Page 30 of You Know Why

“Thank you for bailing us out. This is a cute neighborhood.”

“This area is called College Park. A few of us from work bought a house together several years ago. It had been renovated and was just perfect for us. Since we travel so much, we’re always in and out. But last year, my housemates got transferred to Chicago, so it’s just me now. They stay when they come through, but it’s been a while since I had company.” She grins. “That’s a long way of saying things are a little bit of a mess, but I have plenty of room.”

I don’t want to pry, don’t want to ask, but all the questions are bubbling in my head: Are you divorced? Widowed? Never married? Have a partner? Are your kids grown? Live with their dad? Why are you alone here? What is your story?

Why are you so convinced you know my husband?

It’s hard not to try to find common ground, the way wary dogs circle one another upon meeting. Two women of childbearing age, on the surface, usually have a lot in common, but I’ve found that it’s better to let people offer up bits of themselves instead of prying. Observe, interpret, then speak. I bite back my questions. We have plenty of time. I want to get the kids taken care of first.

“No problem. I’m sure it’s totally great. This place is adorable—Margot will love it. She’s a designer, Craftsman houses are a favorite.” The kids finish their laps around the driveway and scamper onto the porch, launching themselves at the swing. They don’t seem to notice the cold. I argue with them to wear their coats all the time. Internally charged, like batteries.

“Guys, careful.” All we need is for the swing to go crashing through Eden’s front window and rack up more expenses.

There’s nothing to pay for it with, because Trey stole all our money. What in the hell is happening?

“That’s my favorite place, too,” Eden says to them indulgently. “You get comfy, there’s a blanket on the back there, and I’ll go get dinner ready. Pizza!” She claps her hands at the kids, who shout happily back.

“Yay!”

“You two do not leave this porch, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mom,” Four says. “We’ll watch for Daddy. He’s coming, right?”

“I’m trying to reach Daddy now. He had an errand to run. I’m sure he’ll call soon.”

Wow, lying to the kids, Brook. Great precedent.

Neve and Four clamber onto the swing, talking full speed about something silly. I barely hear. I take their bags inside, one by one.

The house is decidedly not a mess. The oak floors are stained dark, the walls are painted a bright white, and a trail bike hangs from the staircase wall. It looks almost sterile, but if Eden is traveling all the time, that makes sense. There’s no holiday decor—no real decor, period. Hmm. It’s not the cozy home I expected based on the woman’s open personality, but who am I to judge?

We continue the getting-to-know-you dance gently, pirouetting around one another. I answer general questions about Nashville and our aborted plans for Italy, hear about Eden’s last trip, a five-day marathon, winging her way to and fro across the country, presenting annual accounting numbers to the airline’s partners, all the while screaming internally: Trey didn’t just walk out of our lives. Did he?

You know damn well he did. He took the money systematically so you wouldn’t notice, and given the first opportunity, he ran.

Anger is crowding out the confusion and dismay now. I need to keep my head. This is Trey. My husband. My lover. The father of my children. He is not a criminal. Something else is happening. I just need to figure it out.

Eden’s gone quiet, as if she knows I’m not paying attention to her story. She is very intuitive, very aware. And very earnest. I sense her curiosity about me as clearly as mine about her. It makes me uncomfortable. Do I make her uncomfortable, too?

As if to prove our worthiness to one another, we prattle on with the nonsense, talk about the weather and holiday decorating. She tours the upstairs with me, gives me a large guest room, shows me a similar space across the hall for the kids, then points to her own room at the end of the hall.

“I’ll let you get settled. See you downstairs.”

There’s a Jack-and-Jill bath that hooks the two guest rooms together, well appointed with fluffy towels and loads of specialty soaps, a whole basket of them. I look through the bathroom quickly for recording devices, cameras, or holes—I can’t help myself, I do it everywhere we go: restaurants, libraries—and find nothing amiss. I deflate and take the opportunity for some quiet time, shutting the bathroom door and trying to puzzle through the afternoon. Without food and knowledge and under duress, I can’t fight back the sobs anymore. I bury my face in a lavender-scented towel and finally allow myself a moment.

Imagine my husband, imagine him plotting his escape. Lying to me, lying to his boss. The passport is bothering me—if Bob didn’t get it for him, who did? Or was that a ruse, too? Was the courier last night just a part of the show?

The plan must have been to bail on us at Heathrow, which would make it even more difficult to track him down, since he would be in another country. Buy him a lot more time to get away. That would explain why he flipped out when the flight was rerouted.

So, where has he gone from here? He left the airport, and he would certainly have been noticed if he’d returned. His name has probably been put on some sort of watch list, right? I’ll have to ask Eden; she’ll know more about airport procedures.

We’re four hours of drive time without traffic from home, and Atlanta is a big city. He could slip into the fabric of the city or the countryside and easily disappear.

But couldn’t he have done that from Nashville, too? Why would he take us along at all if he were running away? Unless he needs me for some of the back-end accounting or something?

Or he loves you. He got himself into trouble and didn’t want to worry you. He loves the kids, too, and was trying to protect all of you. He took you away from a situation that you’re unaware of, that he hid from you, so he could keep you safe.

Yeah, right. I’m dreaming now. If he’s moving money into overseas bank accounts and crypto wallets, he’s into something way bigger than my imagination can cook up.