“It’s for your own peace of mind, babe, please, please see reason.”
I marched to his shiny white Range Rover and went to open the door, but it was locked. He never usually locked his car and always kept the keys in the ignition. He was guilty of something. I peered through the windows. The seats were down flat to make space in the back. There were loads of black bags inside. He rushed up beside me.
“Honey, would you mind fixing me breakfast? I’m starving.”
“What are those?” I asked, pointing at all the stuff in the back.
“Nothing. Please, babe, let’s go inside. You know what? Forget breakfast, let’s go to bed. Bed. He suggested this to get me off the scent, to defuse the situation. Then he came out with some romantic line from Casablanca. Typical Juan behavior.
We made love after that, but I could tell how distracted Juan was, his mind off in another direction. He’d led me to the bedroom to appease me, bide his time.
Day drew into evening, evening shaded into night. Juan’s darting, shifty eyes confirmed to me that he had something to hide. I pretended to fall asleep, pretended I hadn’t noticed anything. At around midnight, he slipped out of bed and sneaked outside into the dark. After a couple of minutes, I opened the sliding door and waited silently outside our bedroom. I heard him rootle around in the garden shed then walk up to the driveway. I heard his car door open. By the time he was loading up the wheelbarrow, I appeared like a phantom, catching him red-handed. He couldn’t deny it now. There he was, those black bags piled high in the wheelbarrow.
I stood there, hands on my hips like a schoolmarm. “Whatever you’re doing, Juan, you’re obviously up to no good.” That was the understatement of the year.
I thought he’d be angry, but he let out a laugh. “Busted.”
“I deserve an explanation.”
His smile now erased, he bowed his head in shame. “I can explain. But I really didn’t plan to get you involved in this, honey.”
“I’m already involved,” I said. “I have a right to know what goes on under my own roof.” Those words felt good to say. Under California law, now that we were officially married and I was his real wife, we were fifty/fifty all the way. But fifty/fifty also meant taking on the bad with the good. And this was looking really bad.
“It won’t be under this roof, honey, don’t worry.”
“Where are you going with all that then?”
“To the woods.”
“Our woods?” I asked. “In our backyard?” We owned four acres, much of it wooded.
He nodded.
“What’s inside those bags?”
“It’s not a dead body if that’s what you’re thinking.” He laughed.
“No, I wasn’t thinking that, but now you mention it…”
Juan had a temper that could flare up every so often if someone pushed the wrong buttons. He rarely lost it with me though. I had a knack of keeping him calm, defusing any possible blow-ups before they happened.
I stepped closer so my breath was on his face. “I have a right to know what the hell you think you’re doing. I take it it’s something illegal? Something you don’t want anyone to discover?” Paperwork, I thought, could be shredded. Maybe ledgers with his dodgy transactions?
He looked hard into my eyes but said nothing. “We have picks and shovels, right? I couldn’t find them in the garage.”
Then I imagined the worst-case scenario—bits of rotting body—and realized, right then, I’d do anything for Juan. Cover up for him. Help him dig. I’d be his partner in crime, without question. That’s how in love with him I was.
“There’s a whole lot of stuff in the shed,” I said. “Come on, tell me, what is it we need to bury?” We. I was in it up to my neck now.
He was silent for a beat as if he were weighing up his options, then finally he said, “Eight million dollars.”
For some reason this didn’t shock me. Up until this moment, I’d pretended I’d had no idea about my husband’s shenanigans. I’d closed my eyes and ears to it. But nobody comes by eight million dollars in cash just from hard work. All that traveling he’d been doing, back and forth, all over the globe. He’d refused to divulge any details, “for your own protection,” he’d always said. And I never asked. Knowing would make me guilty by association. But