“From each other,” Thomas said with a small nod. “But not from Ryan and me.”
“Well, yes and no. Sometimes we just need to get away from it all.”
“Dad?”
“What?”
“I don’t buy it,” Thomas said. “I don’t want to sound full of myself or anything, and yeah, I get it. You guys have your own lives. You aren’t all about us. So maybe I could understand Mom needing to, I don’t know, get away or blow off some steam or whatever. But Mom’s a mom. You know what I mean? She would tell us first, or if she did it like at the last second? She’d contact us or something. She’d answer our texts. She’d tell us not to worry. Mom is a lot of things, but first off, sorry, she’s our mom.”
Adam wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he said something dumb: “It’s going to be okay.”
“What does that mean?”
“She told me to take care of you guys and to give her a few days. She asked me not to contact her.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m really scared,” Thomas said. And now the almost-man was back to sounding like the little boy. It was the father’s job to assuage that feeling. Thomas was right. Corinne was a mother first and foremost—and he, Adam, was a father. You protect your children.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said, hearing the hollow in his own voice.
Thomas shook his head, the maturity returning as fast as it had fled. “No, Dad, it’s not.” He turned, wiped the tears off his face, and started for the door. “I gotta go meet Justin.”
Adam was about to call him back, but what good would that do? He didn’t have any words of comfort, and perhaps, if nothing else, being with his friend might distract his son. The solution—the only real comfort here—would be to find Corinne. Adam needed to dig in more, figure out what was going on, get his sons some real answers. So he let Thomas go and headed up the stairs. There was still time before drum lesson pickup.
Once again he briefly debated getting the police involved. He didn’t really fear anymore that they’d think he did something to his wife—let them—but he knew from experience that the police understandably deal in facts. Fact One: Corinne and Adam had a fight. Fact Two: Corinne had already texted Adam, telling him that she wanted a few days away and not to contact him.
Would the police need a Fact Three?
He sat down at the computer. At Old Man Rinsky’s, Adam had quickly checked Corinne’s recent mobile phone records. Now he wanted to get a more detailed look at her calling and texting pattern. Would the stranger or this Ingrid Prisby have called or texted Corinne? It seemed a long shot—hadn’t the stranger simply approached him without warning?—but there was a chance that Corinne’s phone records might produce some kind of clue.
But it didn’t take him long to realize that there was nothing to mine. His wife was, it seemed via recent communications, an open book. There were no surprises. Most numbers he knew from memory—calls and texts to him, to the boys, to friends, to fellow teachers, to lacrosse board members, and that was about it. There were a few other calls sprinkled in, but they were to restaurants for reservations, the dry cleaner about a pickup, that kind of thing.
No clue.
Adam sat and thought about what to do. Yes, Corinne was an open book. That was how it seemed via her recent texts and phone calls.
The key word: Recent.
He flashed back to the surprise on his Visa card—the charge to Novelty Funsy from two years ago.
Corinne had been much more of a surprise back then, no?
Something had precipitated that purchase. But what? You don’t one day just decide to fake a pregnancy. Something happened. She had called someone. Or someone had called her. Or texted.
Something.
It took Adam a few minutes to find the old archives dating back two years, but he did. He knew that Corinne had made her first order from Fake-A-Pregnancy in February. So he started there. He traced through the phone records, scanning up the screen rather than down.
At first, all he found were the usual suspects—calls and texts to him, the boys, friends, fellow teachers. . . .
And then, when Adam saw a familiar number, his heart sank.
Chapter 35
Sally Perryman sat alone at the far end of the bar, sipping a beer and reading the New York Post. She had on a white blouse and a gray pencil skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She’d put her coat on the stool next to her, saving it for him. As Adam moved closer, she moved the coat without looking up from the paper. Adam slid onto the stool.
“Been a long time,” she said.
Sally still hadn’t looked up from the paper.
“It has,” he said. “How’s work?”
“Busy, lot of clients.” She finally met his eye. He felt a gentle pow and held on. “But you didn’t call for that.”
“No.”
It was one of those moments when the noise fades away and the rest of the world becomes background and it’s him and her and nothing else.
“Adam?”
“What?”
“I can’t handle a big thing here. Just tell me what you want.”
“Did my wife ever call you?”
Sally blinked as if the question, too, had been a bit of a pow. “When?”
“Ever.”
She turned toward her beer. “Yeah,” she said. “Once.”
They were in one of those noisy chain-restaurant bars, the kind that majors in deep-fried appetizers and has a million TV screens playing maybe two sporting events. The bartender came over and made a big production of introducing himself. Adam quickly ordered a beer to get him to leave.
“When?” he asked.
“Two years ago, I guess. During the case.”
“You never told me.”
“It was just once.”
“Still.”
“What difference does it make now, Adam?”
“What did she say?”
“She knew you’d been to my house.”
Adam almost asked how, but of course, he knew the answer, didn’t he? She’d put a tracking app on all the phones. She could check at any time to see the boys’ location.
Or his.
“What else?”
“She wanted to know why you were there.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That it was work,” Sally Perryman said.
“You told her it was nothing, right?”
“It was nothing, Adam. We were obsessed with that case.” Then: “But it was almost something.”