Page 89 of You Know Why

It isn’t until Pat and Bob come to visit that I start to truly comprehend the magnitude of the cops’ assertions that Trey has committed several rather serious crimes. I’ve been pulling together memories, but nothing yet that will help their case. Seeing my aunt and uncle jogs even more.

I’m out of bed now and able to move around much better. I’m sore and bruised, and my head hurts constantly, but walking helps. I wander the halls, up and down, getting my strength back. There’s a serenity garden in the inner courtyard, and I spend as much time there as they’ll let me. It’s chilly, but sheltered—there is no breeze, and with the sun shining down and a blanket over my legs, quite pleasant. I am over being a patient. I want to go home. I want to sleep in my own bed. I want to search for things my husband may have left behind. Clues to his whereabouts. To the money trail.

Answers. I want answers.

The serenity garden is where Bob and Pat find me, sitting with my face tilted up to the sun, desperately trying to figure out where Trey might have run to.

“Brooklyn!” Pat hurries to my side and envelops me in a hug. Bob follows suit. They fret and pat and murmur at my bruises and the bandages on my head.

I know these people. I know their clothes, their haircuts, their posture, but their faces are different from what I recall. They seem significantly older than I remember, as well. There are grooves across Pat’s forehead, and Bob’s shoulders are hunched as if the pain of carrying such bad news is too much. They have balloons and flowers, cheerful things that don’t match their countenances. Something is wrong. I am still having trouble reading emotions, but the seeds of guilt that cling to them put me on alert.

They’re both wearing forest green North Face puffers—they always have been matchy matchy, whether by accident or on purpose, or simply out of practicality, I don’t know. I feel their fear, and it is terrifying.

Bob takes the chair opposite me; Pat perches on the arm.

“How are you feeling?” Bob asks. “Going home soon?”

“You don’t have to make polite conversation with me. I can tell you have something important to say. Tell me. Tell me the truth. The FBI and police are saying such horrible things. I don’t believe them.”

Bob sighs so deeply I can smell last night’s liquor on his breath, stale and fetid. My uncle isn’t a big drinker. This is alarming. And when they speak, it’s like they’re talking about the plot of a book or a television show.

“It’s all true, dear. Trey has been systematically stealing from the company. Years’ worth of money. He’s undermined every recent deal we’ve made. He built a system that funneled a percentage of each contract into offshore accounts. It’s elegant, brilliant even. Disconcerting, because I taught him how to do it.”

“You taught him . . . how?”

Bob shakes his head. “He’s a natural, but I taught him everything he knows about how the money moves, how the accounts work, how the client investments function. He has the same level of access we do. Part of what we do is maximize profits and minimize debts for our clients by any means necessary. We protect their money as if it were our own. That means building proprietary systems, with formulas only we know. That we’ve developed, together. He built one right under my nose, and I didn’t see it. It flowed offshore just like all the rest.”

“Are you saying you help your clients avoid paying taxes by putting money in offshore accounts?” This is something Margot mentioned to me, and it makes sense. Seems a little sketchy, though.

“Not exactly. Not illegally. Everything we do is aboveboard, legal, reported, and accounted for. I wouldn’t stay in business if it weren’t. Trey circumvented the controls I had in place so our system wasn’t openly abused. The minute we entered the crypto world, the lines became murkier. That was Trey’s domain. Over the summer, I started seeing holes where there shouldn’t have been, discrepancies that were, at first glance, easy to explain away. But then they started to add up. He was moving money to fictional vendors who were supposedly investing with us. The scheme worked for a long time, until I started sensing something was awry.”

“But why didn’t you confront him directly? Why go to the FBI? Why not talk to me first? My God, what were you thinking?”

The hurt in my voice makes him flinch. Good. They should have come to me before blowing up our world.

Aunt Pat is twisting her hands together. “Honey, we didn’t want to worry you. We did confront him. He had answers for everything. Showed us every trail, every dollar moved. Everything looked legitimate.”

“I . . . I didn’t believe him,” Bob says. “He was too cool, too smooth. My instincts were right. Now I know it was all just smoke and mirrors. He forged the accounts, and some of the clients, too. The money wasn’t ever there. It was a sophisticated, smart—genius even—plan. Until he took funds from an account I had flagged as a control, so I could watch over him. I saw the money disappear right before my eyes. Like drops from a leaky faucet. I confronted him, but once I realized he was lying, I had no choice.”

“I still don’t understand why you’d turn him in without warning me. That’s cold.”

Pat smiles sadly. “We didn’t know if you were involved, Brook. It wasn’t until he tried to kill you that we were certain you were innocent in all of this.”

“He didn’t try to kill me,” I say, teeth gritted. They share a forlorn look. Everyone thinks I’m delusional. They’ve all seen the video. It’s been playing nightly on the news. I can’t deny that whoever is driving the SUV does look a little bit like Trey. And yes, he was definitely in the hospital the night I almost died. But I cannot, will not, believe that the man I love, the father of my children, wants me dead.

“Still no idea where he might be hiding out?” Bob asks lightly. “Things would go a lot easier for him if you could convince him to turn himself in.”

“I don’t know anything. This all feels like a bad dream.”

Pat looks at Bob. “Tell her. It doesn’t matter now.”

“Tell me what?”

“It’s going to come to light in the news soon enough. I was adopted as a young baby and was brought up as a Thomas. I didn’t find out until I was much older. It’s not important. I have always considered you and Margot my nieces and Trey my nephew. We don’t share blood, but that doesn’t mean we’re not family.”

My fragile brain is having trouble reconciling this, but a few things click into place. Why Bob and my dad don’t look at all alike, for starters.

“Wow. So you’ve both been lying to me this whole time? You and Trey, both? Or does he know?”