faces. I continued my silent crawl, each inch forward feeling like an eternity. I couldn’t make a sound.
Heart hammering, I dragged my way inside the laundry room, claustrophobic panic surging through me, but then I found the pillowcase and the contents inside, tucked behind the washing machine, and my pulse beat steadily again. I checked everything was there: the jar of keys, my Land Rover key and the hammer. I quietly lodged the pillowcase back in its hiding place, just in case anyone discovered me. I had left the door ajar.
All I could do was wait. Wait until the house was silent. Wait until they had gone to bed. Then I’d escape.
I thought about the money buried in our woods. Just sitting there, inciting me, all this time, with paranoia and fear.
Eight million dollars.
Forty-Two
I felt like an undertaker that day we buried the money. You’d think having eight million dollars in your backyard would be a dream come true, the biggest thrill of your life, but being guardian to that type of booty does nothing but sail you off to a desert island—which may seem beautiful and exciting at first—until your nerves are shipwrecked on a bed of dry, scalding sand. Too hot to touch. And then paranoia breaks into your brain like a fever, and you end up alone.
Más sola que la una.
Not to mention the guilt attached to it, which ate at my conscience, daily.
It was a bright sunny day in May, that day, not a cloud in sight, a white-hot blaze searing high in an azure sky. I heard Juan’s car roll down the driveway, The Police blaring out from the speakers—he was playing our song. He’d returned from the airport after a business trip, and I grinned, knowing we’d make passionate love. He burst into the house and tore off his Armani jacket, tossing it on the living room floor. He didn’t even say hello. Obviously something was awry, because he’d usually hang up his suits with care.
“Help me get this goddam tie off!” he roared, grappling at the noose around his neck. “Get this fucker off, it’s strangling me!”
“Don’t panic,” I told him calmly. “Just stay still.”
He took in a deep breath. “I’ve missed you, honey, I need you to calm me down.”
His words zapped straight between my legs. When Juan was in a state he needed sex to relax him. My own body readied itself right then, my skin tingled, my breasts ached with longing. Juan and I had a mutual, symbiotic relationship, almost as if we were feeding off each other. I had looked forward to him coming home all week, thought of nothing else.
I freed him from his tie and then took off my sweater and slipped out of my skirt, brushing my lips against his, waiting for him to say, Up against the wall, babe, or Bend over.
But he shook his head and pushed me away. “Honey, I don’t have time for that now.” This was a first. Juan always had time for it.
“What’s wrong?” I said, panic spiking my veins. That note came to mind. The reminder that Juan was having an affair. He’d been with her today, they’d had breakfast together. Made love. And now he saw me with indifference, even disgust. I felt a tear slide down my cheek.
“Just, just—not now,” he said. “I need to do something important, but I don’t want you involved. Something—” He broke off from his sentence, his mind turning.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” he said sharply. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.” His eyes shifted around the living room. We had only been at Cliffside a couple of weeks. I still couldn’t get used to the luxury of this place, the fact that this was our home.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice shaky. It would all flood out now. His confession. I’d find out about that woman, the woman who wanted nothing to do with him, the one who begged him to leave her alone. That note on the napkin was a woman’s handwriting, I was positive of that. Juan had finally won her over with his persuasive Juanish ways. She’d been unable to resist him. They were in love. Jealousy consumed every molecule of my body at the thought of him touching another woman.
“What is it?” I whispered. I put my clothes back on and made my way out the door, to his car. If there were any telltale signs, he’d be sure to keep them there. In the glove compartment