The Wife: A Novel of Psychological Suspense

by Alafair Burke

  As I was walking to the bus stop, a white Lexus SUV stopped and rolled down the passenger window. “Need a ride?”

  “I’m good,” I said. The 10B ran a loop all the way through Springs. It was practically door-to-door service.

  “You sure? Walking on the road in the dark’s not exactly safe.”

  He had a point. Only a few weeks ago, a minivan had swerved to pass a turning car and run right into Corey Littleton on his bike. He was going to spend the entire summer with a cast on his leg.

  He offered another gentle nudge. “Plus . . . no bonfire.” He made a brrrr motion.

  It was the first of many clever things he did to work his way into my brain. To this day, I don’t really know whether I actually recalled seeing him around the fire. But that comment sealed my impression that he had been there, too.

  I got into the car, and just like that, I was gone.

  I don’t know why no one from that bonfire remembered seeing me. Maybe they had all left town by the time my mom started blanketing the South Fork with my photographs. Or maybe I just wasn’t that memorable.

  But because my parents didn’t know I’d been at the beach that night, they didn’t know what time I went missing. All they could tell the police was that I was gone when they came home from work. It didn’t help that when the police called Trisha’s to see what she knew, her mom said she hadn’t been home for three days. Once Trisha did return, she said she “didn’t think” I’d run away without telling her, because that was the kind of thing Trisha would say.

  I didn’t come home for another three years, and when I did, I had not only my reappearance but one-year-old Spencer to explain. My mother went from the woman searching for her missing daughter to the lady who told everyone it was “none of their beeswax” who Spencer’s father was. The Mullens had made their decision—better I be seen as yet another single teenage mom than as a freak show for life. As I had explained to Jason too many times, they were protecting my privacy. But they were also protecting me.

  I smoked pot. I was partying. I was bad. I got in the stranger’s car. And then I stayed in that house with him for three years.

  If some intrepid blogger decided to out me, I knew how that story would read; I know it’s only human nature to blame the victim. After all, wasn’t I the woman who was helping my husband’s lawyer paint Rachel Sutton as the “kind of girl” who would lie about her professor, even as a pair of Jason’s boxer shorts was hiding in the bottom of my gym bag? I, of all people, knew I did not want to be the Rachel in the story.

  13

  When Jason’s alarm pierced the silence at 5:30 the next morning, I wasn’t sure whether I had ever managed to fall asleep. Every time I turned to face Jason, he was dozing peacefully, but I had no way of knowing whether it was from a lack of worry or the sleeping pill he took before turning off the light.

  He hit the snooze button, rolled onto his side, and pulled me into a tight spoon position. “You’re awake,” he whispered. “Did you sleep at all?”

  “I think so. You’re getting up already?” I assumed he would want to stay home under the circumstances.

  “I’m not letting some twit turn me into a recluse. Colin seems to think that lawyer will be able to shut this whole thing down fairly quickly. In the meantime, we have to go on with our lives.”

  Knowing his mind was made up, I told him that he was right. But unlike most days, he stayed in bed with me for two full snooze cycles. When the alarm sounded a third time, he kissed the back of my neck, told me he loved me, and made his way into the shower.

  I was on my iPad, googling his name, when his phone let out a single staccato buzz on the nightstand. I never look, but that morning I did. It was his calendar reminding him of an appointment at noon. The event was entered simply as “Kerry.”

  He was buttoning his shirt cuffs when I pretended to wake up again. “You’re still home,” I said with a sleepy smile.

  “Sorry for the noise.”

  “No, I like knowing you’re here. So what do you have scheduled for today?”

  “Not much. I’m going to make a point of going to campus. If those petty fuckers think I’m in hiding, they’ll start circling like wolves. They need to know that I have every intention of fighting back if they try to get rid of me.”

  I suggested he find a way to remind the dean that at least three of Jason’s senior colleagues were married to former students. “Anything scheduled, or do you think you might be able to come home early?”

  The pause that followed felt long, but could have been completely imagined, like what I perceived as a quick glance at the cell phone that had buzzed minutes earlier. He popped a piece of Nicorette from his nightstand into his mouth.

  “Just a lunch meeting with someone from Oasis.”

  The name sounded familiar, but he could tell from my blank expression that I was having trouble filling in the details.

  “The world needs water?” he said as a prompt.

  Their slogan.

  Jason’s early academic scholarship applied principles of moral philosophy to corporate governance practices. I made a habit of reading his articles, but had a hard time understanding them. The book that made him famous was a pop version of his ivory-tower work, weaving together liberal politics, corporate scandals, and stories across history and cultures to demonstrate a correlation between economic health and equal treatment of citizens. His consulting group, FSS, was an outgrowth of his academic work. In theory, he was an adviser to corporations, teaching them how to maximize profits by following guiding principles of morality and equality. But he also paired corporate clients with financial clients, essentially endorsing private, for-profit entities to investors who supported his theories.

  As I understood it, Oasis specialized in bringing clean water to different parts of the world. A few months earlier, Jason had been working nearly full-time, counseling and finding financing for Oasis until something happened to give him pause.

  “Is the meeting about that problem you mentioned?” I asked.

  “Did I mention that?”

  “Well, not in detail.”

  He looked up from the belt he was buckling. “You’re actually interested?”

  “Of course.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed. “They may not be as kosher as everyone thinks.”

  “Well, that’s not good. Water sort of needs to be clean?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not the water itself that’s the problem. Oasis is a major up-and-comer on the CSR lists because of the substance of what they do: treating and transporting water. They’re on the cutting edge of developing systems for global water security—basically, making sure the entire world has access. It’s truly transformative stuff. But as usual, too many of the CSR gatekeepers are idiots.”

  I was following so far. The CSR lists ranked companies based on their “corporate social responsibility.” Jason’s book and podcast had brought those lists into the mainstream, exposing the general public to their existence, but also demonstrating how companies can manipulate the CSR rankings for marketing purposes. A retailer, for example, might tout its “green” operations—reusable bags, organic foods, energy-saving operations—while capping employee hours to avoid paying for health benefits. Jason had made a name for himself by publicly shaming several Fortune 500 companies and the so-called analysts who supported them without due diligence. Jason’s stamp of approval was now the gold star of the CSR world. His consulting company helped companies develop CSR policies and paired worthwhile firms with major financial backers.

  “So what did the others miss?” I asked.

  “The technology itself is worth nothing if it’s not implemented where it’s needed most,” he said. “Getting clean water to Arizona is great, but getting it into farms and villages in remote parts of the world is the game changer. Needless to say, the potential for corruption in that process is huge.”

  “And you found corruption?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I�
�m not sure. But yeah, I think so. The books don’t look right. Inconsistent payments to local vendors that don’t line up to actual work or equipment. It reeks of massive kickbacks—basically bribing the power brokers to get into the territory.”

  “Is that really all that bad, if it means the locals get water?”

  “Except my entire life’s work is about not making those kinds of compromises. We don’t pollute the planet to create jobs, or use slave labor to bring the Internet to developing nations. Sorry, I’m ranting. In this particular case, it’s not only the usual tradeoffs. Given the region I’m talking about, that money might have gone to terrorists and warlords.”

  Jason was more animated than I’d seen him in days.

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t prove my suspicions, but I also can’t turn a blind eye. Basically, I’ve got a conflict of interest. Oasis is my client, but so are the investors I paired them with. Plus, there’s my own reputation.”

  “Your ‘brand,’” I added with air quotes, because I knew how much the word irked him.

  “Precisely. And most importantly, at the end of the day, I need to be able to look at myself in the mirror and believe I’ve done the right thing. So, yeah, if anything’s been weighing on me, it’s been this clusterfuck, not the nonsense with what’s-her-name.”

  Rachel Sutton, I said to myself. She had a name.

  “I’m hoping the lunch meeting I’m having today might help. I’ve been trying for a month and a half to get one of my contacts at Oasis to come clean and do the right thing.”

  I told him that I was sorry he had so much on his plate at one time.

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who decided to take all this on. You of all people warned me.” He kissed me on the head. “You smell so good.” He kissed me one more time on the cheek and stood up. “I’ll try to be back home by the time Spencer gets out of school. Maybe we can pick him up together, stop at Agata on the way home for lamb chops?”

  “Sounds great.” I pictured the two of us standing outside Spencer’s school, holding hands in front of all the gossipy moms. He had a point about going face-to-face with the circling wolves. He had his pack, I had mine.

  When I heard the front door close, I tapped the top of my iPad screen and typed in “Oasis Water Kerry.”

  Within a few clicks, I confirmed that the vice president of marketing for Oasis Inc. was a woman named Kerry Lynch. That was my husband’s lunch meeting, exactly as he had told me.

  I felt silly for checking.

  14

  Spencer was already scrambling eggs in the kitchen when I walked downstairs. He had two small plates on the counter, plus a jar of salsa.

  I remember the first time I realized that my son was a stronger person than I’d ever been. He was in half-day kindergarten. I’d mistimed the baking of a batch of mini quiches for a client’s cocktail party and couldn’t leave. Mom was cleaning a house. As I had way too many times, I asked Dad if he could pick Spencer up from school. His legs were killing him by then, and he moved so slow. He showed up probably seven minutes after I would have.

  When the two of them returned, Spencer tossed his backpack on the kitchen table, declared that he was ready for “taste-testing duty,” and then rated my latest creations “five-star nosh.” He disappeared to our room—the one we still shared at my parents’ house, the one I’d grown up in—as if everything were normal.

  Dad broke the news. When he pulled up in front of the school, he saw Spencer on the ground, two boys standing over him. He managed to get out of his car in time to hear the gist of the boys’ comments. Why did he have the same last name as the one his mom grew up with? Why didn’t he have a dad? Everyone knows your mom ran away and came back with a bastard baby.

  The boys took off when they saw my father headed their way. “I thought you should know,” Dad told me. “I still think we made the right decision, but it’s always up to you. Oh, and for what it’s worth, I recognized the biggest kid as Tony Faulkner’s boy. I’m half tempted to drive to that hellhole of a house and have a word with him.”

  “That’s a bad idea, Dad.”

  Dad shook his head, but said nothing else. The hellhole in question was a multi-acre lot off Three Mile Harbor where multiple generations of Faulkners resided. The Faulkner family was despised throughout the East End, but the topic of their family was especially touchy in our house. Mom and Dad still believe that my entire life might have been different if it hadn’t been for my association with “that girl,” as they referred to Trisha.

  Tony Faulkner was Trisha’s youngest uncle, which would make the kid bullying Spencer her cousin. Based on what I knew about the things Faulkner men did to children, it did not surprise me at all that his son would already be screwed up.

  When I asked Spencer about it that night, he shrugged and insisted it was no big deal.

  “If you want to tell other kids where you were born, and why your last name is Mullen, you can.”

  Against my mother’s wishes, I told Spencer the truth about the circumstances of his birth the first time he asked me, on his fifth birthday. I also told him that my parents had made the decision for me at the time not to share the details with anyone. All they said to those brave enough to ask was that I was back home, and they were overjoyed to have their baby grandson, Spencer, at the house, too. Filling in the blanks, most people assumed I had run away, gotten pregnant, and then come home again. It was a way to protect my privacy—to let me start over without people asking me about “what happened” for the rest of my life—but none of us had stopped to think how it would eventually affect Spencer. At the time, I was the child who needed protecting. Spencer was just an extension of me.

  “They only went after me because of Luis,” Spencer said.

  “Who’s Luis?”

  “He’s a Mexican kid in our class. They were telling him that his parents work for free and that they’re taking jobs from all the people who were born here and that they don’t speak English right and stuff. So when I was captain of the kickball team, I picked Luis first and refused to pick any of them. It matters a lot when you get picked.”

  My six-year-old son, after everything he had been through, had stuck up for another kid.

  “Besides,” he added, “it’s not their beeswax.” He sounded exactly like my mother.

  “True, but it’s yours. I didn’t want you to think that you have to keep a secret or tell a lie. All I ask is that if you tell anyone, make sure that I know too, okay?”

  I’d been home for five years by then, and in that time I had told only one person where I’d been those years, and that was Susanna. If Spencer’s decisions were going to change that, I needed to be prepared.

  “It’s not a secret or a lie,” Spencer said. “It’s not anything, because I don’t remember not living here. And I don’t care where the other half of me came from. I’m a Mullen. I’m from you. And Grandma and Granddaddy.” He added with a smile, “And I was about to kick those kids’ asses before Granddaddy saved them.”

  Seven years later, as he carried a plate of eggs and the jar of salsa to the table, Spencer looked over my shoulder and caught me reading a website called Rate My Professors on my iPad, where there’s a chili pepper next to my husband’s name, indicating “hotness.”

  Spencer had to know why I was looking. It was now day two, and the Post had a follow-up story. With nothing new to report, they ran a “Who is Jason Powell?” piece, complete with quotes from online student reviews. “Distractingly smoking.” “Seems like he might be gettable.” “Sexy AF. I’d let him teach me anything he wants!”

  We’ve all read this book and seen this movie before: a potentially great man struck down by the lingering shadows of a scandal. Would-be presidents tarnished by extramarital affairs. Celebrities unable to find work after tape recordings emerge of their most hateful comments. Businesses boycotted for being on the wrong side of the cultural tide.

  I imag
ined Jason floating beside the other castaways. I pictured unsold copies of his book being returned to the warehouse, the loss of clients at his consulting company, and the university trying to strip him of tenure. What would happen to Spencer and me? What would everyone say about us?

  But if Spencer was worried, he wasn’t letting on. “Dad’s innocent,” he said. “Everyone else will realize that soon enough. And then everything will go back to normal.” There was not a shade of doubt in his voice.

  I squeezed his hand and said “I know,” then waited until he left for school to continue reading.

  I was alone when I heard a knock at the door an hour later.

  I looked through the peephole to see my mother glaring at our hideous brass knocker, the one I called the Vomiting Gargoyle, the one I’d meant to replace since we first closed on the house three years earlier. It took me a second to process that she was actually there, standing on my stoop. Ginny Mullen does not show up on doorsteps in Greenwich Village.

  I could count on one hand the number of times she had visited me in the city. Though they weren’t officially related to any of the original Bonacker families of the seventeenth century, she and my father were born and bred Islanders, with at least four generations settled in the Springs on both sides. But where their great-grandfathers were able to work with pride as fishermen and farmers, my parents worked service jobs (handyman for Dad, housework for Mom) for wealthy summer vacationers in the hopes of squirreling away enough money to make it through the rest of the year. My mother associated the city with the people who treated her as something less than human. She famously declined the opportunity to accompany my sixth-grade class to a Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall, explaining that all of New York City smelled of sweat, urine, garbage, and dirty money. When I told her I was marrying Jason, she told me, in this order, that she was happy for me, that Jason was a good man, and that “you better not let my grandson turn into a little asshole.”