Page 87 of Space Oddities

“I…” Beads of sweat glisten on his upper lip.

“I wonder what the great city of Atlanta and all your well-connected and influential clients will say when they learn your father committed insurance fraud to help fund his campaigns.”

Still, Mitchell remains speechless.

“Or that your wife is okay with wearing criminal evidence on her finger as she lunches with high society while the accused is running for her life, unable to stay in one place for too long because she’s afraid she’ll go to prison for a crime she didn’t commit.” By the last word I’m on my feet, shouting.

Mitchell retreats back into his oversized desk chair. “I didn’t know.” His voice is a shaky whisper.

“Whatexactlydidn’t you know, Chad?” The façade dropped, I can’t help the disgust in my tone.

“I didn’t know she didn’t steal it.” I must look incredulous because he sits up, palms out. “Honest. It wasn’t until my father died and I had access to his personal safe that I found the ring.” He mumbles something about his wife insisting on wearing it.

“You mean you actually thought that Trish stole the damn thing?”

“Trish? You mean Patty?” He shrugs. “I mean, she’s a stripper, so…” He trails off when he sees what I’m sure is a murderous look in my eyes.

Taking a breath, I remind myself that killing him would only prolong what needs to be done and sit back down. “We are going to fix this.” I fix a hard glare at him. “And by we, I mean you.”

He wipes his sweaty brow but nods.

“But first, I want you to tell me what happened. From when the judge accused Trish of stealing to you hiring Gary Ranos to bring her back to Georgia.”

Mitchell blinks at the mention of the private detective, but he starts talking.

* * *

Trish

One hour.The green digital clock on my microwave reads five p.m. At six we leave for Jackie’s bachelorette party. I slide the metal fold-out chair from between my bed and the small table I use as my desk and sit down. The cold seat chills my skin even through my jeans.

Opening my laptop, I stare at the blank page. The white screen has never before looked so daunting. And as a writer, that says something.

It’s now or never.

Since the bridesmaid dress fitting, I’ve been mulling over what sort of explanation to give my friends for leaving.

The truth, of course. But how much of it?

I don’t want them getting involved, thinking they could somehow help, so the fewer the details, the better. But I also need them to know that my leaving is necessary and in no way their fault.

I settle for telling a story. It’s what I do best.

Once upon a timethere was a girl.

An ordinary girl. A poor girl.

She wasn’t particularly beautiful or talented. She was smart, but not ridiculously so.

She grew up both abandoned and loved, never knowing which was more common.

Until one day, the girl met a boy. A boy who had everything she did not. A boy who was loved by many. And this boy said he loved her.

They met at college. A local community college, the only school the girl could afford—and that was after scholarships and cashing in stacks of dollar bills from the nearby strip club where she worked.

The boy was there because he’d flunked English 101 at his Ivy League school and didn’t want his rich friends to know he needed to retake the course.

“You’re Patty, right?”

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