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Still, the problem is, there should be more, in excess of two million dollars more if we’re being exact and trust me, I am. For hours now I’ve racked my brain. I’ve meticulously combed the bank statements trying to find out how and more importantly when the transfer could have taken place. Two million dollars does not just disappear into thin air. I’ll find it eventually. I have to. It is not in my nature to leave things undone. But then, this is why I’ve always liked numbers. They tell the truth, even when people don’t. In reality, it’s not the money I’m in search of. It’s the truth.
At some point, Martha comes in, a cup of hot tea in one hand, a stack of mail in the other. She places the tea on the corner of my desk and the mail in its rightful spot. “You’ve had a message,” she says.
I adjust the handle on my mug to the perfect 45-degree angle. Martha is pretty good. But on occasion even she gets it wrong. This feels like a betrayal. “Did you switch my ringer on?”
Her eyes narrow. I nod toward the phone to make myself clear.
“Of course not.” Clearly, she’s offended. In part about my calling her out, but also because I’m working late, and she would like to be dismissed. “Why would I do such a thing?”
Why would you get the angle wrong after all these years, I want to ask. But to do so would only cost me more time, and there’s no point in wasting it when I still have a little work ahead of me yet. To rectify the situation, I answer her question indirectly by taking the ruler from my desk drawer, shifting the mug to the original position in which it was placed on my desk. Then I lean forward at eye level and measure it. I meet Martha’s gaze and smile.
“See,” I motion. “Numbers don’t lie.” My imperfect secretary shakes her head and sees herself out without another word. Women don’t like it when you call them on their imperfections. Explicitly or implicitly.
I open my browser and type out an email letting my secretary know she’s dismissed for the evening. It’s easier to keep communication to a minimum with people like Martha, but in this case, my reasoning is two-fold. I need a paper trail.
What I don’t say is the dismissal is permanent. Right now, I need to focus on locating the missing money. I need to get home. I need to get out of dodge.
As I finish the email to Martha, my emergency phone rings. It stops me in my tracks.
Only two people know this number, and one of them is dead. I open the drawer and fish the cell phone out. Caller ID says it’s June. But that’s impossible.
I swipe to take the call. I don’t have a choice.
I don’t say hello. This isn’t the kind of call that requires pleasantries.
“You’ll want to come home,” the voice tells me calmly. “To see about your wife.”
I glance at the watch on my wrist. I have a lot of work to do here yet. I could say this, but it’s of little use. So, I settle on the obvious. “My wife—”
“Yes,” he says. “The one who isn’t dead yet.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Melanie
“Melanie, why?” I hear my mother cry. She’s pleading with me. I don’t understand. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“She didn’t know,” I hear my father say. He tells me to go inside. My nanny waves me in with one hand, the other covers her mouth. My mother wails. It’s a guttural scream, one like an animal might make. The kind you never forget.
I watch as my father comforts her. “She’s just a girl, darling.”
“She could have alerted us.” She throws up her hands and then when she can’t figure out what else to do with them, she covers her face. I watch as my father rubs her back. He uses small circles. I’m old enough to know my shapes. “She could have done something, Charles. You know she could have.”
I look on from inside the window that overlooks the backyard. There are men in jackets, men taking photos. Police people are talking to mommy and daddy.
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sp; My sister’s lifeless body lies beside the pool. She looks like she is sleeping. But I know she is not.
“Watch me jump Melly. Watch me.”
“You’re not supposed to,” I said. “Mommy and Daddy are sleeping.”
She climbed higher on the diving board. “You’re such a baby,” she teased. “Who cares?” She bounced. “I’m a big girl. I can swim,” she told me, her knees knocking together. Once. Twice. Three times. Her face lit up with that Cheshire cat-like grin she used on mommy and daddy. “Not like you.”
“I’m telling.” I meant to run inside. I meant to, but I couldn’t look away.
“You’re such a tattle-tale.”
