Chapter 3 - THE ROOM I DIDN’T GO HOME TO
I opened the bathroom door.
Laura stood three feet away.
“You were in there forever.”
“Stomach.”
She stared at me.
Then at my jacket.
I had put the photograph and card inside the inner pocket.
“What did the trooper give you?”
I forced myself to meet her eyes.
“A warning.”
“I saw him put something else in your hand.”
There were two choices.
Tell her.
Lie.
I chose a third.
“I don’t want to talk about it here.”
Her face changed almost imperceptibly.
Not fear exactly.
Calculation.
That frightened me more.
“Michael.”
“Can we just go?”
She did not answer.
We returned to the car.
I drove.
Twenty minutes later, Laura said:
“You missed the turn.”
“I know.”
“Home is back there.”
“I know.”
“Where are we going?”
I tightened both hands around the steering wheel.
“I’m staying at a hotel tonight.”
Silence.
“Why?”
“I need some space.”
“From me?”
“Yes.”
That was the first time I saw the calm break.
Not dramatically.
Her breath caught.
“What did he tell you?”
I looked at her.
“I thought it was just a brake light.”
She knew immediately.
I knew immediately.
There it was.
Our marriage finally producing an honest result from two dishonest statements.
Laura looked toward the window.
“Take me home.”
“I’m not going there.”
“I said take me home.”
“No.”
She turned.
“Michael, whatever some cop said to you—”
“You know him?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know he said something about you?”
Her mouth opened.
Stopped.
I felt cold.
She looked away.
“Because you’ve been acting like I have a body in the trunk since you got back in the car.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
“Are we in trouble?”
She did not answer fast enough.
I almost pulled onto the shoulder.
“Laura.”
“I need you not to panic.”
I laughed.
It sounded strange inside the car.
“People only say that when panic is appropriate.”
She pressed her fingertips against her forehead.
“Take me to Mom’s.”
“Diane’s?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you clearly don’t want to be with me tonight.”
That was true.
It was also evasive.
I drove her there.
Diane lived in a small ranch house twenty minutes away.
Laura unbuckled.
Before getting out, she turned toward me.
“Whatever you think you know, you don’t.”
I looked at her.
“That might be the first honest thing you’ve said tonight.”
Her face changed.
I regretted it immediately.
Not because it was false.
Because hurting her still hurt me.
She got out.
I waited until the porch light came on.
Then drove to a motel on the opposite side of the county.
At eleven-thirty, the number from the card called me.
The woman identified herself this time.
Dana Kessler.
Senior investigator with a state insurance-fraud task force.
Trooper Ellis was assigned to their joint unit.
I sat on the edge of the motel bed.
“Is Laura being arrested?”
“We’re not discussing charging decisions with you.”
“What is she suspected of?”
“Your wife works for North Valley Restoration.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know anything about its subcontractor network?”
“No.”
“Do you own a company called MJR Property Services?”
“No.”
Pause.
“Did you ever?”
“No.”
Another pause.
“Your initials are Michael James Rhodes?”
“Yes.”
“Your home address appears on vendor records for MJR Property Services.”
I stood.
“What?”
“Sit down if you need to.”
“Don’t tell me to sit down. What does that mean?”
“It means we need to speak in person.”
“Did Laura create it?”
“We need to speak in person.”
I hated her instantly for repeating herself.
Then she said something quieter.
“Mr. Rhodes, Trooper Ellis told you not to go home because another subject in this investigation sent your wife a message this afternoon.”
“What message?”
Dana hesitated.
“Bring Michael home tonight. We need to get our story straight.”
I could not feel my hands.
“Who sent that?”
“Her brother.”
Caleb.
“What story?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”
I looked around the motel room.
My backpack.
My shoes.
The ugly floral bedspread.
Nothing familiar enough to hold onto.
Dana continued.
“Laura may be more complicated in this case than you think.”
“Meaning what?”
“We have evidence that she concealed things.”
My throat tightened.
“And we have evidence she may have been trying to expose them.”
I stopped.
“You don’t know which?”
“We know some facts. We don’t know her entire motive.”
That was somehow worse.
I wanted a category.
Victim.
Criminal.
Witness.
Good wife.
Liar.
May you like
Dana refused to give me one.
Real people are inconvenient that way.
