Page 64 of The Perfect Son
I leave the first box, the one your life insurance policy is in, and take the second one instead. Piece by piece I unpack each box, making piles of books, and papers, and computer equipment. There are several CDs, but they are all labeled, dating back years ago to when you were in college.
The threadbare carpet has disappeared by the time I open the final box, the one with your life insurance in it. This one is more personal. There are mortgage statements from the house in Chelmsford, and utility bills, bank statements, and insurance stuff for the house. No hard drives or USB sticks. Nothing I can find that would store a file on it.
The yellow life insurance policy folder is in one hand, the bank statements in the other, and I stare at the empty boxes and the mess. There is nothing here; nothing that the man could want anyway.
I shiver and switch off the light before stepping back to our bedroom and the warmth of our duvet.
Bank statements first, I decide, pushing the yellow folder out of sight under my pillow as if the tooth fairy might come along and whisk it away for me.
It’s time to find Ian’s money and why you needed it in the first place. It has to be connected to this man and his threats.
I cover the bed in a sea of paper. Every page looks the same, with neat, typed lines, double sided, two columns of numbers on the right—money in, money out. The joint account is simple enough. You put money in at the start of the month and the balance trickled downwith each tank of petrol and food shop. I had the money from my GCSE and SATs tutoring going in too but it wasn’t much—£60 each week, sometimes less.
There are a few odd purchases I don’t recognize at first. Sanchez’s for £65; £20 at a bespoke jeweler in Chelmsford. I grab my phone and Google the businesses, remembering as the page loads that I went out for dinner with the Chelmsford mums for Julie’s birthday last September. The evening doubled as a farewell party for me. I bought Julie a pair of earrings as a birthday gift. It was a different lifetime from the one I’m living in now.
Money in. Money out. Amazon, Tesco, petrol. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. There are no answers in these statements, just a realization of how mundane my life was, and how separate you kept your finances. Aside from putting money into it each month, you didn’t use the joint account for anything other than the odd family dinner out and utility bills.
But if my life was boring, yours was too. Your personal account is no different. There’s one entry in the money-in column each month. The amount varies each time, which makes sense, I guess. Commissions paid on top of your basic salary paid directly to you before transferring a chunk of it into the joint account. I wonder why you did it that way, why you didn’t have your salary paid directly into an account for both of us to use. It’s as though you wanted to keep me separate.
I stare at the monthly salary amount. It’s more than I thought. We skipped, hell, we jumped right over so many stages in our relationship when I got pregnant with Jamie. We never did the weekend away, the meet the parents, the first fight, not until we were all in anyway. I’m not sure if discussing each other’s salaries counts as a relationship stage, but either way we hopped right over it.
Your expenditure column is as boring as mine. There are tiny payments at coffee shops, and higher amounts in pubs. A round or two bought on a Friday night. Seventy pounds spent in December in the shop where you buy your shirts. I remember you bringing them home in an oversized paper carrier bag.
There are some cash withdrawals too, but never for any startling amounts. You always liked to have cash in your wallet, unlike me, who put everything on a card.
There is nothing out of the ordinary. There are no answers here; no sign of Ian’s money either.
I told you not to worry, Tessie.
Not to worry? What about the man who for all I know is still standing outside our house? How can you tell me not to worry?
I flop back onto the pillow, sending paper floating to the floor. There’s a crinkling noise beneath my head and I remember the life insurance policy. I close my eyes and reach until my fingers touch the folder.
There’s no point putting it off any longer.
I open the folder at the same time as I open my eyes, scanning the words until I find what I’m looking for.
Policy Amount: £2,000,000
I blink, forcing my gaze to refocus and look again. Surely it’s two hundred thousand, not two million? It’s startling. It’s unbelievable, in fact. It’s enough to pay off the mortgage, it’s enough forever. It’s enough to pay your brother without breaking a sweat.
Two million, Mark. How is that possible? I feel like I should’ve known. It must have been mentioned when we made our wills. I wish I’d paid more attention that day. I really didn’t think it mattered. I didn’t think we’d need them.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel—relief? I’ll never have to work again. I’ll never have to worry about money, which I guess was why you did it. But every penny is a reminder of what we’ve lost—you, me, and Jamie. There is no amount that can make up for losing you, Mark.
I had to try though, Tessie. I couldn’t have you worry all the time.
Oh, Mark. What good is money if Jamie’s life is in danger? Whatever this man wants, I don’t have it.
I snatch the notebook from the bedside table and flick through the pages. The answer is here, I’m sure of it. I stop at Ian’s name, circled in shiny black pen. Where is his money?
My phone is still gripped in my hand. Before I can think too much about it I call Ian’s number.
“Tess, hi,” Ian says. His voice is groggy.
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
“It’s fine.” There’s a shuffling in the background and I picture him sitting up in bed. “Are you OK?”
