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Another week and the girls will be out for winter break. Greg suggests getting away. He thinks we should visit his parents. I think we should go somewhere less expected. When I told him this, he scrutinized me with a penetrating look. “And just where do you think we can afford to go? The Bahamas? Bermuda?”
I hadn’t had an answer. Of course I hadn’t. But it isn’t like Greg to speak to me with such vitriol. It underlines the toll this is taking on all of us. And it reminds me I need to speak to Alex. If he and Benny can arrange to have Jack Mooney handled while we are out of town, all the better. It seems smart to put some space between us and whatever Benny Dugan is going to set up.
At the exact moment I’m about to give up on Alex, he returns my call. “Sorry,” he croaks, punctuating the apology with a cough. “I picked up the flu, and I’m on a tough case. I’m in court all day, and by evening, I crash. That, and I’ve been waiting on Benny.”
I listen raptly, expecting him to say more, but he doesn’t. “And?”
“He had to go out of town.”
“What do you mean he had to go out of town?” Shaking my head, I tell myself to calm down and stop parroting everything he says.
“Yeah, I don’t know.” He sneezes into the receiver. Once, twice, three times. “That’s the way Benny works. You don’t ask too many questions. It’s better for everybody that way.”
“Not for me. Jack Mooney broke into my house.”
There’s more coughing followed by a long pause. “I see.”
“Why are you still working cases if you’re sick? It’s not like you need the money.” The words fly out before I can shut my mouth and trap them in.
“Easy now.”
“I’m sorry. I’m going out of my mind. I just really need this taken care of.”
All I hear on the other end of the line is the sound of a hacking cough. He sounds terrible, and it makes me feel worse for biting his head off. “I know.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“Nah.” I hear the smile in his voice. He likes that I am concerned. “And to answer your question, I’m working for the same reason your perp is doing what he does…it’s the thrill of the chase.”
“But what are you chasing exactly?”
“Justice.”
My brow knits together. “Justice for who?”
“You see, that’s the thing. Sometimes it doesn’t even matter.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, typing up a contract on a house while monitoring the girls, who are playing in the back yard. The large window that frames our dining area portrays a chilly afternoon. It’s overcast and windy, with a fine mist that appears every now and again.
The rain comes in waves. It’s been on and off for days, and we’re all experiencing a bit of cabin fever. With Christmas fast approaching, I’m busier than ever. The holidays are typically a slow time for real estate, but this year seems to be an anomaly, and one I’m thankful for.
Along with the rain comes ripples of good news. Greg’s busi
ness partner drummed up a small infusion of cash, and now they are in talks about what their next steps might be: whether he will buy Greg out, or whether they might try to make a go of things together. I’m in favor of the former, for obvious reasons. I’d like to have my husband back. This venture is taking its toll on him, which means it’s taking its toll on me. He has folded into himself, sinking to depths I sometimes feel I can’t reach. When times are turbulent, no one in a marriage comes out unscathed.
Nevertheless, I am aware Greg is hoping for the latter option. My husband is not a quitter, and he never walks away from equity.
A heavy breeze blows in, causing the stack of papers I have laid out on the table to fly in all directions. As I dash around the kitchen retrieving them, I come across the slip of paper I’d left for Greg. The reminder to call the exterminator, which he hasn’t done. Now we have a leak in the ceiling, and a bucket on the floor catching water, and I blame both him and the rodents. I set a reminder on my phone to call a roofer.
This morning Dana led our weekly training call. She says when everything looks like it’s going to shit, it’s important to focus on the why of things. Why you started. Why you love the thing you love. Why you keep at it. Surveying my kitchen, with its tile that needs replacing, and its walls that could use a fresh coat of paint, I ask myself this.
Earlier I uploaded photos of a listing that is going on the market soon. I recall how I’d stood in that kitchen snapping photos. Normally I contract with a photographer, but she’s busy with last-minute holiday photos, and I’m almost too broke to pay her anyhow.
I lay the stack of papers on the table, place my phone on top, and pull up the photos of that immaculate and newly remodeled kitchen. It’s a stark contrast to the one I’m standing in, and it makes me wonder what grounds us in the places we land. How can two families living just miles apart have such disparity? Was it the choices we make? How we get our start in life? Pure blind luck?
Once again, I survey the kitchen. Maybe we had bitten off more than we could chew when we invested in this house. Maybe we should have stayed in our tiny apartment and built up more savings. It’s possible the desirable neighborhood blinded us to the fact this house might be a money pit.
