He just hopes that wherever she parked the money, she’s getting a good interest rate.
Interest. Yeah, she always got a lot of interest. Is Adam sleeping with her? Probably. Unprofessional, but that one does things to men. She’s a witch. He tries to tell himself he doesn’t get the appeal, but he can’t lie. Back in the day, even when she was heavier, she had a glow about her. He would try to prolong his visits to the house, arriving when he knew Ditmars wasn’t there yet, asking for a glass of water, acting kindly toward that scary, sad kid. He was never sure how much she knew. At the time, she seemed kind of dumb to him. Incurious, to be more accurate. Her entire life was that house and that kid. It was grim, and being married to Ditmars didn’t make it any better, although Irving doesn’t believe all those things they said about Ditmars, after. Guy didn’t have it in him. Sure, he was probably a putz in a lot of ways, and a bully, too, but he wouldn’t have hit a woman. Besides, she could have left, anytime. It’s not like he had her chained to the radiator.
When Adam sent him the photos from the beach, he was stunned by how much better-looking she was now. At first, he wondered if that meant she had started tapping into the money. Transformations like that, when a woman’s in her thirties—they don’t just happen. But, yeah, she probably did drop weight, given her circumstances. In her case, that was enough. Lost the weight, grew her hair out, let it go back to its natural color. Ditmars had made her dye her hair blond, the stupid oaf. The way she looks now, she could have done better than the second guy she married. Apparently she got knocked up. Again. He wondered why she just didn’t decommission the equipment once and for all. But some women worry that they’ll stop being women if they do that.
He goes back to his desk, pulls out those photos again, a treat he tries to indulge no more than weekly. Okay, daily, as of late. She’s wearing a one-piece, cut very low in the back. She’s helping her new kid build a sand castle. The way she’s posed—her rear end tilted up in the air—it’s like she knows someone’s watching her. Not necessarily Adam, who took these photos. Boy, if she had any inkling who Adam is, who he’s working for, she’d pull up stakes and leave that sleepy little Delaware town. He’s starting to think that may be the point for her, seeing how long she can go without leading Irving to the pot of gold at the end of this endless rainbow.
Then he wonders if she thinks of him, ever.
He remembers their one time. It was her idea, but it wasn’t really that great and he realized—later—that it was a part of setting him up. “Could you help me get a policy on Ditmars?” Sure, of course, but doesn’t the FOP—“It won’t be enough. Because of Joy. The thing is, Ditmars doesn’t want it, says it’s a waste of money, but I’m smart with the household budget, I can carve out the payments monthly and he’ll never know. I just need someone, you know, friendly. Who won’t sweat the signature. Who will let me slide on whatever medical tests are required. You must know someone like that. It’s mainly for my peace of mind. You know how, if you take an umbrella, it never rains, but when you risk it, you get soaking wet? Besides, Ditmars is healthy as an ox.”
Of course, even an ox can’t survive a knife through his heart. But Irving wasn’t deconstructing her words just then. Irving was on top of her, showing her how friendly he could be. Sure, I’ll find someone to write you a policy. A million dollars for some dumb cop’s life. Why not? It wasn’t like an arson investigator put himself at that much risk, not one like Ditmars. The only way Ditmars put himself in danger was by sleeping with other cops’ wives, hanging out with drug dealers and murderers. Irving doubted she’d be able to make the monthly payments anyway. Then, when Ditmars did die, he assumed she wouldn’t be able to collect, given the circumstances.
But she had outsmarted him by making the daughter the beneficiary of that policy. And now she has outrun him, or tried to. She seemed so weak, so vulnerable. She had needed him. Briefly, just for one afternoon, he let himself think that she wanted him. He knows better now.
He sighs, writes a check to Adam Bosk for his July expenses, then pays the August retainer. He’ll give him until Labor Day, then pull the plug.
Maybe in the end, all money is bad money.
15
The trip to Baltimore wasn’t a good idea. It was never a good idea. It felt terrible to go. It felt terrible not to go. When she goes, she feels defensive, forced to see herself as others see her. But not going makes her that person, too. She can’t win. And now she’s doubly awful, with two trips to make, two burdens to carry in her heart.
Her low mood continues for days. She can hide it at work. She has to. There’s no percentage in being a sulky waitress. But she finds she’s snappish with Adam. She wishes he would disappear for a few days. She revealed too much of herself on that trip. Not her actual secrets, but the fact that she has secrets, which is bad enough. She should have concocted a cover story, been nonchalant, let him drive her right up to the front door. My niece. My cousin. My half sister. There were a dozen lies she could have told, convincingly, any one of which would have been better than taking that taxi, all but announcing: I AM HIDING SOMETHING FROM YOU.
Which wouldn’t matter if she didn’t care about him. She can’t afford to love any man. But she does, or is beginning to. It’s a dangerous game, trying to convince someone you love him. Sometimes, the person you end up convincing is yourself. She’s supposed to be leaving by Labor Day.