred grand.” He pauses to take a swig. “They found the statements on Corban’s computer.”
The realization is like the unveiling of a statue, when someone whips off the sheet and all is revealed. My understanding is that instant. I don’t wonder for a second how the money got there, or why.
“Will. He put it there to frame Corban.”
Evan shrugs, but his expression says he doesn’t disagree. “Corban worked at the bank that handled all of AppSec’s transactions. He—”
“Moved the stock to a company he controlled in the Bahamas, then sold it for top price. I know. Corban told me a thousand times. But why would Will leave all the money? If he went to all that trouble to steal it, why not leave just enough to implicate Corban and take the rest?”
“Maybe it wasn’t only about implicating Corban. Maybe it was also about clearing suspicions. With the money accounted for, the police wouldn’t have any reason to look for him.”
“Except now they suspect him of murder.”
“Maybe. But as far as I can gather, they have very little to go on beyond a trampled-down patch of grass by your shed and the bullet the coroner dug out of Corban’s skull. Pretty useless until they can find the gun it came from.”
“Which they won’t.” I don’t know what Will did with it, but I know this for a fact: that gun will never be found.
Evan takes a long drag from his bottle and shakes his head. “Before last night, I would have said no way. No way can somebody execute that kind of crime without making a mistake. Nobody is that smart. But your husband just might be, because while all this is going down here, Liberty Air retrieved his briefcase from the crash site. It was pretty wrecked and filthy, and it’s been rained on repeatedly, but his laptop was still in one piece. It’s being sent to the lab for analysis, but who knows what, if anything, they’ll be able to pull off there.”
I do. I know what they’ll be able to pull off there—nothing. Not one speck of evidence that Will was involved in any way in the AppSec heist. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that every single byte they manage to pull from that machine will prove without a shadow of a doubt exactly the opposite, that Will was an ideal employee who wouldn’t dream of stealing a dime.
“Look, I consider you a friend, which means I appreciate the dilemma you’re in. If the police find evidence that Will’s still alive, if they can pin Corban’s death on him, Will is going to prison. No doubt about it. I know after everything, seeing that happen would be devastating.”
I nod, waiting for the “but” that’s coming at me like a missile.
“But. As your attorney, I have to counsel you not to lie. Perjury is a crime, and it’s a serious offense. Spousal privilege says you don’t have to reveal the contents of the phone call, but if they ask if you’ve spoken to Will since the crash, and you say something I know to be false, our confidentiality still applies, but I won’t be able to defend you.”
“I understand. And I wouldn’t put you in that position.”
“You came awfully close last night.” His words are firm, but his tone is gentle.
“I won’t do it again.”
“Fair enough.” He nods, slapping both his hands on the table as if the matter’s settled. “So any idea what you’re going to say? It’ll work in both of our favors if I get a heads-up before we walk into there tomorrow morning.”
I picture my husband standing in the shadows by the shed, his face hard with fury, aiming a gun at a man through my window. I picture him pulling the trigger without hesitation, sending that bullet flying down its deadly path, and my stomach sours. Yes, he did it for me, to save me, but still. Will murdered a man, shot him dead and, when it comes down to it, all over a pile of money.
And then I see my husband down on his knee in that Kroger aisle, his face equal parts nervousness and hope, when he said those four little words I’d been waiting to hear. Will you marry me? I remember the joy that sparkled inside, the tears that fell down my smiling cheeks as I told him yes. Yes yes yes.
Can I really come clean? Can I really tell the police my husband is alive? That he’s a murderer?
I close my eyes. “I have no idea.”
The doorbell rings, heralding the arrival of dinner. “Think about it and let me know, okay?” Evan says, wrapping a palm around mine before he stands. “You do what you need to do. If I can’t be your lawyer, I’ll always be your friend.”