We Are Us

Chapter 53 New York City

“Hey, sleeping beauty. You pla

I wince at Sadie’s strident tone, my head pounding as if I’d slept on a pillow of rusty nails. My memory of last night is a further assault.

The man in my bedroom.

His questions.

His threats.

The damp rag he’d put over my mouth, just before warning me not to tell anyone about his visit. The or else was unspoken, but it was there. Whatever the rag had been soaked in put me out immediately, and must be the reason for my killer headache this morning.

A bird in a cage, he’d called me. A pretty, perceptive phrase completely incongruous with the sheer menace of him.

He didn’t know me, and yet he knew the most important thing about me. Despite my high thread count sheets, silk drapes, and Harry Winston rings, I am a prisoner. Captive inside a cage I willingly walked into.

Sadie regards me quizzically. “What’s going on with you? Did you hit the bars last night or something?”

“Yeah, I snuck out when you weren’t looking,” I deadpan. “Can you just get me an Excedrin?”

Moments later she is back at my side, loudly shaking two pills from the bottle. I groan at the noise, but accept them gratefully. “The knock on your head hurting again?”

“Mm-hmm,” I say, gulping water from the bottle on my nightstand. I ca

“Okay, hopefully, these will work because your lawyer called. Said she was going to stop by to go over a few things with you.”

My brain feels like a cruise ship trying to make a U-turn, heavy and ponderous. “Reese?”

“Unless you hired a new one overnight.”

“Here?”

“Yep. Might want to get out of your pj’s.”

A strong sense of foreboding swirls in the pit of my stomach. Reese Reynolds making a house call? This can’t be good.

And… shit. I need to pay her.

Your husband is missing. And so is the money. Just because he cleaned it, doesn’t make it his.

Could Tucker have drained our personal accounts too? Alarm spirals its way through my intestines as I grab my laptop, logging onto my Internet browser before realizing I have absolutely no idea how to check our accounts. Tucker has always handled all of our finances. Even when I’d earned my own paycheck, it was deposited directly into one of our accounts and I simply used the credit cards Tucker gave me for my purchases. And if I needed cash, all I had to do was ask.

Who do I ask now?

“I have a problem.”

Reese’s expression remains impassive. “Problems are how I earn my fees.”

“Yes, well, I guess you have your work cut out for you.” I clear my throat, feeling a wave of embarrassment for ceding control over even the most basic necessity—access to a checking account—to Tucker. “I don’t know how to access my bank accounts.”

Reese leans back, arms folded as she appraises me critically. “Well, now, that is a problem. Although one that should be relatively easy to solve. Assuming, of course, that your husband didn’t leave you pe

I chew at the inside of my cheek, afraid if I admit how plausible that scenario really is, my lawyer will walk out the door and never come back. I highly doubt my high-powered lawyer defends women who live in ten-million-dollar Manhattan penthouses pro bono?

Thankfully, she makes no move to leave. “What’s your social security number?” she asks, pulling out her phone and making a call.

I answer, and she repeats it to the person on the other end of the line. “I need a full financial work-up on Mrs. Stockton immediately, and as soon as you’re finished, I want one on her husband, too. And when you think you’re done, you’re not. I want shell companies, deposits, wire transfers, fund disbursements, fees. I want to see so far up Tucker Stockton’s fiscal asshole I’m going to need a cigarette afterward, you understand?” She ends the call, regarding me with a satisfied smile on her face. “Okay then, now that that’s settled, let’s talk about your case.”

She slides a photo toward me. “The knife. Take a look and tell me whatever comes to mind.”

Shock ripples through me as I stare at the bloody blade jutting out from an ivory handle. “It’s— It’s from the charcuterie platter. I used it to cut the chorizo.” When Detective Reardon asked me about a knife, I imagined something bigger, sharper, more lethal. “This is what I stabbed Tucker with?”

Reese frowns. “Do not admit to stabbing Tucker with anything, do you hear me?”

I nod, but inside I’m shaking. I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Tucker. I don’t know how or why his blood got on the knife—but it wasn’t because I’d intended to hurt him.

“As far as the criminal case against you is concerned, at least your prints make sense now.” Her phone buzzes and Reese squints at it. “Looks like my guy put together a preliminary financial snapshot on you already.”

I try to slow my breathing as Reese downloads the report onto her iPad. She pats the chair beside her. “Come, let’s go over this together.”

I change seats, my brows drawing together as I study the information on screen. Beneath my name, is a bank account number and a dollar amount. $112,968.47. Below that are several credit cards. Various amounts, all under ten thousand dollars, have been noted beside each one. All three are marked “current.”

Reese glances at my face. “What’s wrong?”

“Two things. First, I haven’t used that bank in years. And second, I only recognize two of the credit cards.”

Her phone buzzes again and she picks it up, sighing. “Your husband’s financial profile is proving more difficult. I can’t say I’m surprised, given his wealth, occupation, and the charges he’s facing. Tell you what, I’m going to email you this information, and you can try to figure out what’s what. In the meantime, I’ll head back to my office and see what I can discover myself.”

I offer a tight nod. I can still feel the intruder’s hand on my hip, hear the echo of his softly accented voice delivering icy threats. The next time he shows up, and I am certain there will be a next time, I’d better have something to tell him.