Can We Ever Really Know Someone?
Margot eyes me carefully. “Are you sure you want to go there right now? Maybe we should just focus on getting you out of bed.”
“No, this is real. I’m sure of it. I can’t remember exactly, but there’s something there.” I try not to force it, and Eden’s wavering face appears. “It has something to do with Eden.”
Margot launches from her seat and gets busy straightening the bed, the tray, and I have to grab her hand to make her stop.
“Margot. Tell me. Please.”
“I think we should wait.”
“I have to know. I feel like I might crawl out of my skin if I don’t figure out what’s going on.”
She watches me carefully, then shakes her head. “Okay. And by the way, I’ve already told you this once, so it might trigger a memory or two. Yes, Trey was married before, and his wife was murdered. He was a suspect and was arrested, but no official charges were ever filed.”
“And his wife . . . was Eden’s sister?”
“Yes. Chloe. They all grew up together. He went by Andrew then. Andrew Locke the third.”
A flash. The woman from the plane, ponytailed and pantsuited. “Andrew? Andrew Locke? Is that really you?” Eden.
Trey freaking out at the airport is making more sense now.
“How could he have hidden this from me? Did I know? I don’t remember.”
“Eden says you seemed very shocked when they told you. And that, in your surprise, you ran out of the house and were hit by the SUV. It’s possible he didn’t tell you. Honestly, I think if he did, you would have mentioned it to me. I know you don’t tell me everything . . .”
“Yes, I do.” A sense of panic pervades me, and though it’s not clear why, the feeling is recognizable. Another puzzle piece clicks into place. “Can you look him up online and show me the original case? Maybe it will jog my memory.”
“Have you never googled your husband?”
“Why would I? He’s never given me a reason to doubt him before. I mean, as far as I know.”
Margot gives me the look—a combination headshake and eye roll that tells me she’s humoring me—but dutifully pulls out her phone.
“T-R-E-Y L-O-C-K-E,” she says as she types.
“I haven’t forgotten how to spell,” I snap back.
Margot darts me a humorous gaze. “Just in case. Let’s see here.” She types again. “Not seeing anything.”
“Of course not. Trey isn’t capable of such a thing. Plus, he would have told me if he’d been married before.” Well . . . maybe he did. Maybe he’s confessed everything. Maybe this is all bullshit. I can’t freaking remember correctly. I might know exactly where he is, or what he’s doing. Why he left.
“True. But he did leave, Brook. Right after Eden appeared. And there is money missing from Bob’s and Pat’s accounts.
There has to be a reason.” She’s still frowning at her phone.
“There’s, like . . . nothing about Trey here.
At least, nothing from before the accident.
The media’s been going nuts about you and his parents—it’s all over the place.
I know he doesn’t have social media, but shouldn’t there be something?
It’s hard not to leave at least a small footprint these days. ”
“Trey is one of the least online people I’ve ever known. He hates it. Thinks it’s ruining society.”
Margot leans back in her chair. “Well, the only thing that’s online in his name—either one of them—is his work bio on LinkedIn.
It’s short, and he has very few connections.
‘Trey Locke is the vice president of business development for the Gussin Group. A graduate of the Wharton School of business, he specializes in arbitrage, VC funding, and emerging markets in cryptocurrency, capitalizing on opportunities for high-risk returns and exploiting market inefficiencies.’” She looks up. “That’s gobbledygook to me.”
“Finance. He’s in finance. That’s as much as I understand about what he does. He’s a genius with money. Bob sent him to Wharton, and he breezed through their MBA program in fifteen months. Remember? He was up in Pennsylvania, driving home on weekends?”
“I remember he knocked you up one of those weekends toward the end, and you were barfing your guts out when he graduated.”
I feel a spark of satisfaction. This I do remember. Though my pregnancy with Four was a breeze, I had hyperemesis gravidarum with Neve. It was bad, which is why we haven’t tried again.
An image of our bathroom floats into my mind. Nausea. Gray marble, teak vanity, cleaning wipes . . .
The doctor was right. The more I talk things out, the more I remember. It’s like I’m coming back online after a reboot.
So I think hard about Trey. About what he told me of his life before we met. I don’t think I’m just not remembering a previous marriage. And how in the world would he have hidden a murder from me? That’s . . . inconceivable.
I mean, there was always something he wasn’t telling me, from a long time ago, but murder?
Another click, another memory. Trey was upset by Eden on the plane. Is this why? Because he didn’t want me to know about his previous life?
“Now things are making more sense, Margot. He was freaked out about Eden recognizing him. He didn’t want me to realize he did know her. So is that why he left? Because he’s afraid to tell me the truth? Do you think he did it? Do you think he murdered his first wife?”
She sighs. “I don’t know, honey. He was accused but not convicted. And these are big thoughts. I think you should just focus on the kids, and we can talk about Trey later.”
“There has to be stuff online about it. It was only ten years ago.”
“Let me look again.”
I drift a bit while Margot types and frowns, types and frowns. The memories are so jagged and impossible. Nothing is in sequence, and it’s giving me a headache.
“I didn’t think there was an—” She stops talking, brows drawing together.
“What is it?”
“Hold on. I’m reading.” A moment later: “So there’s an entry that’s popped up from an obituary site that is sending condolences to the Barrow family on the loss of their daughter Chloe.”
“What does it say?”
“Exactly that—‘Sending condolences on the loss of your daughter, Chloe.’ Let me see if I can find the obituary . . . yeah. Here it is. Sort of short. ‘Chloe Elizabeth Barrow Locke, 24, of Malogen, Georgia, beloved daughter, sister, and wife, will be laid to rest today at the Olivet Cemetery. The family requests that, in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the Malogen Animal Friends League.’ That’s it. Kind of weird.”
“I remember reading that. I must have looked it up at some point. What else can you find?”
“Trey didn’t tell you he was from Georgia, right?”
“No. Connecticut. Hartford.”
“Well, we know that’s not true. You said he and his dad had a falling-out, and he ran away to Mexico, and that’s where you two met. True or false?”
Mexico. This tracks. Carefree. Irresponsible.
Hot. Haunted. San Miguel de Allende comes to me in bits and pieces, the scents of jacaranda and cumin, gasoline and asphalt, too much tequila, the bleach from the sheets and towels that gave me a rash.
We pretty much spent the first three weeks of our acquaintance in bed, so it wasn’t exactly a surprise that I’d gotten pregnant.
I’d been sloppy. So had he. Out of character for both of us, really, but there was something about his amber eyes that melted my insides.
I was lost—and found—the moment I met him.
“Remember what I said in Argentina, honey. Please remember.”
That voice . . . it belongs to my husband.
Relief floods me again. If I can recall these details, I will be able to reconstruct my life.
But what did he tell me? How did we even get from Mexico to Argentina?
The first night we met is foggy. It was over a decade ago.
We got sloshed. We danced under the moonlight and crawled into bed together, and he kissed me as if there was no tomorrow.
We woke up and drank coffee on the balcony.
I was wearing white. Virginal. Bride-like.
We said many things that night, and all of the nights that followed. It’s going to take me a while to sort through everything.
“Brooklyn? Mexico? True or false?”
“True. I’m trying to access the details. When we met, he was looking for a fresh start. He wasn’t looking for a wife, that’s for sure. Then, of course, Four . . .”
Margot smiles. “He would have married you regardless. If there’s anything we can be sure of, it’s that Trey loves you deeply. Which makes all of this so weird.”
“I’d like to think so. What else are you seeing there?”
“That’s really it.”
“This is very confusing.”
She puts her phone into her back pocket. “Brook, listen. There’s a lot that’s happened while you were out. Serious stuff, okay?”
“Tell me.”
“The night after your accident, after Trey’s parents were killed in Georgia?
Someone tried to kill you at the hospital.
There was a man there—Eden actually ran into him, leaving your room.
They think he hurt you. The FBI is investigating.
The media has been relentless. That’s the other reason we have security watching our every move.
So I think we need to be focusing on finding out why Trey left instead of worrying about anything else. ”
“I would agree.” A male voice comes from the doorway.
A tall dark-skinned man with a well-trimmed goatee looms. He knocks on the doorframe, pro forma.
There is a woman with him, gray hair, kind eyes.
She feels familiar, and dangerous. Her hand is wrapped in an ACE bandage, like she sprained her wrist.
“I’m Agent Sheehan, FBI. This is Detective Lee, from the Malogen, Georgia, Police Department.”
They show their badges. All very official.
The woman has fierce attention to detail—her eyes are roving all over the room, and me.
“Have we met?” I ask her.
“Yes. Briefly. The night of your accident. When we heard you were awake, Mrs. Locke, we came as quickly as possible. Thought maybe we could talk about your husband.”
“We can talk, but I don’t know what good it will do. I’m having memory issues.”
The FBI agent raises one eyebrow. “Really. Memory issues.”
Something in his tone settles in my skin, and I am seized with a sudden urge to protect myself and my family at all costs.
“Yes. I have a traumatic brain injury. My memories are damaged. I honestly don’t know what’s happening with Trey. My sister can confirm this.”
“It’s true,” Margot says automatically. “It’s been very upsetting, for us both.”
“Huh. Well, that’s a shame. All right. Let’s try something else.” Agent Sheehan shows me a picture of a young man. It’s a mug shot. He has dark hair and amber eyes, and my heart does a little jitter. Be careful. I shake my head.
“Sorry.”
The cops exchange a glance. “This is your husband, Mrs. Locke. Are you telling us you don’t recognize him?”
Margot is watching me with concern.
“Is it?” I ask her. “That’s Trey?”
“This is Andrew Locke,” Agent Sheehan says.
I look closer. “I mean, he feels familiar, so I’m going to have to take your word for it. He looks . . . different.”
Detective Lee is still eyeing me. “You really don’t remember me at all?”
“I can’t say one way or the other, to be honest. You see, everything is there, but not all of it, if that makes sense. Like the memories are hovering nearby, I just can’t access them. It’s all unclear. I’m really sorry.” I look at the woman. “What’s your connection again?”
“I investigated Chloe Locke’s murder. In Malogen. Your husband was my primary suspect.”
Malogen. That was the town in Chloe’s obituary.
And here we are, back to Georgia, again.
Everything ties to Atlanta and its suburbs, someplace I haven’t given more than a passing thought to in years.
Atlanta is where the local designers like to go to find their treasures.
Clothes. Furniture. I’ve been with Margot once or twice, watching her gleefully grab throw pillows and drapes for clients.
It is not a hotbed of intrigue. At least, it never has been before.
Now, it’s a marker. Atlanta, where my husband left me.
Atlanta, a place he panicked about flying into, even though it was only for an hour.
Atlanta, where my life was stolen from me.
I hate the place.
And I hate the way the FBI dude is looking at me, like I’m some sort of appetizer. His expectant air is choking me. I need to tread carefully here.
“I’ll take your word for it. I don’t remember anything about the accident or the days leading up to it. It’s almost all a big blank.”
Margot places herself between us, blocking their access to my bed.
“Is this necessary right now? Brooklyn has had a very long day, and she needs her rest. When she’s released from the hospital, we can make an appointment to talk.”
“Unfortunately, yes, it is necessary right now,” the man says. “As you know, we’ve been searching for Mr. Locke, and we’re hoping Mrs. Locke can tell us where he might be.”
“Trust me, she has no idea.”
“I’d like to hear that from her, if you don’t mind.”
I shift in the bed. The sheets crackle. The FBI agent is looming over me.
Even if I did remember something that would help them find Trey, my natural inclination is not to cooperate.
Not until I can rearrange my own thoughts into a semblance of order.
Not until I know what’s happening. My breath starts to come short, and Detective Lee puts a hand on my arm, speaking softly.
“Hey. It’s all going to be okay. Just tell us what you remember.”
I get it now. Good cop, bad cop. Fine. Two can play that game.
“My sister is right. I don’t know where Trey is. And I certainly don’t know about any criminal acts. You can’t really think he did something wrong.”
Sheehan coughs, and it sounds sarcastic. “Yeah, we can.”
Lee gives him a censorious look. “Right now, Mrs. Locke, we’re looking at several quite serious charges against your husband. Embezzlement. Money laundering. Fraud. And unfortunately, attempted murder.”
“Attempted murder? Of who?”
Sheehan looks me deep in the eyes, and my world implodes.
“You.”