“But, why would she do something like that?” Dorie asked, digging in her heels. Julia’s bossiness was starting to wear thin with her. The more Julia protested Madison’s coming, the more Dorie thought it was a good idea. “Anyway, if you’re that worried about her, we could all get locks on the bedroom doors.”
“Surely, that’s not necessary,” Ellis said, her voice trailing off.
Dorie studied Ellis, knowing she was the swing vote on the matter of Madison.
“Just meet her, please?” Dorie said, keeping her eyes on Ellis. “You’ll see, she’s perfectly nice. And the setup is perfect. Madison could come and go by that outside stairway around back. That’s what she wanted, a separate entrance. And she wanted to make sure she could use the kitchen, and of course, I told her that would be fine. You guys, she seems like somebody we could trust. She agreed to pay cash—half up front, half at the end of the month. I watched her drive off. She’s got a new-looking Volvo SUV. And she’s got some major-league diamonds. And, I mean, she was wearing Dior sunglasses and carrying a Prada bag. I guess they were the real thing, I don’t really know a lot about that kind of stuff.…”
“I do,” Julia said quickly. “I can spot bootleg Prada from a mile away.”
“Okay, when she comes over, you can totally check out all that stuff,” Dorie said. “What do you say?”
“It couldn’t hurt to meet her,” Ellis said. “Right, Julia?”
“Whatever,” Julia said, mustering a stern look. “But when this homicidal maniac slashes you to pieces with a butcher knife, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Then it’s settled,” Dorie said happily. “Unless you guys get just a really weird vibe, Madison is in. Now, I’ll just run upstairs and leave some clean towels in the bathroom. It’s the least I can do, since she’s taking up Willa’s slack.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Ellis volunteered.
“There’s just one more thing,” Dorie added. “Madison wants to be able to keep her car in the garage. I told her we’d have to charge her a hundred dollars more a week, and she didn’t bat an eyelash.”
“We don’t have access to the garage,” Ellis said. “Garage boy keeps his Bronco there.”
“There’s room for two cars,” Dorie said. “Maybe Ty Bazemore wouldn’t mind. Maybe you could ask Mr. Culpepper for permission.”
“Maybe,” Ellis said, sounding noncommittal. “I’ll check and see.”
13
Maryn watched Dorie’s red van pull out of the parking lot. Had she done something totally crazy? She’d just agreed to rent a room in a house full of women—total strangers—sight unseen. Why? Something about this girl made her feel safe. Dorie seemed like somebody she could trust. And Maryn couldn’t remember the last time she had trusted another woman she wasn’t related to.
She told herself the new plan made perfect sense. This way her name wouldn’t show up on any hotel or motel register. She wouldn’t be using a credit card. She’d be hidden away in a private home, in a place he’d never look, her car parked in a garage, hidden from prying eyes.
Maryn pulled her cell phone from her handbag and checked for messages. Four missed calls from Don. She deleted them with a tap of her fingertip, wishing the task were as easy in the real world as it was in the digital one. She wondered idly if she should call Adam, tell him how right he’d been about Don. She wished she could tell him, wished they could talk. Adam was the only one she could trust. But it wasn’t safe. Not for him, not for her.
Maryn nibbled nervously at her cuticle. What should she do? Call the police? Call the old man, R.G. Prescott himself? And tell him what? “I used to work for you, and my husband, Don Shackleford, is your accountant, and incidentally, he’s ripped you off to the tune of a couple million dollars, have a nice day?”
No. She had no real proof. She hadn’t worked for the insurance company in months. Shortly after their marriage, Don had insisted she quit—he had plenty of money, they didn’t need her penny-ante salary, and anyway, she had plenty to do at home, the three-thousand-square-foot town house they were renting while the new house was under construction. She’d kept up the friendship with Adam after leaving the company, but she was careful not to mention Adam to Don, who thought Adam was a loser—and anyway, why couldn’t she make friends with the wives of some of his golf buddies?
Adam had called on her cell phone last Friday, and it was obvious that something was wrong. “We need to talk,” he’d said, his voice low, insisting they meet at a coffee shop miles away from Cherry Hill.
She’d laughed when he walked in fifteen minutes late, wearing oversized sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low over his face. “What, you’re incognito?”
“This is serious, Maryn,” Adam had said. “Listen. We had outside auditors show up at the office today. They wouldn’t tell anybody what they were looking for, but I know for a fact that something’s funny with half a dozen of our accounts.”
She shrugged. “What’s that got to do with me? I haven’t worked there in months. And anyway, I just handled claims processing.”
“This isn’t about you,” Adam said. “It’s about your husband.”
“Don?” She still didn’t get it.
Adam smirked. “How do you think he got so rich? How many other CPAs do you know who live like him? The houses, new cars, trips to Vegas, Palm Beach, Bermuda? How much do you think it costs to belong to a country club like yours?” He gestured towards Maryn’s engagement ring. “Robby Prescott is old money, third generation, and his wife doesn’t have a ring like that.”
“That’s crazy,” Maryn said heatedly. She got up to leave. “Don doesn’t have to steal. He owns investment property, an office building on the south side, some self-storage companies. Just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean he’s a crook.”
Adam grabbed her sleeve, and her coffee spilled all over the table, splashing on her favorite Armani skirt. “Listen to me,” he insisted. “The guy is dirty. There’s money missing, or at least unaccounted for. Like, two million dollars.”
“You’re talking about my husband,” Maryn said, her voice cold. “Now let go. And don’t call me again. Ever.”
Her anger lasted all of a day. And then she started to wonder. Just where did all Don’s money come from? Why was he so secretive about his business affairs? He was generous with her, but she had no checking account of her own, not even a debit card, only credit cards, and she never saw a bill or bank statement. Everything was sent directly to his office. If she needed cash, she asked, and Don gave. “I’m your own personal ATM,” he told her more than once, graphically demonstrating just what he expected from her in return for his generosity.
And exactly twenty-four hours after her meeting with Adam, Maryn had started to look for answers. And what she found was much, much more than she bargained for. The truth hadn’t set her free at all, she thought now. It had sent her running for her life.
She put the phone away and dismissed any thought of asking anybody for help. Who would believe her? For now, she had more pressing matters to attend to. Her designer clothes—big-city career pieces—made her stand out like a sore thumb in a beach town. And the few pieces of clothing she’d hurriedly thrown into her duffle were just as unsuited to her current situation.
There was an outlet mall just down the road. She’d pick up a new wardrobe for the new person she’d just invented on the spot, a few minutes ago. Madison would need some shorts and T-shirts, a pair of Levi’s, some flip-flops. And her own clothes—Maryn’s clothes, the ones with all those expensive designer tags that she’d once lusted over? There was a Goodwill donation bin in the parking lot of the mall. That would be the end of Maryn. And the beginning of Madison.
* * *
“Here she comes,” Dorie said, as the Volvo bumped along down the driveway.