21

All through dinner, the phone is like a hunk of plutonium pressed against my hip, a silent and deadly thing radiating poison in my pocket. If I had any doubts before that the numbers came from different sources, I certainly don’t now. There’s no way I know how to get around an alarm system and Did something happen? came from the same thumbs.

Unless it’s someone trying to mess with my mind. The thought sours my stomach, churning the spaghetti and meatballs I just choked down into a nauseating mush, because it’s entirely possible. Maybe even the same person who sent the letter in my husband’s hand, which my training tells me could have only come from a sociopath.

“Iris, sweetheart, did you hear a word we said?” Mom says from across the table.

I freeze my fork mid-spaghetti twirl, look up from my plate to find her watching me, her brow furrowed with concern. “I’m sorry, what?”

“We were just talking about our plans, and how James needs to head home this weekend.”

He confirms this with an apologetic smile. “I have a full day of surgery on Monday, and I really need a day or two at home to get my bearings. I hope you understand.”

“You don’t have to apologize for having your own life and career. Go. Of course, go. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll come back next weekend, and we’ll see where we’re at.” He says this to the table, but mostly to Dave, and that’s when it dawns on me that James is planning to return to Savannah alone. He’s leaving my brother here.

I look around at my family, wonder what else of their conversation I missed. “What are everybody else’s plans?”

“We’re staying,” they say, pretty much in unison.

“Don’t you have to get back to work?” I say to my parents, then turn to Dave. “What about your career? Don’t you have showings next week?”

“I’ll get a colleague to handle them.” He lifts a shoulder, like no biggie, but I happen to know he’s full of crap. Real estate is a tough business, and the sharks in his office are notoriously bloodthirsty, always nipping at other agents’ clients. Guilt nips at my insides.

My gaze goes to Mom, then Dad, both of whom are conspicuously silent. I see a million things in the way they look at me—worry, determination, stubbornness. They’ve no plans to leave this weekend, either. In fact, Mom looks ready to chain herself to the chair and bolt it to the floor.

“You guys really don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine.”

Mom looks insulted I would even suggest it, and she’s shaking her head before I’ve finished speaking. “Your father and I have already cleared it at work, and we want to stay. We’re happy to, and for as long as you need us.”

A warm wave of love for my sweet mom washes up my chest. If she had her way, she’d be moving in and force-feeding me three square meals a day until I am ready to start dating again. Is it weird that I want some time alone? I’m not an introvert. I love my family, and I normally wish they lived closer. New widows usually dread this moment, when the people pack up their things and return to their own lives, leaving the widow alone with her grief. And here I am, trying to talk my family into it.

I put down my fork and say it as gently as I know how. “I love having you here, and as much as I appreciate the four of you gathering around me this past week—and I really do—I’m not going to be around much. I’m going back to work Monday morning.”

Mom’s brows dip under the weight of her worry. “So soon?”

I nod. “It’s what I would tell myself to do, if I were my own patient. To get back to my normal life and routine, to carve out a new normal for myself. And honestly, I’m kind of looking forward to being around kids who are even more screwed up than I am. It might take some of the edge off.” When she doesn’t crack the slightest smile at my joke, I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. “Mom, I know what I’m doing. I promise.”

She darts a look at Dad, who gives her an up to you shrug. She shakes her head, her stubborn expression digging in even further. “I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”

“I’ll meet Elizabeth for dinner or invite her over for a drink. I haven’t seen or talked to her, to any of my girlfriends, since the memorial. It’ll be good.”

“That’s a great idea. You do whatever you need to do,” Mom says. “I’ll keep working on the funeral plans, and now that it’s warming up, your window boxes could use some refreshing...”

I try for a compromise. “Why don’t you go home for a few days, take care of whatever you need to take care of there, then come back later in the week? We’ll have the whole weekend together.”

“I have a better idea,” Dave says, as usual wading in to save me. “Why don’t we all meet at Mom and Dad’s next weekend instead? It’s closer for us, and Mom and Dad won’t have to make the drive again.”

I give an enthusiastic nod. “Honestly, I wouldn’t mind getting out of town for a bit.”

“I don’t know...” she hedges.

“Jules, she’ll be fine,” Dad says, tossing me a wink. “Won’t you, punkin’?”

“Absolutely. And I’ll leave straight from school on Friday to put me there by dinnertime.”

Outnumbered and outmaneuvered, Mom reluctantly agrees, and Dad steers the conversation to weekend plans. There’s a new barbecue restaurant in town he’s been dying to try, and maybe we could all go see a movie at the new Cineplex, one where they serve wine and have big chairs that recline like La-Z-Boys. I smile and hum like I love the idea, but meanwhile I’m counting the moments until I’m alone.

There’s something I need to do, and I can’t do it with any of them here.

* * *

After dinner, I dig a blank check and a hundred-dollar tip for Big Jim from my bag, hand both to Dad and head upstairs. The adrenaline that’s carried me all day is long depleted, and exhaustion pushes down on me like a lead blanket.

Big Jim is hunched on the floor just inside my bedroom door, packing up his toolbox. I trip over his industrial boot.

“Whoa there,” he says, steadying me with a palm around my wrist. “Won’t do anybody any good with broken bones.”

I don’t tell him there’s nobody but me now, or that a broken bone hurts a hell of a lot less than a broken heart. I brush myself off and tell him I’m fine.

A brand-new alarm panel hangs on the wall above his head.

“I was just about to call you up here.” He pushes to a stand and dusts his hands on the seat of his pants. “You got a minute or two for me to give you the highlights?”

My eyes are burning, my brain is blurry, and my body aches to climb under my covers, but I nod anyway. “Explain away.”

“Okay. For now I’ve set your system to a default code, but as soon as I’m done here, you should change it to one of your own. You’ll use the code to turn the system on and off, as well as make any changes to the panel settings, so make sure it’s a combination you know by heart. And see these three buttons here?” He points to a vertical row of squares—universal symbols for police, fire and ambulance. “These here are your panic buttons. There’s another two by your bed, tucked behind each of your nightstands. You gotta hold ’em in for a minimum of three seconds, and make sure you mean it because we show up with guns blazing, no questions asked. If it turns out to be a false alarm, you’ll be getting a big old bill.”

“Got it.”

“Good. Now, your duress code is set to straight down the middle of the keypad—2580. That’s another one you’ll want to change to your own as soon as I’m done.”

“Why would I use a duress code instead of a panic button?”

“In case somebody’s holding a gun to your head and watching over your shoulder while you disarm the system.”

My eyes blow wide. “That actually happens?”

Big Jim nods, his fleshy jowls bobbing. “Just happened to a young couple in Buckhead. Two armed men surprised the husband as he was coming in from the garage, pistol-whipped ’em both until they forked over all their cash and valuables. Husband used the duress code, otherwise they’d probably both be dead.”

“Jesus.” I haul a calming breath, but it doesn’t work. The idea of someone chasing me into my own home, pistol-whipping me until I fork over four and a half million dollars I don’t have, sends an army of ants crawling under my skin.

He points to an 800 number on the inside cover of the keypad. “Call this number first thing after I’m gone and set up your code word. It’s an added security measure, and our operators’ll ask for it every time they call. If the bad guy is standing next to you, give ’em the wrong word, and that’s their signal to send in the cavalry. Don’t worry if you forget any of this. It’s all explained in detail in the owner’s manual, which I’ll get you before I leave.”

“Give it to my father, will you? He’s got your payment, and Mom’s holding dinner for you downstairs whenever you’re ready.”

Big Jim pats his gut and grins. “I’m pretty much always ready.”

After he’s gone, I toe out of my sneakers, dig my cell phone out of my pocket and collapse onto my bed. There are no new texts, nothing from either number, and I don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Both, maybe. Relief for the one, disappointment for the other.

I pull up the string with the 678 number, the one ending in two threats. Tell me where Will hid the money or you’ll be joining him. FYI, I know how to get around an alarm system. No way I’m touching either one of those.

I back up, click on the conversation with the blocked number. Why the alarm, Iris? Did something happen?

I think about who would be worried about me besides the people cleaning my kitchen downstairs—my colleagues, my girlfriends, the friendly neighbors to our left and across the street. None of them would text me from a blocked number. I press my fingers to my eyes and rub. Maybe I’m too tired. Stressed. Wrecked and confused from lying in the bed I once shared with Will. None of this makes any sense.

Before I can think through the pros and cons of engaging whoever is on the other end of the blocked number, my thumbs start typing. Why do you care? Who are you?

The reply pings my screen two seconds later, as if whoever is on the other end has been waiting for me all this time, thumbs pressed to the screen. I’m a friend, and I want you to be safe. Tell me who’s after you and why. I want to help.

My heart rides into my throat as I type the next words.

The last text comes with a whiplike lash. So far, the only theory I’ve heard for who took the money is Will, which means...

Not possible. A dead man can’t send texts.

I’m considering my next move when another text lights up my screen.