Hello, I thought dreamily, and relaxed back against the bench. Don’t mind me. I’ll make myself at home.
NOW
CHAPTER 39
MIKE
This affair is a problem, and one that may require an interesting and painful solution. My actions have a direct correlation to hers, because unique ideas are not in Lillian’s wheelhouse. I lied, so she lied. I cheated, so she cheated.
This is why I keep secrets from my wife. She’s too easily knocked off course, susceptible to vices, and emotionally drawn to problems, like a fly to a sticky yellow tape of death.
It was for her own good that my lies first began. Had she known how close we came to losing the house, she would have panicked. Had she known how unhappy I was with our sex life, she would have obsessed.
Had she known, had she known, had she known . . . she surely would have killed herself by now.
So I lie, like all good husbands do. I lie, and I protect her, and I protect Jacob, and I make contingency plans, and I keep all the pieces of our perfect little life ticking along, because that’s my job. My job is to provide for and protect my family, by any means necessary.
I’m fucking great at my job.
When I enter the house, forty-five minutes before our appointment at the attorney’s, there is ample time for us to drive the two-point-one miles to the office. In my briefcase, I have a printout on everything I know about the video, which, admittedly, isn’t much. I went ahead and included a list of our liability policies, in case we are at risk of being sued by David Laurent. I also included a list of our assets, at least the ones that Lillian is aware of, in the event they are also at risk.
The things I don’t know—the marina’s security protocols and liability exposure, what she has told David Laurent about our life—I will find out. I will relisten to her recordings, do a proper calendar audit and analysis of her movements in the last month, based on her car’s GPS activity and phone records. I’ll ask Lillian more questions, feeding them to her slowly, so her suspicion isn’t aroused. Also on today’s agenda, a call to her doctor, as I’m fairly certain that my wife has not been taking her medication.
I call her name from the kitchen, my voice carrying easily through the small house. It is one of the benefits and negatives of the size. We could have bought one ten times bigger, but that would have raised questions should a federal employee come sniffing, plus there is Lillian’s intellect, which does pick inconvenient times to raise its head. Though my wife is flaky, she can be very, very smart. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with her. The other was her mothering potential, and I judged that well. She is a fantastic mother, save this hiccup with Jacob.
This fling is certainly a black mark on her, but not entirely unexpected. I should have seen this coming, should have done an effects analysis and then blocked the possibility—but in addition to intellect and her parenting skills, Lillian has also been staunchly loyal. That unwavering loyalty lulled me into stupid placidity, and I’d been distracted with the aftermath of ending my other relationship. What was supposed to be easy and clean had ended up being very messy and highly emotional, a situation I had not quite solved, in large part because of Lillian.
There is no response and I take the stairs two at a time, checking my watch as I climb. She should be dressed and ready. I had to call in a favor to get this last-minute appointment, and tardiness will be unacceptable.
The bedroom is empty, as is the guest room. I look in on Jacob’s bedroom—empty—and stand at the bathroom window, looking down on the backyard. No sign of Lillian’s increasingly slim figure. I frown.
Taking the stairs back down, I check my watch again, my frustration rising as another minute clicks by. I open the garage and stare at my car, which is still sitting in its spot, its keys on the hook. After she blocked me in last night, I took her car, but there’s no reason why if she went somewhere, she wouldn’t have taken mine.
I try her cell and it goes straight to voice mail.
Where is she?
CHAPTER 40
MIKE
I park her car in the garage and swap the keys on the hooks, then take mine and leave the house at twenty minutes before two, without Lillian. I text her the address without much hope. Is she with him? She’s with someone, unless she went for a run—and Lillian hasn’t been a runner since her bout with anorexia almost twelve years ago. A walk also seems unlikely, unless it is to the liquor store or the gas station, and I drive by both on my way to the attorney’s office but don’t see her.
Her purse, upon further recollection, wasn’t in the kitchen or living room, so she probably has it with her. This is why we should have a family app, the sort that tracks locations and speed of travel. Unfortunately, it was hard to require that of my family without me also opting in, and there is no way that I will ever be voluntarily tracked.
I pull into the attorney’s office and park on the far side of the lot, not so close to the street as to be potentially hit by traffic but not so close to the building as to risk a door ding. The Volvo is alone on both sides and parked nose out, in case the need for a quick exit arises—not that there has ever been a need for a quick exit, but you have to prepare for any circumstances, on every day, at all times.
Lillian would have parked crooked in the closest spot to the front door and forgotten to lock the doors. My wife is not a preparer, and maybe that’s why I fell in love with her. The beast and the beauty. Organization and chaos. Dark and light.
I check in with a receptionist three minutes before the appointment time and try not to let the last-minute arrival bother me. It is overshadowed by the fact that Lillian is not here, and I try her cell again, but get only voice mail.
The attorney has a flat chest and acne scars pitting her cheeks and jowls, the sort of woman who has become mean just to survive the cruel reception of life. She watches the video twice, then returns the phone to me. “Where is your wife, Mr. Smith?”
“I’m not sure. She was going to meet me here, but is probably running late.” I smile to overcome Lill’s rudeness. “But we can proceed without her. I have our list of questions.”
It’s really only my list of questions. Lillian doesn’t want to hear about the steps necessary to make this go away. She prefers to theoretically clamp her hands over her ears and spout loud gibberish to drown out the reality of her situations. This isn’t the first time she has screwed up. She doesn’t realize the extents I’ve gone to, to pull her out of harm and financial strife. She thinks that life just turns and unfolds in easy ways, ways where problems magically disappear and people give up on arguments, and frowns eventually turn upside down.
“Before you start on your list, let me ask a few quick questions.” The attorney swivels her chair left, then right, and laces her fingers over her concave stomach. “The woman on the video is your wife?”
“Yes.”
“The man is who?”
“David Laurent. He has a company that screen-prints T-shirts. He lives in Nevada but visits LA on a regular basis, according to Lillian.” No need to mention the other things I’ve dug up on David Charles Laurent, whose paper trail was clear and easy to follow. A Fresno business headquarters and personal address, no tax liens or bankruptcies. Unmarried. No kids. No social media, which I didn’t like. While I would have hated my wife screwing a selfie-posting asshole, social media was a trail that I could follow and analyze.