“Your wife has been dead for almost two days, Mike.” The man slowly stands and moves the chair away from the table. “When did you discover that this key was gone?”
“This morning.”
“This morning?” He doesn’t like that answer, and I’m feeling faint and slightly nauseated myself. I’m not sure if it’s because whatever connection I have is fading, or if I’m just ordinary-living-person nervous, but all this is bad. Really bad.
I strain to remember what I did with the box of bourbon. I walked to the cemetery and started to drink it there. I remember sitting on the hard concrete bench and watching two mockingbirds go at it and wondering whether Mike and I would be divorced by the time our twentieth anniversary rolled around. And then . . .
“This morning . . . ,” the man repeats. “Before or after you met with Sam Knight?”
“Uh, before.” Mike sounds unsure, as if he’s testing the temperature of the water with his toe before stepping in.
“You know, Sam’s an interesting cat.”
“Luis . . . ,” Mike pleads, putting his palms together.
“You have done many deals with him, with our money. Some good deals.” The man tilts his head. “Some bad.”
“Everything washes the cash,” Mike says quietly. “Even the losses.”
“Yes, but we have to wonder . . . Is Sam really the best person for this task?” The man—Luis—sits back down in the chair and it creaks, metal against metal hinges. “Which makes us wonder if you are really the best person for this task.”
I’m mentally torn between my attempt to chase down the memory and the information that is unfolding before me. I glance at Jacob and he’s also listening closely, the both of us trying to put together pieces of a puzzle that we didn’t know existed.
I’m proud of him. I’m proud of him for keeping quiet, for not crying, for waiting and watching and staying in control of his emotions. Part of that is the Mike in him, but part of it is me. I am half of him. I raised him, more than Mike ever did. I move behind him and try to wrap my arms around him, but I don’t have arms and legs anymore. I am just here, waiting for the moment I will be gone.
“You see . . .” Luis pulls at the leg of his shorts, straightening the material. “We did not know the nature of your relationship when you brought him to us. Specifically, while we knew his sexual proclivities”—he shrugs in acknowledgment—“they are fairly obvious, but we were not aware of yours.”
Yours? I am lost and stare at Mike, trying to understand why he has gone even paler.
“Romance doesn’t mix well with our business. Neither do secrets.”
Romance? He’s alluding to the idea that Sam and Mike are involved, but that can’t be right. Jacob makes a soft sound, like a cat crying, and then more footsteps come down the stairs.
“Let’s share all of our secrets, Mike,” Luis says. “Shall we?”
My mind skitters, like a flickering film frame, and suddenly, I remember.
CHAPTER 69
LILLIAN
The day of the death
The thing about Mike and his girlfriend, thinking back on it, is that this wasn’t an isolated affair. I suspected he’d been unfaithful at multiple intervals over our eighteen years of marriage. And I was happy with David. I felt different, and I liked different, and maybe . . . if Mike wasn’t being faithful and I was happier with someone else, maybe this whole marriage thing had no point.
I tipped back the bourbon bottle. The flavor was beginning to grow on me, the bite less stiff as I took smaller and more frequent sips. I used to love bourbon. That drink that I used to have every Christmas . . . the cinnamon maple bourbon sour. That was it. Sam would make it, along with his famous eggnog, and serve them both with chocolate biscotti. I should save some of this for that.
I would definitely get Sam in a potential divorce, despite his fondness for Mike. I took another sip and smiled at the thought of going out with him and letting his matchmaker tendencies go wild. Maybe I could move in with him. He had enough room. That giant house? Granted, he was a bit of a nag about organization and neatness. He’d probably kick me out the first time I tracked in dirt, or didn’t use a coaster, or left hair in the shower.
I glanced at my watch and sighed. I should head home. We had the meeting with the attorney in two hours, and I needed to change and freshen up. I could put the bourbon back in the box and in the liquor cabinet. Mike wouldn’t even notice until after our divorce was filed or the anniversary occurred, and by then—if we made it that long—who would care about a few missing sips?
I eyed the bottle. Maybe I had taken more than a few sips. Had I really drunk that much? I stood, and the gravestone closest to me swayed. Okay, yeah. Maybe alcohol, on an empty stomach, with medicine, wasn’t a great combo.
I pushed the bottle back into its box and returned it to my bag. Sighing, I pulled the strap of my blue Marc Jacobs purse over my shoulder. I took an unsteady step forward, then another. My right leg buckled and I grabbed the edge of the bench for support.
Okay, I had this. I glanced around, and considered inducing a vomit. No one was around. No one would see if I hurried over to the closest palm, leaned against it, and let everything fly out.
A car drove by, on just the other side of the low iron gate, and I nixed the idea. I was only four blocks from home. I could make it there and into the privacy of my bathroom. With my luck, I’d do it here and end up with chunks of last night’s pizza all over the front of my shirt.
Gathering myself, I aimed for the gate and made it out and onto the sidewalk without incident. I kept my eyes on the sidewalk ahead of me and plodded, one foot in front of the other, to the stop sign at the cross section of the nearest street. My street. I just needed to hang a right and go three blocks and . . . voilà. I’d be home. Easy peasy.
Jeez, I was thirsty. My tongue felt like it was caked in dryness. An ice cube right now would be glorious.
Glorious. That was a word you didn’t hear enough of. In fact, with over a thousand obituaries written, I’d never once used the word glorious. I could have fit it in. She lived a glorious life as a . . . I frowned. Maybe glorious wasn’t a good adjective for an obit.
“Lillian?” Someone was calling my name and I straightened, realizing I was leaning against the stop sign.
It was Sam, my knight in a shiny black SUV, his window down, looking at me as if I had two heads. “Are you lost?” He chuckled and waved at me. “Come on. Get in.”
I looked left, right, left, making sure that no cars were in sight, then carefully made my way over to the passenger door and climbed in. Dropping my bag by my feet, I turned to him. “Hi. Nice car.”
“Hi. Thank you.” He grinned at me from beneath a blue baseball cap. “You look drunk.”
“I’m fairly drunk,” I admitted. “I may have dipped into the liquor cabinet after you left.”
“Well, here.” He lifted a Starbucks cup out of the cup holder.
“Oh, I love you forever.” I cupped the pumpkin spice latte reverently with both hands. “Were you bringing this to me?”
He smiled at me. “You seemed down this morning. I wanted to check back in with you, figured you could use the caffeine.”