Page 47 of Dear Wife

“What happened, did she lock herself in a bathroom and refuse to let you in? My wife does that sometimes, drives me up a tree. I can see how that might make you do things you might not otherwise do. Say things you might not otherwise say. A smart guy wouldn’t have put it in writing, though.” I pause, two seconds of silence that add weight to my next words. Give them extra meaning. “Unless, of course, you meant what you said.”

A smart guy wouldn’t have put it in writing, but hey, maybe he’s that much of an idiot. I take in his expression, all slack chin and wide, wild eyes, and I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s that much of an idiot, too.

I flip through my notepad until I find the single sheet of paper I tucked there, and then I slide it out and slap it to the desk. A printout of a text exchange, his and Sabine’s. I flip it around so he can see, but he doesn’t glance down. He doesn’t need to. He already knows what it says. He’s the chump who wrote the damn thing.

Come out of there or I will fucking kill you.

“Mr. Hardison, do you own a weapon?”

Jeffrey owns a .357 Magnum, licensed and registered in his name. If he lies now, I’ll have a warrant by the end of the day.

He looks sick, like he might actually throw up, and my chest goes tingly and hot.

Victory.

“I think it’s time I get an attorney.”

BETH

Like the rest of the church, the administrative offices were designed to impress—solid and thick walls, generous molding, banks of ornate windows hung with gleaming, double glass—but they were furnished with the donors in mind. The decor is straight out of an IKEA catalog: functional, minimalist, Scandinavian sleek. As out of place in this neo-Gothic house of worship as a prostitute, which I’m pretty sure Ayana is. Or at the very least,was. Despite the bucket of cleaning supplies dangling from her finger and the vacuum strapped to her back, her hips wag in invitation, her head swinging back and forth like she’s scrounging up clients on Fulton Industrial Boulevard.

A hooker, a thief and a fugitive walk into a church—except this is a joke without a punch line.

“Would you stop?” Martina hisses.

Ayana’s spine straightens, and she frowns over her shoulder. “Stop what? I’m not doing nothing.”

“The hell you’re not. Show some respect for this place. You’re not going to find any customers here.”

Ayana snorts. “Right. ’Cause church people ain’t freaks.”

Martina rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t argue, and neither do I. With the exception of the Reverend, the people I’ve met in this place might be freaks. As far as I can tell, he’s the only normal one here, the leader of the Land of Misfit Toys.

The hallway dead-ends into a spare but bright kitchen, and Martina starts doling out orders. “Every single inch in this place needs to be either dusted, wiped down or vacuumed. Give extra care to the things people touch most—the telephone, computer mouse, keyboard, drawer pulls—and don’t be stingy with the cleaning products. If one person gets the stomach flu, we all get the stomach flu.” She nudges Ayana into an open doorway. “You start in the kitchen.”

Ayana tries to strike a contrary, hands-on-hips pose, but the vacuum hose gets in the way. She settles for a scowl and a jutted hip. “What’reyougonna do?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Beth and I are gonna start in the Reverend’s offices.”

“How come y’all get to work together and I have to do everything on my own?” Ayana says it in a way that makes me subtract a couple of years from the age I’d originally guessed. If this girl is legal, it’s barely.

“Stop bitching and get to work, will you?” Martina says. “Work your way down the hallway, and we’ll meet where we meet.”

We leave Ayana pouting in the hallway and backtrack to the Reverend’s offices at the opposite end, which is a mini complex unto itself. A private work space overlooking an English-inspired garden, a conference room with a projection screen and a table that seats fourteen, a living area with kitchenette and twin three-seater sofas arranged on either side of a low table. The flat-screen television on the wall is tuned to Fox News on mute, bronzed and powdered journalists lined up on a couch in bright ties and floral dresses, their lips moving without sound.

“I call dibs on the living room,” Martina says, plunking her bucket onto the coffee table.

“Really? You’re not even going to explain?”

“Explain what?” She leans down to pull a spray bottle from the bucket, and the gold discs swing on their chain around her neck. Bought with Ayana’s money, if I’m to believe it—and I just might. I try to make out the letters on the engraving, but the charms won’t stop dancing around.

“What’s up with you and Ayana, of course. You clearly hate each other. Why?”

Martina lurches upright, her eyes flashing with anger, with accusation. “I didn’t steal her money, okay? I didn’t know anything about it, and who tapes money to their toilet tank, anyway? Like, isn’t that the first place a thief would think to look? If anyone’s a thief here, it’sher. She just admitted to taking that other hooker’s money. You heard that part, right?”

I nod. “Right, but that’s not what—”

“And excuse me for trying to help a bitch.” She slings an arm through the air. “I mean, who wouldn’t feel sorry for a girl her age, out there all on her own? I met her when she wasfourteen. I fed her, I found her a place to stay. I thought I was some kind of mentor to her, though silly, stupid me, all that time she was taking my money, and she was also taking money from all those men she was spreading her legs for. And never once did she say thanks.” She whirls around and douses a side table with cleaning solution. “Not that I needed a thank-you card, but it woulda been a hell of a lot better than accusing me of being a thief, because I’m not. I’m not a thief.”

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