The Marriage Lie

by Kimberly Belle

  I sigh, trying to settle my thoughts, but there are too many, and I’m too tired. The exhaustion has made me sluggish, like my brain cells are swimming through sorghum syrup. I lean my head on the headrest and close my eyes, just for a second.

  A warm palm wraps around my wrist. “Iris, did you hear me?”

  “I heard you.” I open my eyes and sigh, reaching for the car door. “Let’s get this over with.”

  * * *

  When you know what to look for, spotting a lie is pretty easy. You see it in the fidgets and sudden head movements or sometimes, when the person is overcompensating, through no movements at all. In how their breathing changes, or how they provide too much information, repeating phrases and offering up irrelevant details. In the way they shuffle their feet or touch their mouths or put a hand to their throats. It’s basic psychology, physical signals that the body doesn’t agree with the words coming out of its mouth.

  So when Detective Johnson asks me what my relationship was with Corban Hayes, I meet her gaze with a perfectly calm face. “He was a friend of Will’s from the gym.”

  The three of us are huddled in my driveway, Evan and I shoulder to shoulder, Detective Johnson scribbling furiously onto a pad. The dogs are finally quiet, but the air is chilly and the street busy.

  By now the media has gotten wind of the evening’s drama. Their vans line the curb, satellite dishes pointed to the stars. A dozen or so reporters are lined up in front of them, aiming their cameras and microphones up my lawn. Evan shifts his big body in front of mine, doing his best to keep my face off the morning news.

  Detective Johnson keeps going like they’re not even there. “What time did he arrive?”

  “Around ten or so.” I keep my tone even and breathing steady, and I answer only the question that is asked. Nothing more, nothing less.

  “Why did he stay so long?”

  “Because he had this crazy idea that my husband was still alive. He claimed Will owed him money.”

  She raises her brows at the crazy. “Last Thursday, when you came to see me with a statement, you agreed. When I asked you if you were positive your husband was on that plane, you said no. You thought he might still be alive, too.”

  “It’s been an emotional couple of weeks.”

  Tell the truth, but misleadingly—that is the key to lying.

  Detective Johnson scribbles my answer onto her pad followed by a big question mark. I know her next question before she poses it.

  “What about now? Do you think your husband is still alive now?”

  I mold my face into a half-amused frown. “That would make me as crazy as Corban, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s not exactly an answer.”

  Her response isn’t exactly a question, either—one I’m not about to touch.

  “Mrs. Griffith, did your husband own a gun?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Did he ever go hunting or to the shooting range?”

  “You’re asking if he knew how to use a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Again, not that I’m aware of.”

  “That’s enough. It’s late.” Evan swings an arm around my shoulders. “I’ll call you in the morning to set up a time for the full interview, as soon as Mrs. Griffith is rested.”

  Detective Johnson doesn’t look happy about it, but she relents. Her gaze burns between my shoulder blades as I turn toward Evan’s car.

  The reporters are ready, and they take off like racehorses released from the gate, sprinting across the lawn with their microphones and cameras bobbing. They shout my name and a jumbled slew of questions I can’t decipher.

  “No comment,” Evan barks, holding them off with an arm, and then he packs me into his SUV. Two seconds later, his engine roars underneath us, and we peel away.

  “You should rest,” he says as soon as we’re around the corner. The radio is on, the volume turned low to some country station, and the car smells like Evan, leather and spice. “I’ll wake you when we get there.”

  I sink deeper into the seat with a loud yawn. “Where’s there?”

  “My house. And before you say a word, I’m not taking you to a hotel, so don’t even ask.”

  I don’t ask. I’m too tired to argue anyway. I close my eyes, barely even noticing that I’m drifting off.

  31

  I awaken in a strange room, and it takes me a second or two to remember where I am. Evan’s guest room, with its private bath and lock on the door. He was right; the bed is beyond comfortable. I stretch out over the king-sized mattress, wondering how I got here. The last thing I remember was Evan telling me to rest. When my eyes slid shut, we hadn’t even made it out of my neighborhood yet.

  Last night’s events play out in freeze-frames in my mind. A black body sliding from the shadows of my front room. Will’s voice in my ear, telling me to get out. Corban’s lecherous grin. His brains splattered on my den wall, his skull leaking a thick and gooey puddle onto the carpet. So, so much blood.

  Without warning, a wave of nausea pitches up my throat. I lurch out of bed and sprint to the toilet, barely making it on time. My last meal was ages ago, and there’s little in my stomach, but I throw it all up, over and over, until all that’s left is bile. I flush the sick down, but the dizziness doesn’t pass.

  Will was there, I’m sure of it. He was, what, twenty feet away? His voice haunts me—Iris, get out of there. I’m on my way. Despite Corban’s threats and my terror, the only thing I felt when Will’s words traveled down the line was relief. Relief that he was alive, that he was coming for me, that finally, after all the heartache and drama, I would see him again.

  And now? Now all I feel is a ten-ton weight of disappointment that I didn’t and a looming sense of dread for what comes next.

  I brush my teeth with a new toothbrush and mini tube of toothpaste on the bathroom counter, select a T-shirt and pair of yoga leggings from the stack of Susanna’s clothes Evan left on the dresser for me, then make my way into the hall.

  Evan’s house is gorgeous. High ceilings, generous moldings, sunny, spacious rooms decorated in neutral colors, each one prettier than the next. I take my time moving down the hall, swinging my head left and right, admiring Susanna’s exquisite taste, until I come to a closed door. The last room on the left, and I know whose it is. If I push the door open, I’m certain the walls inside will be painted pink.

  By the stairs, I pause at a wall of framed photographs, wedding portraits and vacation snapshots interspersed with more recent baby pictures. A black-and-white shot of a gorgeous dark-haired woman is in the dead center, a tiny infant on her chest. My heart twists for two people I never knew, but mostly for the man I hear banging around downstairs. How does he walk by this picture every day? Does he cover his eyes? Does he look away? I wouldn’t be able to stand it.

  I pad downstairs, where the scent of something scorched wrings another wave of nausea from my empty stomach. I wait until it passes, then follow the noise into a chef’s kitchen, dark cabinets and gleaming stainless appliances. Evan stands behind the island, slicing a red pepper into long, thin strips on a chopping block.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He glances up, then sucks a breath, quick and sudden, through his nose. It’s a reflex, one of those involuntary responses to pain, the lung’s version of a flinch. I know because it happens to me, too, those memories that slam into me when I least expect them.

  “Sorry,” I say, already backing out of the room. “I’ll go change.”

  “No. No, that’s okay, I’m fine.” He clears his throat, shakes his head. “Well, not fine fine, but I will be. Soon.”

  This is why I didn’t want to come. Because I’d be stepping into memories that aren’t mine, treading onto territory where I don’t belong or feel welcome.

  “Y
ou sure?” I pluck at Susanna’s T-shirt. “Because I don’t mind.”

  “No, keep ’em on. Yours are filthy. I figured y’all were about the same size.” He waves me in with the blade of his knife, gestures to a seat across the island. “Come on in, sit down. I’m just making dinner.”

  Dinner? I look around for a clock. “What time is it?”

  “Just past six. You slept for almost seventeen hours.”

  My eyes go wide, and I sink into a stool. “Seventeen hours, how is that even possible? I haven’t slept that long since...since junior year, when Scott Smith gave me mono. And I did it without one of my brother’s little blue pills.”

  Evan snorts. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned these past two weeks, it’s that grief is exhausting.”

  “I need to call my boss. He’s—”

  “No need, I already talked to Ted. Your mom, too. She’s a trip, by the way. She said to call her the second you get a chance. Ted said to take however long you need.”

  “What about the police?”

  “Detective Johnson was a great deal less understanding. She said if you weren’t awake by the morning, she was coming over here to see for herself. I assured her that wouldn’t be necessary, that we would drop by the station first thing tomorrow to make a statement.”

  “Did she give you any news?”

  “Some. I thought I’d fill you in over dinner. Then we’ll hammer out a plan.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder to the stove, where black steam is rising from a pan like a smokestack. “I’m making enchiladas.”

  “Okay, but, um...” I point, and Evan turns to look. He lunges for the pan, jerking it up off the gas, but it’s too late. The contents are already chunks of charred cement.

  He dumps it, pan and all, into the sink and turns on the water with a hiss. “New plan. What do you like on your pizza?”

  * * *

  “I want to come stay with you,” Mom says into the phone, and I picture her standing in her foyer with her overnight bag, car keys clutched in a fist. “When can I come?”

  I’m seated at Evan’s kitchen table, watching him scrub the pan with steel wool and elbow grease. He doesn’t seem to be making any progress. Every time he rinses the soap off to check, he starts in all over again.

  “As soon as I get my house back.” Unlike Mom’s voice, shrill and verging on hysterical, I’m careful to keep mine even. “It’s still a crime scene, and I’m still at Evan’s.”

  When he hears his name, he gives me a chin lift.

  “That sweet man,” Mom says. “Give him a big hug from me, will you? Tell him I can’t thank him enough. Tell him right now.”

  A warm rush of affection pushes a smile up my cheeks, because Mom’s right. Evan Sheffield is a gem. He’s one of the good guys. Despite the horrendous calamity that collided our two worlds together, I feel like I’ve somehow won a prize.

  “Mom says she can’t thank you enough.”

  Evan looks up from the sink with a grin, then flips off the faucet and chucks the pan in the trash. “Tell her I like pie. Cherry especially.”

  I do, and Mom promises to bake him one very soon. She sighs, a long release of stress and relief. “I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

  We chat a bit longer, but I don’t tell her about talking to Will. I’m not ready. I need to hammer out a plan with Evan first; and until I’m certain about what I’m going to say to Detective Johnson, I don’t want to involve anyone else, least of all my mother, in either lies or half-truths. I plead exhaustion and promise a longer call tomorrow, and then we hang up.

  Evan slides an icy bottle of beer across the table to me and sinks into a chair. “The police found the missing AppSec money.”

  “All of it?”

  “Almost all. Looks like it’s short a couple hundred grand.” He pauses to take a swig. “They found the statements on Corban’s computer.”

  The realization is like the unveiling of a statue, when someone whips off the sheet and all is revealed. My understanding is that instant. I don’t wonder for a second how the money got there, or why.

  “Will. He put it there to frame Corban.”

  Evan shrugs, but his expression says he doesn’t disagree. “Corban worked at the bank that handled all of AppSec’s transactions. He—”

  “Moved the stock to a company he controlled in the Bahamas, then sold it for top price. I know. Corban told me a thousand times. But why would Will leave all the money? If he went to all that trouble to steal it, why not leave just enough to implicate Corban and take the rest?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t only about implicating Corban. Maybe it was also about clearing suspicions. With the money accounted for, the police wouldn’t have any reason to look for him.”

  “Except now they suspect him of murder.”

  “Maybe. But as far as I can gather, they have very little to go on beyond a trampled-down patch of grass by your shed and the bullet the coroner dug out of Corban’s skull. Pretty useless until they can find the gun it came from.”

  “Which they won’t.” I don’t know what Will did with it, but I know this for a fact: that gun will never be found.

  Evan takes a long drag from his bottle and shakes his head. “Before last night, I would have said no way. No way can somebody execute that kind of crime without making a mistake. Nobody is that smart. But your husband just might be, because while all this is going down here, Liberty Air retrieved his briefcase from the crash site. It was pretty wrecked and filthy, and it’s been rained on repeatedly, but his laptop was still in one piece. It’s being sent to the lab for analysis, but who knows what, if anything, they’ll be able to pull off there.”

  I do. I know what they’ll be able to pull off there—nothing. Not one speck of evidence that Will was involved in any way in the AppSec heist. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that every single byte they manage to pull from that machine will prove without a shadow of a doubt exactly the opposite, that Will was an ideal employee who wouldn’t dream of stealing a dime.

  “Look, I consider you a friend, which means I appreciate the dilemma you’re in. If the police find evidence that Will’s still alive, if they can pin Corban’s death on him, Will is going to prison. No doubt about it. I know after everything, seeing that happen would be devastating.”

  I nod, waiting for the “but” that’s coming at me like a missile.

  “But. As your attorney, I have to counsel you not to lie. Perjury is a crime, and it’s a serious offense. Spousal privilege says you don’t have to reveal the contents of the phone call, but if they ask if you’ve spoken to Will since the crash, and you say something I know to be false, our confidentiality still applies, but I won’t be able to defend you.”

  “I understand. And I wouldn’t put you in that position.”

  “You came awfully close last night.” His words are firm, but his tone is gentle.

  “I won’t do it again.”

  “Fair enough.” He nods, slapping both his hands on the table as if the matter’s settled. “So any idea what you’re going to say? It’ll work in both of our favors if I get a heads-up before we walk into there tomorrow morning.”

  I picture my husband standing in the shadows by the shed, his face hard with fury, aiming a gun at a man through my window. I picture him pulling the trigger without hesitation, sending that bullet flying down its deadly path, and my stomach sours. Yes, he did it for me, to save me, but still. Will murdered a man, shot him dead and, when it comes down to it, all over a pile of money.

  And then I see my husband down on his knee in that Kroger aisle, his face equal parts nervousness and hope, when he said those four little words I’d been waiting to hear. Will you marry me? I remember the joy that sparkled inside, the tears that fell down my smiling cheeks as I told him yes. Yes yes yes.

  Can I really come cle
an? Can I really tell the police my husband is alive? That he’s a murderer?

  I close my eyes. “I have no idea.”

  The doorbell rings, heralding the arrival of dinner. “Think about it and let me know, okay?” Evan says, wrapping a palm around mine before he stands. “You do what you need to do. If I can’t be your lawyer, I’ll always be your friend.”

  32

  I settle the last from the tray of purple phlox into the soil at my mailbox and pat the dirt all around. It’s a glorious Sunday morning, and Atlanta’s spring has made a spectacular appearance. Bright sunshine, low humidity and flowers everywhere—in window boxes, lining the streets, in great pink and white bursts on dogwoods and cherry trees. The blooms blanket the city with a layer of yellow pollen, choking me with allergies as thick as my dread.

  It’s day thirty-three, not that I’m counting, and still no sign of Will.

  “There are more than twelve thousand surveillance cameras in this city, and that number keeps growing,” Detective Johnson said to me only a few days ago. “You can’t make it through a day here without being recorded somewhere.”

  Her words were as much a promise as a warning. According to Liberty Airlines and the Georgia Department of Public Health, William Matthew Griffith is dead. According to Detective Johnson and the Atlanta Police Department, however, the matter isn’t so clear. Corban’s killer has not been found. Will’s DNA has not been pulled from the wreckage, either.

  But since there’s a death certificate, there were a flurry of letters going back and forth between the insurance companies and Evan’s firm, and last week he handed me a trio of checks with long lines of zeros. I did as Evan advised and deposited them into an interest-bearing account until we know for sure—which, of course, I already do.

  But as of today, I’m the only one.

  Will covered his tracks well. The police couldn’t trace any of the phone numbers back to him. Not from my cell, and not from Corban’s. They couldn’t find a single file on the recovered computer to implicate Will in the embezzlement. The only reason they have to suspect he’s alive at all is me—because I told Detective Johnson the truth. That morning I made my statement was like a cleanse, flushing out all the toxins. I told her everything, starting the morning of the crash. She didn’t seem surprised, but until she finds hard evidence either way—alive or dead—she said it’s best not to touch a cent of the money.