Claire smiled reflexively, because that’s what she always did when she was complimented.
Nolan said, “I’m wondering, Mrs. Scott, if your husband’s business partner has been in touch?”
Claire’s mouth went dry as salt.
“Mrs. Scott? Has Mr. Quinn been in touch?”
Claire forced herself to answer. “He was at the funeral.”
“Yeah, I saw. Nice of him to be there, considering.” He pitched up his voice in a bad imitation of Claire. “ ‘Considering what, Agent Nolan?’ No, please, call me Fred. Do you mind if I call you Claire? ‘No, not at all, Fred.’ ”
Claire made her expression as hard as she could.
Nolan said, “I’m assuming you knew your husband was embezzling money from the company?”
Claire felt her mouth open in surprise. She had to repeat Nolan’s words back in her head before she could divine their meaning. Even then, she couldn’t believe what the man was saying. Paul was mind-numbingly fair with money. She’d once suffered through a thirty-minute round trip when he’d realized a cashier at a country store had given him too much change.
She told Nolan, “You’re lying.”
“Am I?”
Claire wanted to slap his smug face. This was some kind of trick. Nolan was working with Adam and Mayhew, or he was working on his own, and all of it had something to do with those wretched movies. “Whatever game you’re playing, it’s not working.”
“Ask Adam Quinn if you don’t believe me.” Nolan waited, as if Claire would run to the telephone. “He’s the one who called in the feds. One of the company accountants found a three-million-dollar wire into a shell company called Little Ham Holdings.”
Claire clenched her jaw shut so she wouldn’t scream. Little Ham had been another one of their nicknames for Mr. Sandwich.
Nolan said to Lydia, “That’s a lot of money, right? Three mill? People like you and me, we could retire on that.”
Claire’s knees felt weak. Her legs were shaking. She had to get Nolan out of here before she had some sort of nervous breakdown. “I want you to leave.”
“I want my wife to stop fucking my neighbor.” Nolan chuckled, as if they were all in on the joke. “You know, Claire, the funny thing is, that kind of dough is a drop in the bucket for a guy like your husband.” He told Lydia, “Paul’s worth twenty-eight million on paper. Or was worth that much. How much is the insurance policy you have on him?” This question was for Claire, but she didn’t answer because she had no idea. “Another twenty million,” Nolan provided. “Which means you’re worth almost fifty million bucks now, Widow Scott.” He paused to let the information sink in, but Claire was past the point at which she could make sense of anything.
Nolan said, “It was nice of Adam Quinn to settle out of court instead of letting me toss your husband into the federal pen.” He gave Claire a lecherous look. “I guess he found his own way to get your husband back.”
The implied insult knocked her out of her stupor. “What gives you the—”
“Shut up, Claire.” Lydia stood directly in front of her. She told Nolan, “You need to leave.”
Nolan smiled his crocodile smile. “Do I?”
“Are you here to arrest her?”
“Should I be?”
“Number one, back the fuck away from me.”
Nolan took a very deliberate step back. “I can’t wait to hear what number two is.”
“It’s this, asshole: if you want to interrogate her, then call her lawyer to set it up.”
Nolan smiled like a gargoyle. “You know what, Mindy Parker? Now that I’m looking at you, I’m thinking you look a lot like Claire. It’s almost like you two gals could be sisters.”
Lydia didn’t let him get to her. “Get the fuck out.”
Nolan held up his hands in surrender, but he didn’t give in. “It’s just curious, you know. Why is it that a guy worth all those Benjamins steals three mill from his own business?”
Claire felt a sharp pain in her chest. She couldn’t breathe. The ground was moving again. She reached for the wall behind her. She had felt this same way yesterday when she’d fainted.
Nolan said, “Well, I’ll let you ladies get back to enjoying your evening.” He stepped out onto the porch and looked up at the night sky. “Sure is a nice night.”
Lydia slammed the door. She bolted the French lock. She covered her mouth with both hands. Her eyes were wide with fear. They both watched the video display as Fred Nolan shuffled his way down the stone steps and slowly made his way to the car.
Claire looked away. She couldn’t watch anymore, but she couldn’t stop hearing him. The soft click of his car door opening, the loud bang of it being closed. The rumble of the car’s engine. The mechanical groan of the power steering as he turned around and drove back down the driveway.
Lydia dropped her hands. She was breathing as hard as Claire. “What the fuck, Claire?” She stared at Claire with open shock. “What the fucking fuck?”
Claire had lost the fuck two days ago. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Lydia was practically screaming. Her voice echoed off the polished concrete floors and bounced up the metal and glass spiral staircase. “How the fuck can’t you know, Claire?” She started pacing back and forth across the entryway. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe any of it.”
Claire couldn’t believe it, either. The movies. Mayhew. Nolan. Paul’s collection of folders—the ones she knew about, the ones she couldn’t force herself to read. Whatever was going on with Adam Quinn. And now she had been told that Paul was a thief. Three million dollars? Nolan’s estimate of Paul’s net worth was off by several million. He’d only quoted what was in the bank. Paul didn’t believe in the stock market. The house was paid off. The cars were paid for. There was no reason for Paul to steal anything.
She laughed at herself because that was all that she could do. “Why can I believe that Paul is a rapist but not a thief?”
The question stopped Lydia cold. “You believe me.”
“I should’ve believed you years ago.” Claire pushed herself away from the wall. She felt the guilt of dragging Lydia into this mess. She had no right to jeopardize her sister, especially after all that had happened. “I’m sorry I asked you to come. You should go.”
Instead of answering, Lydia looked down at the floor. Her purse was a brown leather bag the size of a feed sack. Claire wondered if Paul had a photo of her buying it. Some of the pictures had obviously been taken with a telephoto lens, but others were close enough to read the text on the coupons she always used at the grocery store.
Lydia could never find out about Paul’s surveillance. Claire could at least do that for her sister. Lydia had a seventeen-year-old daughter whose school tuition Paul was anonymously paying. She had a boyfriend. She had a mortgage. She had a business with two employees she was responsible for. Knowing that Paul had been there every step of the way would destroy her.
Claire said, “Pepper, really, you need to go. I never should’ve asked you to come here.”
Lydia picked up her purse. She hefted the strap over her shoulder. She put her hand on the door but she didn’t open it. “When’s the last time you took a shower?”
Claire shook her head. She hadn’t bathed since the morning of Paul’s funeral.
“What about food? Have you been eating?”
Claire shook her head again. “I just . . .” She didn’t know how to explain it. They had taken a cooking class a few months ago and Paul wasn’t half bad, but now, every time she thought about her husband in the kitchen holding a knife, all she could think about was the machete from the movies.
“Claire?” Lydia had obviously asked her another question. Her purse was back on the floor. Her shoes were piled where she’d left them. “Go take a shower. I’ll cook you something to eat.
”