They went for the perfect honeymoon instead of the lousy wedding. They spent Jerome’s money on a five-star trip to St. Barts. A thousand bucks a day for ten days, endless blue skies, a suite with an ocean view. They swam, they snorkeled, they sailed a catamaran. They rode scooters. They drank. They watched sunsets.
Two weeks before, Rebecca had gone to her gyno, had her IUD taken out. She felt almost giddy as the doctor put it in a plastic bag and handed it to her. Her own fertility, returned.
Why not? We’re getting married. Becks and Bri 4-ever.
She was pregnant by the time they flew home.
12
Birmingham, Alabama
“Mommy!”
The quivering voice cut through her sleep. She’d been dreaming about Draymond Sullivan. She could still see his face, pouchy and fleshy, corruption incarnate.
So much easier when the criminals looked like criminals—
“Mommy!”
Urgent now. Rebecca jolted up, Kira, was something wrong—
“Happy Birthday!” Thumping footsteps. Kira wasn’t a dainty girl. Good for her. She ran into the bedroom, holding a giant cupcake with a candle. Behind her Brian and Tony followed.
Happy birthday? Had she forgotten her own birthday? Before she could stop herself: “Oh shit.”
“Mommy you said sh—”
“No I didn’t.”
“We made you cupcakes!”
“Happy Birthday, Becks,” Brian said. “Happy birthday to you.”
Lately she’d noticed a touch of irony in the way her husband spoke to her. She heard it again now. Or maybe not. Maybe she was just sleep-deprived.
Brian and Kira sang birthday greetings as Tony squealed happily. This is what matters, not Draymond Sullivan, the Boss of South Alabama. For at least the next ten minutes.
Rebecca kissed Kira’s perfect round cheeks. The cupcake was smeared with thick blue frosting.
“I put it on, Mommy.”
“Thank you, baby.”
The cupcake was good, fresh, the frosting even better, rich buttercream. Brian had added cupcakes to his repertoire since they’d moved to Birmingham. Trying to be the best househusband I can be, he said. That was definitely ironic, she thought.
“How is it?”
“Great.” Still, she made herself stop after a couple of bites. A minute on the lips… For a while she’d thought she would never lose the weight she’d gained having Tony. Moving to Alabama had helped, perversely. All the barbeque and fried chicken. Every third person seemed morbidly obese, a walking advertisement for the virtues of sensible eating.
* * *
Breakfast waited in the kitchen. Scrambled eggs and fresh-brewed coffee. And a present, a white-and-silver device the size of a cigarette pack, with a little black-and-white screen.
“An iPod,” Brian said. “It’s a digital music player. I put some songs on there. I can help you download more.”
“I know what an iPod is. I’m not a total loser.” Though she wasn’t quite sure about the downloading.
He nodded, Of course you do. She sipped her coffee, tried not to think of Draymond Sullivan’s syrupy voice pouring out sweet nothings. He was probably the biggest real-estate developer in southern Alabama, and certainly the most corrupt. His name had come up in another bribery case, giving them just enough probable cause to put a wire on his phone.
As the junior agent in the office, Rebecca had to listen to the recordings. But she hadn’t heard much worth transcribing. In this football-crazy state, his biggest sin had been saying he didn’t think ’Bama could beat LSU. Tigers gon’ be tough this year. Plus off-color cracks about his secretary’s daughter Jenelle. Jenelle was sixteen.
Either Sullivan was clean—impossible—or he was too crafty to do anything over the phone. Either way, Rebecca was sick of his sugars and honeys and sweeties. No wonder the whole state could barely fit through a door.
“I should go in today.” The day before a new batch of recordings had come in.
“It’s your birthday, Mommy. And Saturday.”
“The kids were looking forward to spending the day with you,” Brian said.
“You prommmised!” Kira’s voice rose to a wail.
Work would have to wait.
* * *
They’d come to Birmingham not even a year before, straight from Quantico. She’d entered the academy just after Tony turned one. In retrospect she wished she’d waited longer. FBI cadets lived at the training center five days a week, saw their families only on weekends. The kids couldn’t live in the dorms at Quantico, so they’d stayed with Brian in Philly. She’d made the three-hour-plus drive back every Friday. Tony had taken her absences hard. He’d screamed when Sunday night arrived and she packed her bag.
But by the end, he just watched her go, no tears at all, stony and calm.