Page 74 of The Wife

He checked his phone. “It was off.”

His phone was always off.

“I want you to go to Colin’s. He said he’ll wait for you there.” I finished wiping down the final shelf. Not a single bread crumb or grain of rice in sight.

“Are we fighting again? I thought we were fine.” So much had changed in the three days since I’d thrown him out of the house to stay with Colin for the night.

“Just go talk to Colin. I don’t want to have this conversation. He’ll explain it to you.”

“Is this about Kerry again? You can’t possibly think I hurt someone—”

I was focusing on my stacks of organic, low-sodium chicken broth as if I were constructing a landmark bridge.

“Please. It will all make sense once you’re with Colin. If you don’t agree with me, you can come back, and we’ll talk it out.”

“Angela—”

“Just go. I promise. Put on your economist hat. You’ll see, objectively, it’s the right thing to do.”

I was already crying by the time I heard the front door shut, picturing the scene that was going to play out when Jason got to Colin’s apartment.

I had called Colin as soon as I got home from Susanna’s. He explained it to me once again: if I filed for divorce before a civil judgment against Jason was rendered, our divorce could proceed as if we were any normal couple going our separate ways. The burden would be on any creditor of Jason to come after me, arguing that we had only gotten divorced as a way to shelter assets from liability. I could play the finally-had-it-up-to-here-wife card. After all, the kindest version of the facts was that Jason had been a serial adulterer. Under the circumstances, who else would have put up with all of this until now except me?

To an outsider, it would sound cruel—asking my husband’s best friend, the man I’d cheated with three days ago, to serve the divorce papers. But after what I’d learned about Jason in the last month, I didn’t know what a “normal” process was for us anymore. Colin was exactly the right messenger, because he loved us both.

I had no idea what was going to happen to Jason, either in criminal court or civil. The only thing I knew was that I had to protect myself, and mostly I had to protect Spencer. I would take half of our assets, and I would take Spencer.

And if Jason asked about “us,” I’d reassure him that he had been Spencer’s father all these years without legal documentation. We could be whatever we wanted to each other, regardless of a piece of paper.

I was halfway done stacking the pantry when my phone rang. It was the realtor who had sold us the carriage house two years earlier, returning my call. She was coming over the next day to take a look around before setting a list price.

47

Corrine left Harlem at exactly 2:31 p.m. on Saturday for Port Washington, making a point to mark her time. She arrived at Kerry Lynch’s house at 3:12 p.m. Departing from Greenwich Village would have been farther. Saturday-afternoon traffic was probably worse than a Wednesday night. So forty minutes minimum from Jason Powell’s house to here was a good estimate, if he had traveled by car.

She had already searched the data from the license-plate readers on the bridges and tunnels, looking for any evidence that Powell’s Audi wagon had left Manhattan on Wednesday. She didn’t find a hit. In theory, he could have gone by train or used a different vehicle, but, in her gut, Corrine wasn’t feeling it.

The first time she went to Kerry’s house, she hadn’t realized how isolated it was. Now that Kerry was missing, she was certain that someone could come and go without a neighbor noticing.

A marked Port Washington police car pulled to the curb behind her a few minutes after she arrived. The man who stepped out was younger than she had expected, based on their phone calls. He was probably in his late thirties, with dark brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. “I brought you doughnuts, Duncan.” He extended a half-dozen box of Krispy Kremes, and they each helped themselves to one. “Come on, humor me, tell me I’m the very first person to make that joke.”

She finished swallowing before answering. “You should know I hate puns, but I love a good doughnut, Netter, so you get a pass.”

“Fair enough.”

He led the way behind the house, removed two ribbons of crime-scene tape, and opened the back door. He held out an arm to stop her from walking any farther than halfway through the kitchen.

“Have you contacted her family?” Corrine asked.

“Mom’s passed, Dad’s got Alzheimer’s in Indiana. Estranged from a brother there. From what we can tell, she was all about her job. Some friends at work, like Samantha, but just casual socializing outside of the office. Not anyone close.”

“Where’s Snowball?”

“You just had to ask me that, didn’t you?” His embarrassed smile was sweet.

“Really? You’ve got her dog?”

“She’s so cute.”

---