Chương 10
“Why not?”
“Because it’s your account.”
He swore.
“What bank is 4418?”
“No.”
“Julian.”
“I said no.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Then I called Nathan.
He did not answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
My finger hovered over Mara’s name.
I did not want to drag her back into the house.
I did not want another witness.
I did not want anyone to see me sitting at the kitchen island in a swimsuit cover-up, barefoot, surrounded by birthday leftovers, trying to figure out whether my husband was about to move money that might belong to his brother’s company into yet another account.
So naturally, I called Mara.
She answered immediately.
“What happened?”
“I need you to look at something.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“Is he gone?”
“Yes.”
“Lock the door.”
“It’s locked.”
“Good.”
There was a pause.
“I’m putting Mom on standby.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Please don’t make this bigger yet.”
She sighed.
“You say that like tonight isn’t already in the running for worst family gathering of the decade.”
Despite everything, a laugh escaped me.
It sounded wrong in the empty kitchen.
Mara heard it.
“Okay.”
Her voice softened.
“What am I looking at?”
I sent her a photo of the statement.
She called back less than a minute later.
“Do you know 4418?”
“No.”
“Could it be another one of his accounts?”
“Probably.”
“Could it be the apartment landlord?”
“Thirteen thousand?”
“Good point.”
I heard her moving around.
A cabinet opened.
“Mom is making tea.”
“I didn’t ask for commentary.”
“She’s making enough tea to hydrate a football team.”
“That sounds like Mom.”
“Do you have access to your joint tax returns?”
“Yes.”
“His old payroll stuff?”
“Some.”
“Any documents from when you refinanced?”
I looked toward the hall.
“Office.”
“Go there.”
“Mara, what are we doing?”
“We are not doing anything illegal.”
“I wasn’t worried until you said that.”
“We’re finding out whether 4418 appears on anything you already have a right to see.”
I hesitated.
“That sounds reasonable.”
“I occasionally have moments.”
I walked into the office.
It had once been a formal dining room before we admitted we did not know enough formal people to justify keeping one.
My desk occupied the far wall.
Julian’s sat opposite it.
His side was cleaner.
It had always irritated me.
Mine was buried beneath school forms, unopened mail, a roll of tape, and three pens that probably did not work.
His had a monitor, a leather notebook, and one framed photograph of Sophie and Ben.
I stopped in front of the photograph.
For a second, my brain refused to continue.
Ben was laughing so hard in it that his eyes had nearly disappeared.
Sophie had both hands on his shoulders.
Julian had taken that picture.
Not everything in our marriage had been a lie.
That thought was almost worse.
“Claire?”
Mara’s voice came through the phone.
“I’m here.”
“Drawer?”
I opened the filing cabinet beneath my desk.
Tax returns.
Mortgage records.
Insurance policies.
Medical bills.
The practical archaeology of a marriage.
I pulled out the most recent tax folder.
“Nothing.”
“Refinance?”
I found the closing packet from three years earlier.
Dozens of pages.
Account disclosures.
Statements.
Signatures.
I flipped through them.
A savings account ending in 1182.
Our checking ending in 7630.
Julian’s old retirement account.
Nothing with 4418.
“Not here.”
“Old direct deposit forms?”
“Maybe.”
I opened another folder.
Then something fell from between two stacks of paper and landed face down near my foot.
A bank envelope.
Not the same institution.
I bent down.
The envelope was already open.
It was addressed to Julian.
The date was eight months earlier.
My mouth went dry.
“Mara.”
“What?”
“I found something.”
“Open it.”
I almost laughed.
“It’s already open.”
“Even better.”
Inside was a quarterly statement.
Account ending in 4418.
I stared at the name above it.
Not Julian’s.
For a few seconds, I genuinely did not understand what I was seeing.
“What?”
Mara asked.
I read it again.
The account holder was Julian R. Mercer, Custodian.
Underneath that was another name.
Sophie E. Mercer.
My daughter.
I stopped breathing.
“Claire?”
“It’s Sophie’s.”
“What is?”
“The account.”
Silence.
“What kind of account?”
I scanned the page.
“Custodial.”
“How much is in it?”
I looked at the balance.
My knees weakened.
I sat down on the floor beside the filing cabinet.
“Thirty-eight thousand.”
Mara said nothing.
I turned the page.
Deposits.
Withdrawals.
Transfers.
The account had existed for years.
Small deposits at first.
Birthday checks.
Money from my parents.
Money from Julian’s parents.
A five-thousand-dollar deposit from my father when Sophie was born.
I remembered that.
Dad had called it college money and made me promise not to spend it on anything sensible.
“Kids should get one stupid dream,” he had said.
Dad had died three years later.
I pressed my thumb against the paper.
Then I saw the withdrawals.
Eight thousand.
Five thousand.
Ten thousand.
All within the last eighteen months.
“Mara.”
“What?”
“He’s been taking money out.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
I began adding in my head and lost track.
“I need a calculator.”
“Send me pictures.”
I photographed every page.
My hands shook so badly that two images blurred and I had to take them again.
Mara went quiet for several minutes.
I sat on the office floor and listened to the house settling around me.
Outside, someone started a car.
The pool pump continued its low mechanical hum.
There was still a towel draped across the back of my desk chair because Sophie had used it after swimming that morning.
“Claire.”
Mara’s voice had changed.
“What?”
“I’m getting about twenty-three thousand in withdrawals.”
I closed my eyes.
“There should have been more than sixty in there if nothing had been touched.”
“Where did it go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you know this account existed?”
“I knew my dad gave her money.”
“Did you know Julian controlled it?”
“No.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“I don’t remember.”
May you like
“You need copies.”
“I have copies.”
