thirty million dollars? Well, if it’s true, whoever hired you to find him can get in line, too. I’m digging out from the three million dollars in debt he left me holding. You need to go, you go tell your client he’s got the wrong man. Or if he doesn’t, that man’s dead. There’s nothing I can do about it. If he wants to come after me for the money, well, like I said, there’s a line, and it’s long.”
“Lady, you want me to believe you lived with him for four years but you never heard of Matherson? You don’t know anything?”
Anger swallowed fear. She’d had enough. Just enough, and that temper lit her up like a flash fire. “I don’t give a good damn what you believe, Mr. Privet. Not one single damn. And if you pushed your way in here expecting I’d just pull a bunch of damn stamps and jewelry out of my pocket, or hundreds of thousands in cash to send you on your way,
I
believe you’re a stupid man as well as a rude one. Get out.”
“I’m just looking for information about—”
“I don’t
have
any information. I don’t know anything about any of this. What I
know
is I’m stuck here in this place I don’t know, with this house I don’t want, because I . . .”
“Because?”
“I don’t know anymore.” Even the temper faded now. She was just tired. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. If you have any questions, you can talk to Michael Spears or Jessica Broadway. Spears, Cannon, Fife and Hanover. They’re the Philadelphia lawyers handling this mess I’m in. Now, you’re going, or I’m calling the police.”
“I’m going,” he said, following her as she strode out and went directly to the closet for his coat.
He took out a business card, held it out to her. “You can contact me if you remember anything.”
“I can’t remember what I don’t know.” But she took the card. “If it was Richard who took your client’s money, I’m sorry for it. Please don’t come back here. I won’t let you in a second time.”
“It could be the cops at the door next time,” he told her. “You keep that in mind. And keep that card.”
“They don’t throw you in jail for being stupid. That’s my only crime.”
She pulled open the door, let out a little yip at the man reaching for the doorbell.
“Ah, Mrs. Foxworth? I startled you. I’m Martin Lauderdale.”
He was older, with eyes of faded blue behind wire-rimmed glasses and a trim beard of more salt than pepper.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Lauderdale. Goodbye, Mr. Privet.”
“Keep that card,” Privet told her, and skirting around Lauderdale, walked down the cleared front walk to a gray compact.
She knew cars—after all, her granddaddy was a mechanic, and she took careful note of this one. A Honda Civic, in gray, Florida license plates.
If she saw it in the neighborhood again, she’d call the police.
“Let me take your coat,” she said to Lauderdale.
• • •
B Y THE END OF THE WEEK the library and the master bedroom stood empty. She sold the pool table, the piano, Richard’s workout equipment and countless odds and ends through Craigslist.
She had one of the ten remaining credit cards down so close to payoff she could taste it.
She stripped the remaining art from the walls, sold that as well, and the fancy coffeemaker, the fancy bar blender.
• • •
A N D WHEN SHE WOKE UP on the morning of what should have been the first day of spring to six inches of snow and still falling, she wanted to crawl back into the Princess Fiona sleeping bag currently serving as her bed.
She was living in a damn near-empty house. Worse, her baby girl was living in a damn near-empty house, with no friends, with no one to talk to or play with but her mother.
Four and a half years before, on a simmering October evening out West, she bought a pretty blue dress—Richard had liked her in blue—spent an hour blowing out her hair because he liked it smooth, and walked down the aisle of the silly little
“Lady, you want me to believe you lived with him for four years but you never heard of Matherson? You don’t know anything?”
Anger swallowed fear. She’d had enough. Just enough, and that temper lit her up like a flash fire. “I don’t give a good damn what you believe, Mr. Privet. Not one single damn. And if you pushed your way in here expecting I’d just pull a bunch of damn stamps and jewelry out of my pocket, or hundreds of thousands in cash to send you on your way,
I
believe you’re a stupid man as well as a rude one. Get out.”
“I’m just looking for information about—”
“I don’t
have
any information. I don’t know anything about any of this. What I
know
is I’m stuck here in this place I don’t know, with this house I don’t want, because I . . .”
“Because?”
“I don’t know anymore.” Even the temper faded now. She was just tired. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. If you have any questions, you can talk to Michael Spears or Jessica Broadway. Spears, Cannon, Fife and Hanover. They’re the Philadelphia lawyers handling this mess I’m in. Now, you’re going, or I’m calling the police.”
“I’m going,” he said, following her as she strode out and went directly to the closet for his coat.
He took out a business card, held it out to her. “You can contact me if you remember anything.”
“I can’t remember what I don’t know.” But she took the card. “If it was Richard who took your client’s money, I’m sorry for it. Please don’t come back here. I won’t let you in a second time.”
“It could be the cops at the door next time,” he told her. “You keep that in mind. And keep that card.”
“They don’t throw you in jail for being stupid. That’s my only crime.”
She pulled open the door, let out a little yip at the man reaching for the doorbell.
“Ah, Mrs. Foxworth? I startled you. I’m Martin Lauderdale.”
He was older, with eyes of faded blue behind wire-rimmed glasses and a trim beard of more salt than pepper.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Lauderdale. Goodbye, Mr. Privet.”
“Keep that card,” Privet told her, and skirting around Lauderdale, walked down the cleared front walk to a gray compact.
She knew cars—after all, her granddaddy was a mechanic, and she took careful note of this one. A Honda Civic, in gray, Florida license plates.
If she saw it in the neighborhood again, she’d call the police.
“Let me take your coat,” she said to Lauderdale.
• • •
B Y THE END OF THE WEEK the library and the master bedroom stood empty. She sold the pool table, the piano, Richard’s workout equipment and countless odds and ends through Craigslist.
She had one of the ten remaining credit cards down so close to payoff she could taste it.
She stripped the remaining art from the walls, sold that as well, and the fancy coffeemaker, the fancy bar blender.
• • •
A N D WHEN SHE WOKE UP on the morning of what should have been the first day of spring to six inches of snow and still falling, she wanted to crawl back into the Princess Fiona sleeping bag currently serving as her bed.
She was living in a damn near-empty house. Worse, her baby girl was living in a damn near-empty house, with no friends, with no one to talk to or play with but her mother.
Four and a half years before, on a simmering October evening out West, she bought a pretty blue dress—Richard had liked her in blue—spent an hour blowing out her hair because he liked it smooth, and walked down the aisle of the silly little
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