Welcome to My Nightmare Brooklyn
Welcome to My Nightmare
Brooklyn
I’m grateful to find that Eden is true to her word: Her place really is only ten minutes from the airport.
The taxi drives under the signs to Hartsfield, then dives off the next exit.
We pass an impossibly green golf course and do a few more turns before pulling up in front of a stone-and-siding two-story Craftsman with a cute dormer jutting out of what was probably once an attic.
There is a wraparound porch with triangular pillars, and the neighbors to the west are in their yard, decorating for the holidays.
Eden comes out onto the porch, and they wave at her. My blood pressure drops a notch. I’ve been berating myself for agreeing to this, but Eden is clearly a part of the neighborhood and is a trusted member of the airline. There’s no way Matheson would have let her be involved if she weren’t.
Eden comes down the stairs into the driveway. I shove my last bit of cash into the cabbie’s hand, and Eden helps with the bags. The kids spill out of the car with whoops, and I shush them, but Eden laughs. “Let them hoot and holler. They’ve been cooped up all day.”
“You’re very good with kids.”
She simply nods. “They’re good kids. I’m so glad you called me.”
“Thank you for bailing us out. This is a cute neighborhood.”
“This area is called College Park. A few of us from work bought a house together several years ago. It had been renovated and was just perfect for us. Since we travel so much, we’re always in and out.
But last year, my housemates got transferred to Chicago, so it’s just me now.
They stay when they come through, but it’s been a while since I had company.
” She grins. “That’s a long way of saying things are a little bit of a mess, but I have plenty of room. ”
I don’t want to pry, don’t want to ask, but all the questions are bubbling in my head: Are you divorced? Widowed? Never married? Have a partner? Are your kids grown? Live with their dad? Why are you alone here? What is your story?
Why are you so convinced you know my husband?
It’s hard not to try to find common ground, the way wary dogs circle one another upon meeting.
Two women of childbearing age, on the surface, usually have a lot in common, but I’ve found that it’s better to let people offer up bits of themselves instead of prying.
Observe, interpret, then speak. I bite back my questions.
We have plenty of time. I want to get the kids taken care of first.
“No problem. I’m sure it’s totally great.
This place is adorable—Margot will love it.
She’s a designer, Craftsman houses are a favorite.
” The kids finish their laps around the driveway and scamper onto the porch, launching themselves at the swing.
They don’t seem to notice the cold. I argue with them to wear their coats all the time. Internally charged, like batteries.
“Guys, careful.” All we need is for the swing to go crashing through Eden’s front window and rack up more expenses.
There’s nothing to pay for it with, because Trey stole all our money. What in the hell is happening?
“That’s my favorite place, too,” Eden says to them indulgently. “You get comfy, there’s a blanket on the back there, and I’ll go get dinner ready. Pizza!” She claps her hands at the kids, who shout happily back.
“Yay!”
“You two do not leave this porch, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mom,” Four says. “We’ll watch for Daddy. He’s coming, right?”
“I’m trying to reach Daddy now. He had an errand to run. I’m sure he’ll call soon.”
Wow, lying to the kids, Brook. Great precedent.
Neve and Four clamber onto the swing, talking full speed about something silly. I barely hear. I take their bags inside, one by one.
The house is decidedly not a mess. The oak floors are stained dark, the walls are painted a bright white, and a trail bike hangs from the staircase wall.
It looks almost sterile, but if Eden is traveling all the time, that makes sense.
There’s no holiday decor—no real decor, period.
Hmm. It’s not the cozy home I expected based on the woman’s open personality, but who am I to judge?
We continue the getting-to-know-you dance gently, pirouetting around one another.
I answer general questions about Nashville and our aborted plans for Italy, hear about Eden’s last trip, a five-day marathon, winging her way to and fro across the country, presenting annual accounting numbers to the airline’s partners, all the while screaming internally: Trey didn’t just walk out of our lives. Did he?
You know damn well he did. He took the money systematically so you wouldn’t notice, and given the first opportunity, he ran.
Anger is crowding out the confusion and dismay now. I need to keep my head. This is Trey. My husband. My lover. The father of my children. He is not a criminal. Something else is happening. I just need to figure it out.
Eden’s gone quiet, as if she knows I’m not paying attention to her story. She is very intuitive, very aware. And very earnest. I sense her curiosity about me as clearly as mine about her. It makes me uncomfortable. Do I make her uncomfortable, too?
As if to prove our worthiness to one another, we prattle on with the nonsense, talk about the weather and holiday decorating. She tours the upstairs with me, gives me a large guest room, shows me a similar space across the hall for the kids, then points to her own room at the end of the hall.
“I’ll let you get settled. See you downstairs.”
There’s a Jack-and-Jill bath that hooks the two guest rooms together, well appointed with fluffy towels and loads of specialty soaps, a whole basket of them.
I look through the bathroom quickly for recording devices, cameras, or holes—I can’t help myself, I do it everywhere we go: restaurants, libraries—and find nothing amiss.
I deflate and take the opportunity for some quiet time, shutting the bathroom door and trying to puzzle through the afternoon.
Without food and knowledge and under duress, I can’t fight back the sobs anymore.
I bury my face in a lavender-scented towel and finally allow myself a moment.
Imagine my husband, imagine him plotting his escape. Lying to me, lying to his boss. The passport is bothering me—if Bob didn’t get it for him, who did? Or was that a ruse, too? Was the courier last night just a part of the show?
The plan must have been to bail on us at Heathrow, which would make it even more difficult to track him down, since he would be in another country. Buy him a lot more time to get away. That would explain why he flipped out when the flight was rerouted.
So, where has he gone from here? He left the airport, and he would certainly have been noticed if he’d returned. His name has probably been put on some sort of watch list, right? I’ll have to ask Eden; she’ll know more about airport procedures.
We’re four hours of drive time without traffic from home, and Atlanta is a big city. He could slip into the fabric of the city or the countryside and easily disappear.
But couldn’t he have done that from Nashville, too? Why would he take us along at all if he were running away? Unless he needs me for some of the back-end accounting or something?
Or he loves you. He got himself into trouble and didn’t want to worry you. He loves the kids, too, and was trying to protect all of you. He took you away from a situation that you’re unaware of, that he hid from you, so he could keep you safe.
Yeah, right. I’m dreaming now. If he’s moving money into overseas bank accounts and crypto wallets, he’s into something way bigger than my imagination can cook up.
Trey is a money guy; that’s his job, his career, so of course I trusted him to manage our finances.
Now I’m kicking myself for signing over control of things to his discretion.
But who expects their kind, upstanding, homebody, double-mocha-latte, star-dancing husband to embezzle from their joint accounts?
None of this makes sense. It’s like something from a movie. From a nightmare. From a true crime podcast, something Margot listens to. This isn’t my life. This isn’t how things end up. I know it.
But here I am, in a stranger’s house, and my husband is completely missing.
As I step into the hall, my phone buzzes. I look down to see a text message from a number I don’t recognize.
I will fix this. Don’t trust anyone.
My heart takes off at a gallop. Trey.
Where are you? I type, saying the words aloud in a whispered prayer.
I’ll meet you in Venice. Go straight there when you land. Don’t stay in Milan, don’t check into the hotel.
But we’re in Atlanta. We got off the plane. Where. Are. You?
You’re not on the plane?
No. When you didn’t show up, we got off. All our money is gone, Trey. The cards are turned off. Can’t you just call me? Explain what the hell is going on?
Nothing. No dots. I wait. And wait, my fury rising with each heartbeat.
This is ridiculous. And unacceptable. We’re at Eden Barrow’s house. Please, Trey. Tell me what’s happening.
You are not safe there. Leave. As quickly as possible. Go now. Go home.
And as I watch, each message disappears before my very eyes. What in the world? It’s like there’s a self-destruct. Even the contact is gone. There’s no way to get in touch with him.
This is exactly what happened with the email. On text, I know the messages can be unsent. I didn’t know the contact could be erased, too.
The worst thought hits me. If that even was Trey. I have no idea if it was really him. He didn’t speak to me with love or use language I’m familiar with. But I don’t know my husband anymore. He’s a stranger, as much as Eden Barrow.
Damn it, now what do I do? Should I call the police back and tell them Trey texted me? Call Margot and tell her? Or are they watching me, watching my phone—whoever “they” are?
A part of me is relieved. At least he’s okay. Maybe. Not dead in a ditch somewhere. That doesn’t help my anger, though. I am incandescent.
Eden’s voice calls from downstairs.
“Time to eat!”
Don’t trust anyone, he said. You are not safe.
If I am so unsafe, why isn’t he by my side, protecting me? If I’m not safe, why the hell did he leave?
Screw this.
I close my phone. I already know what the police are going to say. “You need to come into the station, file this report in person.”
Margot’s going to say, “I’m coming, don’t move.”
I hazard a glance in the mirror above the sink, aghast at the change in me already.
I’ve gone from carefree mom on holiday to haggard and desperate in what seems like a heartbeat.
I wash my face, drag a brush through my hair, put it up in a ponytail, and grab my heavy sweater from my bag. Look again. No better.
No question about it now—I have to get home.
But before I leave, I want to talk to Eden and to the cop. Maybe her detective friend will have some answers for me.
My phone chimes again. Another text, from another number I don’t recognize.
This time, though, I know the message is meant for me.
Bring us the money he stole, every dime of it, or he dies.