Page 50 of The Wife Upstairs
A 205 number, which means Birmingham.
Which could mean the police.
If they’d found something bad, they’d be over here,I tell myself as I slide my finger across the screen to answer the call.Sound normal. Sound calm.
“Hello?”
My voice only cracks a little on that last syllable.
“Jane.” Not the police, not Detective Laurent. John fucking Rivers.
“What do you want?”
I can practically see him smirking on the other end. “Good to talk to you, too.”
“John, I don’t—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“I know you’re busy doing whatever it is Mountain Brook housewives do, so I’ll make it quick. The church is raising money for a new sound system, and I thought you’d like to contribute.”
I’m still so shaken up by everything else going on that at first, I don’t see the threat beneath his words. It takes a second for my brain to turn them over and see what’s really being said.
“I thought we were good after the other day,” I reply, the fingers of my other hand curled around the edge of the counter.
He pauses, and I hear him swallow something. I imagine him standing in the kitchen of his apartment, drinking Mountain Dew, and fightback a shudder of revulsion because he’s not supposed to be here. I was supposed to be able to leave him behind forever, but he keeps rising back up, the world’s most pathetic ghost.
“Well, we were. But that detective from Phoenix called again, which was just a real hassle for me, Jane. And I was going to ignore it, but then I saw in the paper where you and your boyfriend got engaged.”
Fuck. I hadn’t ever heard of people announcing their engagements, but Emily had submitted it for us, saying, “It’s what everyone does!”
And I’d let her because I wanted to be like everyone here.
“So I thought to myself, ‘You know, now that Jane is marrying money, she’d probably really like to help me out. Pay me back a little for taking her in.’” Another pause. “And for keeping secrets.”
“You don’t know shit about my ‘secrets,’ John,” I say, my voice low.
“I know you have them,” is his too-quick reply. “And I think that’s enough.”
Just like that day in the parking lot, I feel my throat constrict, the sense of a tightening noose around me. I wish I’d never met John Rivers, wish I’d never been desperate enough to message him on Facebook from that library in Houston two years ago, wish I’d never taken him up on his offer of a place to stay.
But if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here now. Wouldn’t have met Eddie.
Eddie, with his murdered wife.
Gritting my teeth, I lower my head, pushing the heel of one hand against one eye. “How much.”
“Twenty-five hundred,” he says, and I flinch even though I know that’s a small amount of money to Eddie. He’d probably never even notice it was gone.
“Cash is preferable,” John continues, “and you remember the address.”
I nod even though he can’t see me.
“I’ll put it in the mail this week,” I say, and I can hear the grin in his voice.
“You’re a saint, Jane. The church will really appreciate it.”
“Don’t call me again. We’re done now.”
“I can’t even call to check in with you? As a friend?”
