“Uh, no. Not really. Not yet?”
“May I have your name?”
“Lillian Smith.”
I scoot forward and close my eyes, concentrating on the voice.
“How can I help you, Lillian?”
“I need to talk to someone about my husband. He’s angry at me. I’m worried...I just want to talk to someone. I just don’t see a way out of this.”
“Lillian, where are you now? Do we need to get you someplace safe?”
“I’ll have to call you back. I have to go. Maybe this was a mistake. I think...” She pauses. “I think it’d be easier on everyone if I just went away.”
“Lillian, listen to me. Let’s make an appointment for you to talk to someone. There are options—”
The recording ends and Gersh hits a key. “That’s it. Anything strike you as odd about the call?”
“Yeah.” I look at him and can tell that he already suspects what I’m about to say. “That’s not Lillian’s voice.”
“How certain are you?”
“One thousand fucking percent.”
CHAPTER 59
LILLIAN
Mike is alarmed, but I don’t know why. I also don’t know why he has a hidden camera in our kitchen pantry, but he watched footage of me taking our anniversary bourbon a half dozen times, then knocked over a lamp in anger. Maybe he cares for me more deeply than I thought, but my female intuition tells me that it’s something else.
He left the house an hour ago, after calling up to Jacob and being ignored. I waited for him to go upstairs, to try to talk to our son, but instead he headed for the garage and drove away.
Now I move upstairs and into Jacob’s room. He’s on his back in the middle of his mattress, music pounding through his speakers. It’s that horrible music, the kind where someone screams unintelligible words into a microphone while cymbals slam together. His eyes are closed and he is mumbling something. I put my ear very close to his mouth and realize he’s singing the words of the song—there are actually words to this.
I want to sit with him, to be with him, but I couldn’t stand this music when I was living and can’t take it when I’m dead, so I pass into the hall and start down the stairs. I’ll go into the backyard and lie in the hammock. I can’t make it move, but I can still smell the jasmineblooms and feel the sunshine and the breeze. It might be one of the last moments that I get to enjoy outside, before I fade away forever.
I’m smiling at the thought, my movements quicker, but then I round the hard right turn in the staircase and stop because there are two strangers in my house, and they are coming up the stairs toward me.
I stare at them, confused. My mother would describe them as swarthy—with thick muscles that are too big for their heights, their shoulders almost brushing the sides of our stairwell. One wears an Aerosmith T-shirt, the other a tank top, and they are creeping up the stairs in a silent fashion that scares the hell out of me.
These are not home repairmen, not with the stealthy way they move. And they’re missing the stiff haircuts and constipated expressions that mark Mike’s acquaintances. They’re also too old to be friends of Jacob’s. I stumble back, higher on the steps, and spot the gun in Aerosmith’s hand.
A gun.If I had a heart, it would freeze. All I can think of is Jacob. I claw at the framed pictures on the wall, but nothing happens. I run up the stairs and into my son’s room and scream at him, but he doesn’t move; he just lies there, his eyes still closed, one finger tapping against the front of his chest.
I am trying to do something, anything, but this is not a movie. There is no cosmic power in the air, nothing is rattling or shaking, and my son is just lying there, his mouth quietly moving along with the words of the song when they open his door and quietly move to either side of his bed. Aerosmith leans forward and presses the gun to Jacob’s forehead, and it is at that moment that his eyes flip open and everything in my vision fades to black.
CHAPTER 60
MIKE
Money should be moving by now. What’s going on?
I’m finishing a call with the detective and pulling into the coffee shop lot when the text arrives. I need my blood pressure cuff, because I’m fairly certain that I’m moving into problematic range, and my current blend of thinners and medications doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. Putting my Volvo into park, I take several deep breaths and work to calm the rapid beat of my heart.
My call with the detective didn’t help. I needed to know whether the liquor was still in Lill’s purse, in evidence. Asking the question had only seemed to raise Detective Gersh’s dislike and suspicion of me, but there had been no way around it. Unfortunately, his answer was to the negative. There had been no liquor bottle or box recovered at the beach scene or in her purse. Before I ended the call, he asked for me to stop by the station. We have an appointment in an hour.
My clients are not patient or understanding people. The idea that I may have misplaced Colorado’s encryption key is not something that will be received rationally or kindly. They will panic, immediately. I’ve never seen them panic—nor given them reason to—but eight years of perfect transactions mean nothing and would be forgotten in an instantif I were to lose the location of one of their minor cash accounts, much less Colorado.