We Are Us

Chapter 54 New York City

I crawl back into bed with my laptop, then pull up the website of the bank I used in college. I enter the account number from the email Reese sent me, and fill a dozen boxes with my name, address, social security number, and a few other identifying bits of data. After confirming my email address, I am redirected to a secure portal and just like that, I have access to money I didn’t even know existed a few hours ago.

But where did it come from?

Scrolling through previous statements, I go back months and then years to find the most recent deposit—a paycheck. In fact, those are the only deposits that were ever made into the account. Bi-monthly paychecks. The money in the account is the sum of my earnings from working at TeenCharter, all of which were paid out through direct deposits into my bank account.

Isla sorts our mail, leaving everything but catalogues, junk mail, everything concerning my mother, and the occasional birthday card or wedding invitation on the kitchen counter. Bills and bank statements either go directly to Stockton Capital or are left for Tucker in his home office. No need for you to concern yourself with paperwork, he’d assured me. I give it all to an accountant anyway.

Out of sight, out of mind.

My lack of involvement in our financial affairs had never bothered me. Why would it? Money was never an issue.

Until now.

Taking another glance at my bank balance, I realize it’s barely enough to pay Reese’s retainer and Isla’s salary, let alone basic expenses like food and the maintenance fees of our apartment.

There must be more money somewhere. I just have to figure out how to access it.

Turning my attention to the credit cards, I follow the same procedure as I did with my bank, logging onto the website and entering the account numbers and my personal data. But this doesn’t give me the access I want.

Stifling a groan, I call the number on the back of my Black American Express card. The customer service representative is polite and friendly, patiently explaining that I am only an authorized user, not the actual account holder. Access denied.

My conversation with Visa is nearly identical.

But that still leaves one more card. The one that isn’t in my wallet.

I call the customer service number listed on MasterCard’s website. But the result is the same as the other two. Denied.

The stitches in my scalp feel tight around my wound, almost as if my head expanded with each wasted effort. Spotting the bottle of Excedrin Sadie left on my nightstand, I shake another into my hand.

Who else can I call?

The accountant.

Closing my laptop, I try to remember if Tucker had ever mentioned him by name. I am sure he would have used someone at Stockton, but there have to be dozens of accountants on staff, at the very least. Surely a confidentiality clause won’t prevent Keene from forwarding my call to Tucker’s accountant.

Cursing my complacency for the thousandth time in the past few days, I dial the main number for Stockton Capital and am redirected to Keene’s line. If only I had taken even the slightest interest in our financial affairs at some point during our marriage, I wouldn’t be in this position.

He picks up on the second ring. “Mrs. Stockton, you’re ah—” he stops, the strain in his voice obvious. “It’s kind of a busy time.”

“I understand. It is for me, too. Um, I was just wondering if you could put me through to whomever dealt with our personal finances. I need to pay a few bills and I’m having a hard time getting information from my credit cards because I’m not an account—”

Keene interrupts. “I take it you haven’t seen the news today.”

“No. Not today. Why? What’s going on?” I grab for the remote control on my nightstand.

“We’re being investigated by the FBI. Trading has been suspended, computers and files are being seized.” My jaw sags as the screen comes to life, showing a street view of Tucker’s office building, a swarm of blue windbreakers carrying boxes with electronic equipment or reams of paper into a white van parked at the curb. “It’s not a good time right now. I’m sorry. I really have to go.”

He clicks off, and it takes a minute to realize the strange sound in my ear is a dial tone. I let the phone drop to the mattress.

The scene playing out on TV reminds me of watching the Coast Guard search for Tucker. All those people—on boats, on the beach, in the water, hovering overhead in helicopters. So many people looking for just one man.

All that effort, and they still haven’t found him.

Clearly the investigation is expanding, the circle of suspicion widening. His wife. Our private life. Now his business. Everything is being torn apart in the search for Tucker.

I am living in a real life game of dominos.

Tucker, gone.

Stockton Capital, as good as gone.

Am I next? Will I spend the rest of my life in prison for a crime I’m now certain I didn’t commit?

Crimes, really. All the buzzwords I’ve been hearing on TV swarm inside my head like angry wasps. Murder. Manslaughter. Money-laundering. Theft. Aiding and abetting a criminal enterprise.

Is Tucker watching this? How could he have let his happen?

I raise the volume.

Agents seized documents today at the Park Avenue offices of Stockton Capital, the Manhattan-based money management firm, executing court-authorized search warrants as part of their investigation into one of the largest cases of alleged money laundering in United States history. Sources have confirmed that this is a joint effort of the FBI, the Manhattan District Attorney’s office, and the Treasury Department, although the SEC is expected to become involved shortly.

The screen changes to a montage of me and Tucker at our wedding, then at various black-tie events before showing footage of the search and rescue operation.

Since Tucker Stockton’s disappearance nearly a week ago, authorities close to the investigation say they’ve been concerned about the potential for Stockton Capital associates to destroy evidence critical to the investigation. The firm hasn’t returned messages seeking comment. We are tracking this story closely and will have more details for you as they become available.

The camera then returns to the network studio reporters.

You may remember, Tucker Stockton’s wife, Poppy Stockton, was released from the Florida hospital where she was treated for injuries sustained during the fateful boat ride from which her husband didn’t return. Sources tell us she’s been questioned by the authorities though she has yet to be officially named as a suspect. However, Mrs. Stockton has retained the services of Reese Reynolds and we’ve reached out to the famed celebrity attorney for comment. So far, our calls have gone unreturned.

The back of my neck feels hot, as if warmed by the breath of someone chasing me. Like I am being hunted. The other reporter nods her assent and reads a lead-in for the next story.

Reaching beneath my sweater, I scratch at the cuts on my back, my hand coming away streaked with fresh blood.

“Hey, Poppy. Are you watching—” She stops talking when she pokes her head through my doorway and catches sight of the television screen.

“Yeah. I saw.”

Her eyes probe mine. “Are you okay?”

I answer honestly. “I have no idea.”