The Last Thing He Told Me by Laura Dave (ebook reader ink .txt) 📕

smug. He likes that it comes off as smug. That is why he does it. He thinks it’s a good thing—smugness, intimidation—considering what he does for a living. He is a litigator at a Wall Street law firm, on track to being one of their youngest senior partners. He isn’t a criminal lawyer, but he is a great lawyer, as he would be the first to tell you. I’m just hoping that Jake’s type of hubris will help me now.

“Hi there,” I say.

He doesn’t ask who it is. He knows who it is, even after all this time. He also knows something is really wrong for me to be calling him.

“Where are you?” he says. “Are you in New York?”

When I called Jake to tell him I was getting married, he said that one day I’d show up back home ready to be together again. He believed that. And apparently he thinks today is that day.

“Sausalito.” I pause, dreading the words I don’t want to say. “I could use your help, Jake. I think I need a lawyer…”

“So… you’re getting divorced?”

It’s all I can do not to hang up the phone. Jake can’t help himself. Even though he was relieved when I called off the wedding, even though he married someone else four months later (and shortly thereafter divorced her), he liked to play the victim in our relationship. Jake held on to the narrative that because of my history, I was too scared to truly let him in—that I thought he’d leave me like my parents did. He never understood that I wasn’t scared of someone leaving me. I was scared that the wrong person would stay.

“Jake, my husband’s the reason I’m calling you,” I say. “He’s in trouble.”

“What did he do?” he says.

It’s the best I can hope for from him so I proceed to tell him the whole story, starting with some background information about Owen’s work, the investigation into The Shop and Owen’s bizarre disappearance, walking him through the dual visits from Grady Bradford and the FBI, and how the FBI didn’t know about Grady. I move him through how no one seems to know anything about where Owen is, or what he is planning next—least of all Bailey and me.

“And the daughter… she’s with you?” he says.

“Bailey, yes. She’s with me. Which is probably the last place she wants to be.”

“So he left her too?”

I don’t answer him.

“What’s her full name?” he says.

I hear him typing on his computer, taking notes, making one of the charts that used to cover our living room floor. Owen, now, in its bull’s-eye.

“First of all, don’t be too worried that the FBI didn’t know about the guy from the U.S. Marshals Service coming to talk to you. They could all be lying to you. And beyond that, there are often turf wars between different law enforcement agencies, especially when the scope of the investigation is still in question. Any word yet from anyone at the SEC?”

“No.”

“There will be. You should refer all law enforcement to me, at least until we know what’s going on. Don’t say anything, just have them call me directly.”

“I appreciate that. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. “But I gotta ask… how wrapped up in this are you?”

“Well, he’s my husband, so I would say intimately.”

“They’re going to show up with search warrants,” he says. “I’m surprised they haven’t already. So, if there is anything that implicates you, you need to get it out of your house.”

“I can’t be implicated,” I say. “I have nothing to do with this.”

I feel myself getting defensive. And I feel an uptick of anxiety, thinking of anyone showing up at my house with search warrants—thinking of the duffel bag they would find, still untouched, hidden beneath the kitchen sink.

“Jake, I’m just trying to figure out where Owen is. Why he thought the only way out was to get away from here.”

“He probably doesn’t want to go to jail, for starters.”

“No, that’s not it. He wouldn’t run because of that.”

“So what’s your theory?”

“He’s trying to protect his daughter,” I say.

“From what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he thinks it’s going to ruin her life if her father is falsely accused. Maybe he’s off somewhere trying to prove he’s innocent.”

“Not likely. But… there is the possibility that something else is going on,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like worse things that he’s guilty of,” he says.

“Helpful, Jake,” I say.

“Look, I’m not going to sugarcoat this. If Owen isn’t running from The Shop, he is probably running from what The Shop might reveal about him. The question is what that might be…” He pauses. “I have a private investigator, a good one. I’ll ask him to do some digging. But I’m going to need you to email me Owen’s entire history. Anything you know. Where he went to school, where he grew up. And dates. Everything. Where and when his daughter was born.”

I hear Jake start to bite on his pen. No one else in the world would decipher that is what he is doing, his secret habit. The one less-than-confident thing Jake does. But I can picture it as if I were sitting right there, staring at his mauled pen cap. It’s a terrible thing to know everything about someone long after you want to.

“And do this for me. Keep your phone near you in case I need to get in touch. But don’t answer for any numbers you don’t recognize.”

I think of Grady saying Owen threw his phone away—that he threw away the phone with the only number for him I’d recognize.

“What if it’s Owen?”

“Owen’s not calling right now,” he says. “You know that.”

“I don’t know that.”

“I think you do.”

I don’t say anything. Even though I suspect he’s right, I’m not going to tell Jake he is. I’m not going to betray Owen in that way. Or Bailey.

“And you need to figure out why he ran, something more specific than he’s trying to protect his kid…” he says. “And you better figure it out quickly.