He looked away. “We can’t rush that now. We have more important things to think of. It’s just a matter of time before they charge me.”
“You should have thought about that before.”
“Damn it! I need you, Sadie! Why can’t you get that?”
“You need me,” she said slowly, testing each word. Her eyes flashed dangerously. “You don’t want me testifying against you. You want me to defend you, support you.”
“You should support me. We’re married, for Christ’s sake! I’ve given you everything.”
She glared at him. “Everything? You’ve given me a life of infidelity and lies. Our marriage was a sham, Philip. Right from the beginning. My mother was right.”
After that, she refused to talk to him. She sat in the interrogation room while he was drilled by investigators about his financial dealings. An oily-looking lawyer with slicked back hair and a suit that probably cost a month’s salary interrupted with the occasional whisper in Philip’s ear. At one point, a police officer asked her a direct question, but she shook her head. She wasn’t compelled to answer anything. And she wasn’t going to.
When they left the station, she hurried ahead of Philip, refusing to say a word. She strode across the parking lot, the scornful kiss of bitter wind blasting her skin. She hated the cold. Summer was what she loved. Summer meant taking Sam to the parks, swimming in Millcreek’s outdoor pool and going to the Valley Zoo.
She shook her head. Stop!
“So what happens now?” she asked, unlocking the car door.
Philip climbed into the passenger seat. “My lawyer told me to play dumb and let Morris take the fall.”
“How can you even think of doing that?”
“If I don’t, we could lose everything.”
She felt sick. “We’ve already lost everything.”
The drive home was awkward, but thankfully silent. As she pulled into the garage, she spotted a media swarm waiting on the doorstep. Ever since the fraud investigation had gone public, a toxic cloud of doom followed Philip everywhere, usually in the form of persistent reporters who waited like ravenous tigers for the right moment to pounce and rip into him.
Today, she was ready to give them a glass of wine on the side.
“Mr. Tymchuk!” a man yelled, tripping over his feet to beat the other carnivores.
Sadie scowled, pushed past the throng and slammed the door behind her, not at all feeling sorry for Philip who was trapped outside.
“You made this mess, Philip. Deal with it.”
The answering machine light flashed impatiently, demanding her attention. Setting her purse on the table by the door, she pushed the button.
“Thank you for supporting us in the past,” claimed a charity that she knew damned well she had never sent money to. She skipped to the next message, a droning telemarketer selling lawn care services.
“There’s still snow on the ground,” she muttered. Delete.
The next message made her pause.
“Ms. O’Connell, this is Detective Garner. I’m working your husband’s case. Please call me right away.” He left a number.
With a heavy sigh, she picked up the phone.
“We’d like you to come back to the station,” Garner said when she got through to him.
“I don’t think I—”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cut you off, but are you aware that there was an undercover detective at your husband’s law firm?”
Answering one question wouldn’t hurt Philip’s case.
“Yes.”
“The detective wants to talk to you—off the record.”
Sadie was flustered. “Why would he want to do that?”
Warner must have placed his hand over the receiver because there was a muffled sound on the other end. And another voice, an indistinct one.
“I can’t get into this over the phone,” Warner said finally. “Can you come down tomorrow morning around ten?”
“Fine. I’ll be there.”
She hung up just as Philip stormed into the house.
“Goddamn bunch of pariahs!” he ranted, heading for his office. “I don’t want to be disturbed, Sadie. Got that?”
“I have no intention of disturbing you,” she said dryly.
What she wanted was a drink, but she’d already finished off the bottle of Cabernet. She experienced a pang of shame. Her sobriety was over. But it wasn’t the same as before. She’d had one glass before bed. To help her sleep. The good thing was that this time she was in control. At least, that’s what she told herself.
Her eyes wandered across the living room walls, pausing on a family portrait. She remembered that day clearly. Sam had just turned two. She had held him on her lap and tickled him until he laughed with glee. In that perfect moment, the photographer had captured Sam’s spirit.
And perhaps his soul.
She thought of his troubled birth. The nurses had doubted that the tiny boy would survive, but he had fought, struggling for breath with each labored beat of his heart, and he had lived. For six years. Six short years.
She had loved Sam more than she loved her parents or Philip or any other—more than life itself. He was her miracle, her salvation. It was the love for her son that had made her want to get up each morning and made her life worthwhile. He had defined her entire existence.
He still did.
14
The room in the police station where she waited was small, but it wasn’t as bleak as she had expected. On one wall, there was a painting of a Japanese geisha strolling in a garden of cherry blossoms. A dust-spotted silk tree in the far corner sat lopsided in a plastic pot, and in the middle of the room, padded chairs and a small round table showed little character but frequent use.
She sat down and furtively eyed the dark glass in the middle of the wall. She knew what a tinted window meant. She watched Law & Order.
She waved, smiling through gritted teeth. “Bring it on, boys.”
Five minutes passed without interruption.
She tapped her fingers. “Let’s get this over with.”
The door opened and a woman stepped inside.
Sadie recognized her instantly. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry, Sadie. About Philip. About everything.” A badge dropped on the table.
“You? You’re the undercover detective?”
Brigitte Moreau sat down in the chair across from her.
Sadie was stunned. The last thing she expected was to find out that the undercover cop sent to spy on her husband was none other than the woman who’d been sleeping with him. The woman she had despised for the last year.
Brigitte folded her hands. “I have to admit, this is a bit awkward. My real name is Bridget Moore. I, uh… was brought in by Philip’s firm once they discovered the funds were missing. My assignment was to get close to Philip, to see if he was in on it and find out where the money was going.”
“Getting close to him doesn’t mean sleeping with him.”
Bridget unclasped her hands. “I had to take advantage of his weakness for women. Get him to trust me.”
“I guess it worked.”
“Look, Sadie, we both know that Philip wasn’t the perfect husband. He pursued me—or Brigitte Moreau.” Her lips curled into a wry smile. “And trust me, the sex wasn’t all that great.”
Sadie stared at her, wondering why Bridget’s derisive comment didn’t make her want to lunge across the table and grab handfuls of that perfectly coiffed blond hair. Ironically, she just wanted to laugh. Maybe have a Philip-bashing party and a bottle of whine. She certainly had enough to complain about.