“My lawyer said the police lie all the time,” Ivy says.
“But this isn’t the police. Bryce met with someone from the DA’s office. Wouldn’t they get disbarred for that?”
“I have no idea.”
Wes makes a mental note to ask his lawyer about it. Bryce had said it would be difficult to get more information about the witness—at least until the full list is handed over, and that could be a while. The trial isn’t scheduled for another three months.
His money won’t last that long. Wes has avoided adding up the real numbers, but he knows he can’t afford three months without a paycheck.
“If it’s true,” he says, “I may have to consider a deal.”
“No.”
“If Bryce can get something without prison time, probation, or community service.”
Wes is lying. Bryce had said the opposite. But he isn’t going to tell Ivy how bad a deal would be.
“For killing a teenager? Not going to happen.” Ivy stands up and starts pacing around the living room. Her hands are balled up into fists, her movements sharp and fast. Wes can feel her anger.
Earlier in the day, he was angry like that. He wanted to punch something, kick his foot through the wall, or scream until he lost his voice. But he can’t afford to lose it now.
“You can’t take a deal,” she says.
“Ivy—”
“I’ll confess before that happens.”
“You can’t,” he says. “Then we’ll both go to prison.” He relays what Bryce said, watching her frown become more pronounced the longer he talks.
She says nothing. If there is a way out of this, he can’t see it, either.
They talk it to death, arguing over the possibilities, throwing out legal theories that may or may not be based in reality. When his brain gets to the point where he can’t even form sentences, they finally go to bed. Both collapse into it like they just ran a marathon.
He stays awake, waiting a few minutes before rolling over to whisper in her ear. “I promise I’ll take care of this. Just don’t say anything.”
She doesn’t move. But she is awake.
He knows that, has always known that, all the way back to the first time he whispered in her ear, so many years ago. She is not that good at playing possum.
But it gives him a chance to tell her exactly what she wants to hear. Or what he wants her to know.
67
Ivy sighs and picks up her phone.
Turns out, it’s not easy to marry someone who is confined to his home. In California, both people have to appear in person at one of the county offices. There is an exception for those who are in the military in an active-service area, but no exception for people with ankle monitors.
Another call to her lawyer. Might as well. If Wes is going to go bankrupt, she will be right there with him.
Stan says a lot of things she doesn’t understand, but she does get that he will check with the county and see if there’s any way Wes can submit his paperwork with a notarized letter from his lawyer. Maybe that will work, Stan says.
Maybe.
The police know where Wes is every second of the day, thanks to technology, but a marriage license needs a lawyer negotiating with city hall.
Yúchǔn.
Stupid. Why everything is so stupid is beyond her.
She skips her Chinese lesson. It’s been a waste of time this week anyway. Ivy can’t concentrate on learning a language; she’s too busy planning a wedding. Her entire afternoon is spent staring at pictures on the internet, trying to decide if all the inexpensive decorations look good or just cheap. She spends the rest of the day attempting to figure it out.
* * *
—
Ivy doesn’t see the lights until she turns the corner. Red and blue, a blanket of police cars, and they’re all in front of Wes’s house.
She hits the gas, driving as close as she can before slamming on the brakes hard enough to make the tires squeal. Ivy gets out and bolts toward the house. Her heart thumps and she runs in sync with it right up until she is stopped by two uniformed cops.
“You can’t go in there,” one says.
“I live here,” she says. An exaggeration, and a necessary one.
One of the cops is a pasty white man with a nose that’s clearly been broken a few times. He looks at her and then at his partner, a woman with sleek hair and dark skin. While they exchange silent words, Ivy tries to see behind them. The front door is open, and a few people are standing on the porch.
Karen is one of them.
“What happened?” Ivy says. “Can you at least tell me that?”
Again the cops look at each other. Ivy takes the opportunity to dart around them, toward Karen. A flood of possibilities run through her mind, and they’re jumbled together in a horrific montage. Someone might have broken into the house and hurt Wes. Someone related to Joey. Or a psycho that read about his arrest and became a vigilante.
Or he might have hurt himself. She pictures him hanging from the curtain rod, lying in a bathtub, or with a gun. He doesn’t even own a gun, but that doesn’t stop her from picturing it.
A hand grabs her arm from behind. The cop with the broken nose. His partner grabs her other arm, and she tries to pull away but can’t. There’s no way to get out of the hold. She looks up at Karen.
“Ivy,” she says.
“Where is he?”
“I was just about to ask you the same question.”
* * *
—
Gone.
Wes is gone.
Karen says it three times, and Ivy still can’t process the words. Finally, Karen leads her to the living room. The ankle monitor is on the floor, with a jagged edge where it was cut off.
“We knew immediately the monitor had been tampered with,” Karen says. “But by the time we arrived, he was already gone.”
Ivy shakes her head, still not getting it. He never said a word to her about running. Never gave her a clue.
“As far as we can tell, he didn’t take anything with him,” Karen says. “He didn’t take his car, either.”
Ivy’s brain refuses to accept what is right in front of her. That Wes ran, jumped bail, and vanished. The mental wall eventually breaks down, brick by brick, and a flood of new questions come to mind: How long had he been planning this? Did he know from the start, or was it a last-minute decision? Why didn’t he tell her?
Most importantly: Where did he go?
She doesn’t have any idea.
“You didn’t know.” Karen is staring at her, an intense look that makes Ivy feel like the detective can see right into her head.
“No.”
“We already sent a patrol car to your house,” she says. “It’s sitting out front in case Wes shows up.”
Ivy didn’t even think of that. Wes wouldn’t be stupid enough to go from his place to hers.
“Can you do us a favor?” Karen says.
“What?”
“Would you mind looking around?” she says. “In case anything seems odd or if anything is missing?”
Like she would tell Karen if it was. Still, the task is welcome because it keeps her focused on small things. His clothes, toiletries, and earbuds. Everything is right where it usually is, as if he walked out the door with only the clothes on his back.
Or was forced out.