I couldn’t tell him the other part of the Big Plan’s appeal—that Libby had always viewed Burke as trash, a doomed addict who would never amount to anything. The idea of Burke—a so-called Langs Valley washout—enticing Libby’s precious daughter made my blood run fast and hot with glee. I could almost taste the satisfaction of watching it all unfold.
Burke said nothing for several long beats, staring at me, his jaw agape—an expression that made him look dumb and disarmingly young.
“You want me to seduce this girl, propose, plan the whole wedding, then rob her of millions before ditching her at the altar? That’s insane. Not to mention illegal, Heather,” he whispered, as if someone were spying on us in the privacy of our own home. “And probably impossible. And even if it’s not, it means leaving the country permanently. No way.”
“Who cares? We’d be millionaires. We’d be free! And honestly, if we pull this off, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Starlings are too mortified to press charges. In which case we wouldn’t have to go anywhere at all.”
“That’s a ridiculous gamble, Heather. And I’m sorry, but if you really felt money could make anything right with the Starlings, you would’ve taken what they offered you back then.”
I’d never regretted my choice to tear up Libby’s check. The Big Plan was different. This was justice I would claim for Gus; it wasn’t a payoff that Libby magnanimously handed down and I submissively accepted, leaving her with a clean conscience and my brother in the ground.
Burke’s response didn’t surprise me, so I tread lightly after that, bringing up the Big Plan about once a month. He continued to balk at the idea and tell me I was off my rocker, but I was making progress. I’d cut my Uber hours in half—when Burke asked why my income had plummeted, I told him demand for the app was at an all-time low—and made it a habit to remind my husband of the ever-dwindling balance in our savings account. Though I continued to up my spending, I did so discreetly and ensured every purchase could be deemed necessary. There was Maggie’s math tutor （she needed a boost in Algebra II）， the new hot-water heater, a new washing machine （I lied and told Burke the old one broke）， and a family vacation to Yellowstone National Park that I was planning for the summer. Garrett had been dying to go, I’d found reasonable flights to Salt Lake City on Kayak, and I explained to Burke that Maggie was mortified to be the only one of her friends who’d never been on an airplane. （In truth, Maggie was terrified by the prospect of flying; she’d confessed this private phobia to me years earlier.）
Despite my efforts, by the end of the winter progress with the Big Plan continued to stall. Money was tighter than ever, and I’d never seen Burke look so stressed—his gray hairs had doubled since New Year’s—but his stance on the Big Plan was firm.
“It’s insanity, Heather,” he said when I mentioned it the last week of March. His voice was uncharacteristically angry. “We aren’t con artists. We’re not those kinds of people. End of discussion.”
Now, I’m not proud of what happened next, Dr. K. But I was at my wit’s end. I’d become so unbearably tired of letting Burke call the shots, of living a life steered by his pathetic choices.
That’s why I picked up the phone one afternoon and called Herb Wooley, Burke’s boss at PK Adamson. Herb had only been at the company for six or seven years—not nearly as long as Burke—but from our first meeting, I could tell he had eyes for me. It was the holiday party, and Herb was there with his wife. She was my age, but dumpy looking, with sausage arms and peach fuzz on her upper lip that she hadn’t bothered to wax. I could tell she was one of those middle-aged women who’d let herself go.
Herb obviously hadn’t slept with his wife in years, and he didn’t try to hide his attraction to me. He came up behind me at the bar and squeezed my ass. “I could just devour you,” he whispered in my ear.
Calling Herb Wooley and asking him to meet me for coffee made me physically ill, but it was also my ticket to power. We met downtown one morning in early April. It was warm out, and I wore a pair of white shorts that showed off my legs, and a fitted, low-cut sweater in the shade of green that matched my eyes. I blew my hair out and applied mascara, then perfume. When I walked into the Starbucks, Herb was already there, and he stared at me as if I were a piece of meat, his gaze fixed and hungry.
“Mrs. Michaels,” he growled as I slid into the seat across from his. My blood turned cold as he leaned across the table to peck my cheek. His lips were wet and his breath smelled like onions. “What can I do for you?” he asked coyly.
I kept my eye on the prize and told Herb that I needed his help. I let the story I’d crafted tumble out, explaining that my father had been trying to convince Burke to come work for his company—a contracting business based in Waterbury—but that Burke was resistant out of loyalty to PK Adamson.
“It’s the best financial opportunity for us,” I told Herb. “Burke would be able to take over the company when my father passes, and I don’t know if you know, but Dad’s health has been declining—” I let my voice crack. “I’m sorry, I don’t want Burke knowing I came to you, I just thought I might see if you…” I exhaled a stream of air and folded my hands across the table, shifting them closer to Herb. “Burke feels indebted to PK Adamson after all these years. And I get that, but it’s clouding his judgment. This career move would be a chance for us to make better money, to pay off the kids’ student loans. And if Burke worked for my father, it’d mean keeping the business in the family, which is what Dad always hoped for, and he—he only has a few years left, at best. I really, really want this. I need this, Herb. Haven’t you ever needed something?”
One edge of Herb’s mouth curled into a small smile. I forced myself to stare into his beady gray eyes, feigning something I couldn’t bear to acknowledge.
“Also”—I pouted my lower lip, ready to lay down my biggest card—“it would be so nice if my husband didn’t work for you. The current dynamic makes it hard for us to have a real … friendship. You know what I mean?”
That was all it took, Dr. K. The whole experience wasn’t pleasant, but it was easy. The following week, Burke was let go from PK Adamson. Herb told him that for financial reasons the company had to make some cuts, that it wasn’t anything personal.
Burke was a mess. He didn’t move from the couch for several days, though I knew from his bloodshot eyes he hadn’t been sleeping. One night I woke to the sound of his crying like a baby in the bathroom. I felt badly, harboring the knowledge that I’d caused my husband this terrible pain, but I also knew that only something this extreme would break him.
One morning in May, when Burke’s severance payments had ended and he’d spent a month applying for jobs without any luck, I sat him down. Lightly, delicately, I broached the subject of the Big Plan. I reminded him of our ever-expanding debt, of the nearly maxed-out credit cards, of how Hope would need to drop out of Eastern until she could reapply for increased student loans, and of how, at this rate, the thought of paying four years’ college tuition for Maggie was inconceivable. And finally, finally, something in Burke gave way. We struck a deal. He agreed to a three-month deadline. He could have the summer to find a job—a job that paid more than what he’d been making at PK Adamson—and if by the end of August he was still unemployed, we would move forward with the Big Plan.