Page 34 of You Know Why

I open my phone and scroll to one I took over the summer. It’s a favorite. Trey hates having his picture taken. He usually makes some sort of weird face at me, or rolls his eyes, or otherwise messes up the shot. But this one, I caught him unaware, a gentle smile on his beardless face, whiskey eyes keen and bright, watching the kids play in our backyard. He is framed by a blooming pink crepe myrtle, dappled with sunshine. I can practically smell the oniony scent of freshly cut grass and petrichor from the storm that had just passed through. He didn’t realize I was across from him, and he didn’t even hear the snick of the phone’s camera. I’ve never shown it to him. It’s private, for me, but it’s the best visual I have of him.

“It’s a fluke, I’m sure, that Eden thinks she knows him. He’s not from Georgia.”

My protests are starting to sound lame, even to me.

The cop looks at the photo for a very long time. When she hands me back my phone, her face is troubled. “That is, without a doubt, Andrew Locke,” she proclaims. “Those eyes . . . It’s impossible to replicate such a unique color. He definitely knew Eden and her little sister, Chloe. He grew up in Malogen. Elementary, junior high, high school. His family still lives there. So do I. I’ve been on the force there my whole career.”

The pit in my stomach grows wider. “I’ll have to take your word for it. To the best of my knowledge, my husband is from Connecticut.”

“All right. We can cover that in a bit. Run me through what happened on the plane again. He spoke to Eden, and then . . .”

“He told me she was mistaken, that he didn’t know her. That she freaked him out.” Eden visibly stiffens at this. “Sorry. He was being rather dramatic. And then he disappeared. All I could think was maybe he panicked about the idea of being trapped in a plane all night. There’s no other reason for him to leave.”

“But then your credit cards . . .” Eden helpfully provides.

“Yes, our credit cards seem to have been closed for nonpayment. I haven’t had a chance to look closer at the situation.”

I’m not about to tell them that he’s systematically taken all our money over the past several months, grown a beard, booked a “surprise” trip to Europe, lied to his boss, and then apparently run out on us, presumably with our life’s savings in hand. That he texted me a warning. That someone else is looking for the money he’s “stolen.” That he seemed shocked that I wasn’t in Italy, as we had planned. I don’t trust this situation—these strangers. As nice as the cop is, she’s attached to Eden, and the vibe off the woman is disconcerting.

And damn, I am such an idiot, sitting here talking and listening without even confirming this woman is a cop. Don’t trust anyone, he said—myself included.

“Can I see your badge?”

The cop immediately pulls it out of the collar of her button-down shirt. It’s strung on a chain around her neck, silver and thick, and I catch a cross there, too, nestled between the woman’s collarbones.

“I am very sorry, I should have given you my credentials to start. Forgive me. I am not here in an investigative position at the moment, only as a friend of Eden’s who wants to help if I can. And to confirm that she is telling you the truth. Andrew Locke, from Malogen, Georgia, is your husband, and I believe her when she says he was on that plane today.”

“Then why would he say he didn’t know her? Why would he leave?”

A glance between the two women.

And again, why would he take us with him if he was stealing the money from the accounts? Why wouldn’t he just walk away, free and clear?

“We know what you did.”

“Bring us the money he stole, every dime of it, or he dies.”

He’s in serious trouble. I have to help him.

“Why does he hate to fly?” Lee asks.

“He gets claustrophobic. He normally drives everywhere, even long work trips.”

“Interesting.”

Eden looks at her friend again, this time expectantly. They think he’s weak. I can’t help but get defensive. Even though I’m furious with him, he’s still my husband.

“A lot of people hate to fly.”

“Yes, they do,” Lee says. “Your husband wasn’t one of them. At least, he didn’t used to be.”

Eden sits back and watches my face so intensely that I squirm in my seat and set my wine on the coffee table. One magazine, Architectural Digest. From last September. Unread. My hackles are up now. This isn’t a friendly conversation anymore.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You didn’t know that Trey used to be a pilot?”

I am so shocked at this ridiculous statement that I burst out laughing. “My Trey? Hardly. He gets green just driving past the airport.”