Page 78 of The Wife

On my behalf, Colin had served Jason with divorce papers at his apartment on Saturday. I had printed the documents off the Internet myself, trying to restrict Colin’s involvement to the role of messenger. As it turned out, New York had only recently adopted a form of no-fault divorce, and even that wasn’t exactly straightforward. It required at least one party to allege that the marriage had “broken down irretrievably” for a period of at least six months. I was certain we didn’t meet the requirement, until I read further. The lack of any physical intimacy counted as “broken down irretrievably.” We had been broken, as far as the law was concerned, for three years, and I hadn’t even realized it.

My bare-bones documents weren’t enough to actually render us divorced. The process required us to divide our marital property and reach an agreement on spousal support. One simplification was Spencer. He was my child, not Jason’s, at least legally—and this entire arrangement was about legalities.

Only two hours after Colin broke the news to him, Jason had come back home. We went through our financial statements and filled out the affidavits that we’d need to give to the divorce lawyer Colin had recommended. It felt like the paperwork we filed when we got the loan for the carriage house we were now selling.

He held me all night as we slept, but we were practically silent as I helped him pack the things he’d need for a while and drove him the few blocks to Colin’s apartment. He reached for the car handle and then stopped. “It’s only on paper, right?”

“Jason, we talked about this—”

“I know. You need time. I hurt you. But Angela, I love you. I always have, and that’s not changing. I really screwed up. I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am for where we are right now. But you are everything to me. Always. If this is your way of telling me—”

“No. It’s like I said, we’re doing this for us, Jason. All three of us.” I had a good shot of protecting at least half of Jason’s money in the event he was hit with a major damage award. Colin said Kerry’s case would get dismissed if she remained missing, but we had no guarantees of that. I was being practical.

“You’re amazingly strong, do you know that?”

I gave him a sad smile. “A little bit.”

He kissed me on the cheek. As he made three trips into Colin’s building, I sat alone at the wheel, frozen.

49

Corrine watched from her unmarked vehicle on Union Square West as Jason Powell made a second trip from the Audi into the sleek glass building around the corner on Fifteenth Street. Angela remained in the driver’s seat of the station wagon, hatchback popped open, the engine idling. From Corrine’s vantage point, it appeared as if Angela were staring straight ahead, both hands still on the wheel.

She had spotted the Powells’ Audi backing out of their driveway when she was still a block from their house. She had hoped to catch Angela alone, but decided to follow them instead. The delivery of boxes a few blocks away could mean anything, but something about Angela’s gaze into the distance told Corrine that the boxes weren’t the only thing being dropped off here.

As Powell made a third trip into the building, he paused and turned back toward the curb. Corrine couldn’t make out his expression, but the moment struck her as sad. Angela drove away alone.

Thanks to the direction of the one-way streets involved, Corrine had a head start. When Angela pulled into her driveway, Corrine was standing in front of the garage door.

Instead of asking Corrine to move, Angela parked the car in the driveway and stepped out.

“It’s not a good time, Detective.”

“I’ll be quick. Is your migraine gone?”

“Yes, thanks. I actually tried that vinegar-and-honey trick. I think it may have helped.”

It was a good answer, but Corrine noticed the pause when she first asked the question.

Corrine was certain now. There had been no migraine, and Angela Powell was not the kind of woman who stayed in her pajamas all day without a reason. What else had she been lying about?

“Did you keep my business card?” Corrine asked, following Angela to the front stoop. “I told you to call me twenty-four/seven, for any reason.”

“I know, and I didn’t call. And yet here you are on a Sunday afternoon. What am I missing, Detective?”

“If you’re called in to a grand jury and asked what you know about your husband, what are you going to say, Angela?”

“That’s a strange question.”

“Do you want us to subpoena you? I know you don’t believe me, but I really am trying to help you.”

“By asking me whether I want to testify about my husband in front of a grand jury? That’s an odd form of assistance.”

“I know you had your friend Susanna send a hint to the DA’s office. If you have something to say and want the cover of a grand jury, I can arrange that. If you’re afraid of Jason—”

“I’m notafraidof my husband.”

“Maybe not now. Now that he’s moved out.”

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