Stick to the Facts
Downstairs, the air is charged. Something has changed. Something is happening.
Two faces stare up at me, and my feet drag on the staircase. I don’t want whatever is about to happen. I want to leave. Want to gather up my children and run.
You’ve made that impossible, though, haven’t you, Trey? You’ve put me in the crosshairs.
“Oh, there she is,” Eden says, overly buoyant in her greeting. “Kids okay?”
“They’re asleep. We should keep it down.”
“Oh, yes, sorry,” she stage-whispers. “This is Theresa Lee, my detective friend. She works for the Malogen Police Department—it’s a bit northeast of here. It’s where we grew up.”
The woman is petite, with a nimbus of curly silver hair and lively blue eyes. She puts out her hand. It is freezing. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances. You’ve had quite a day, I hear.” Her voice is gentle, her manner sincere, and my smile is genuine.
“It’s been . . . eventful.” I retrieve my glass of wine, topped up by the ever-helpful Eden, and join them in the living room.
Eden has turned on the fire. The gas smells particularly strong, and I immediately search for a carbon monoxide alarm.
It’s mounted on the ceiling by the fire alarm at the arched entrance to the kitchen, its green light blinking dutifully.
I take a sip for courage, then address the cop. “I’m not sure what Eden has told you about what happened today?”
“You tell me. Everything you remember. In your own words.” Detective Lee leans forward on the couch. No notebook or pen, just a very keen attitude.
A voice in the back of my mind warns me off. Stick to the facts for now, just what they know. Don’t implicate yourself, or him, yet.
I replay the day, moment by moment. She listens attentively.
“Before we go any further, can I see a photo of your husband?”
I open my phone and scroll to one I took over the summer.
It’s a favorite. Trey hates having his picture taken.
He usually makes some sort of weird face at me, or rolls his eyes, or otherwise messes up the shot.
But this one, I caught him unaware, a gentle smile on his beardless face, whiskey eyes keen and bright, watching the kids play in our backyard.
He is framed by a blooming pink crepe myrtle, dappled with sunshine.
I can practically smell the oniony scent of freshly cut grass and petrichor from the storm that had just passed through.
He didn’t realize I was across from him, and he didn’t even hear the snick of the phone’s camera.
I’ve never shown it to him. It’s private, for me, but it’s the best visual I have of him.
“It’s a fluke, I’m sure, that Eden thinks she knows him. He’s not from Georgia.”
My protests are starting to sound lame, even to me.
The cop looks at the photo for a very long time.
When she hands me back my phone, her face is troubled.
“That is, without a doubt, Andrew Locke,” she proclaims. “Those eyes . . . It’s impossible to replicate such a unique color.
He definitely knew Eden and her little sister, Chloe.
He grew up in Malogen. Elementary, junior high, high school.
His family still lives there. So do I. I’ve been on the force there my whole career. ”
The pit in my stomach grows wider. “I’ll have to take your word for it. To the best of my knowledge, my husband is from Connecticut.”
“All right. We can cover that in a bit. Run me through what happened on the plane again. He spoke to Eden, and then . . .”
“He told me she was mistaken, that he didn’t know her.
That she freaked him out.” Eden visibly stiffens at this.
“Sorry. He was being rather dramatic. And then he disappeared. All I could think was maybe he panicked about the idea of being trapped in a plane all night. There’s no other reason for him to leave. ”
“But then your credit cards . . .” Eden helpfully provides.
“Yes, our credit cards seem to have been closed for nonpayment. I haven’t had a chance to look closer at the situation.”
I’m not about to tell them that he’s systematically taken all our money over the past several months, grown a beard, booked a “surprise” trip to Europe, lied to his boss, and then apparently run out on us, presumably with our life’s savings in hand.
That he texted me a warning. That someone else is looking for the money he’s “stolen.” That he seemed shocked that I wasn’t in Italy, as we had planned.
I don’t trust this situation—these strangers.
As nice as the cop is, she’s attached to Eden, and the vibe off the woman is disconcerting.
And damn, I am such an idiot, sitting here talking and listening without even confirming this woman is a cop. Don’t trust anyone, he said—myself included.
“Can I see your badge?”
The cop immediately pulls it out of the collar of her button-down shirt. It’s strung on a chain around her neck, silver and thick, and I catch a cross there, too, nestled between the woman’s collarbones.
“I am very sorry, I should have given you my credentials to start. Forgive me. I am not here in an investigative position at the moment, only as a friend of Eden’s who wants to help if I can.
And to confirm that she is telling you the truth.
Andrew Locke, from Malogen, Georgia, is your husband, and I believe her when she says he was on that plane today. ”
“Then why would he say he didn’t know her? Why would he leave?”
A glance between the two women.
And again, why would he take us with him if he was stealing the money from the accounts? Why wouldn’t he just walk away, free and clear?
“We know what you did.”
“Bring us the money he stole, every dime of it, or he dies.”
He’s in serious trouble. I have to help him.
“Why does he hate to fly?” Lee asks.
“He gets claustrophobic. He normally drives everywhere, even long work trips.”
“Interesting.”
Eden looks at her friend again, this time expectantly. They think he’s weak. I can’t help but get defensive. Even though I’m furious with him, he’s still my husband.
“A lot of people hate to fly.”
“Yes, they do,” Lee says. “Your husband wasn’t one of them. At least, he didn’t used to be.”
Eden sits back and watches my face so intensely that I squirm in my seat and set my wine on the coffee table. One magazine, Architectural Digest. From last September. Unread. My hackles are up now. This isn’t a friendly conversation anymore.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You didn’t know that Trey used to be a pilot?”
I am so shocked at this ridiculous statement that I burst out laughing. “My Trey? Hardly. He gets green just driving past the airport.”
“Then that is a new development. Brooklyn, your husband attended the Air Force Academy. Trained to fly C-130s. But he ended his service early under a cloud of scrutiny during the investigation. He severed with the Air Force, received a general discharge, and then, after Chloe’s death, he disappeared.
We haven’t seen hide nor hair of him in a decade. ”
“She’s telling the truth,” Eden says, that strange glitter in her eyes.
“That’s . . . impossible.” But is it? Trey didn’t talk a lot about his life before we met.
Yes, we’ve talked about his parents, and the difficult relationship he had with them.
His father was abusive, emotionally and physically.
His mother didn’t stand up for him. He had a sibling, a baby brother, who died of SIDS when Trey was four, and after that, they were distant with him.
Present but distant. He often said they were more interested in being pillars of society than being his parents.
I thought it odd he wanted to use the family name for our son, but Trey was big on traditions.
He said he was naming Four after him, not his dad.
After Trey’s final blowup with his folks, he started traveling to escape the situation once and for all. Smart and capable, he moved around until he landed in Mexico and met me.
But that’s about all we’ve discussed. Not putting him through the blow-by-blow retelling of what is clearly a horribly painful story is my gift to him.
My husband is a good man. If he says his father isn’t one, then I believe him.
And it’s never been an issue before. He’s never given me a reason to force it out of him.
I’ve always known he’ll tell me what’s relevant about his past if and when he’s ready.
But none of our general conversations included him being an airman, or flying planes, or being married before. So maybe none of what he’s shared is true. Maybe it’s all just made up to make me sympathize with him. And he’s using me to some ends.
The idea that his life before was a complete fabrication stings deeply. Though, can I call it a fabrication? Lies of omission are just as hurtful as flat-out lies, aren’t they? Is this my fault for not pressing him harder to talk more about his past? Am I the fool here?
The answer to that is a painfully obvious Yes.
My phone buzzes again. I glance down at the screen.
Gonna kill him slow, Brooklyn. And then I’m coming for you. Tick tock.
Then it’s gone.
I lock the phone and turn it upside down on the table.
“I don’t know what sort of game you two are playing.
Is that why you were so insistent that I come home with you, Eden, and spend the night here?
To trap me? To slander my husband’s name?
” But even as I protest, my mind snags on a word—investigation.
The cop said the investigation. What the hell was that about?
“It’s not a game,” Eden says. “We’re not trying to trap you. It’s a coincidence, yes, that I happened to be there today and see everything go down. But if he didn’t tell you about his military service, there may be other things he hasn’t told you.”
Chloe’s death. The investigation. Missing money. Threats on my phone.
Oh, God, Trey, what have you done?
My stomach is churning now. I regret the wine, regret ever coming here. “Like what?”
Eden glances once at the detective, who nods. “I suppose he didn’t tell you he murdered his first wife?”