Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“Agent,” he corrects. “Agent Spivey, and yes, ma’am.”
He holds up a document that must be at least twenty pages, flips to the end, and points to the signature at the bottom. “Search warrant, and also a warrant for Mr. Barnes’s arrest.”
“It’s a load of bullshit,” Edward interrupts tersely. “That’s what it is.”
“Embezzlement,” Agent Spivey inserts, looking at Edward. “Your husband knows exactly why we’re here and what we’re looking for.”
On the page Agent Spivey holds up, words like affidavit, search, seizure, investigation, subpoenaed bank records, forfeiture swim like fish in an ocean of ink and confusion.
“Edward?” His name trembles on my lips because I’m so deeply afraid he does know what this is about. His out-of-character behavior. The late hours. All the “projects” he’s been working on lately that were never such a huge part of his job before. Could it all add up to this?
“Dammit!”
The curse comes from an agent struggling to catch my prized Cristina Córdova ceramic in the foyer as he flips my rug.
“If you’re not planning to pay for that when it breaks,” I snap, “I suggest you be more careful.”
Agent Spivey glances from the shamefaced agent to me. “We actually do pay to replace anything we break,” he says. “I know this is a lot, but we’re just doing our job.”
A group of agents stride to Edward’s office, where others are already rummaging through his desk and pulling paintings off the walls.
“Call Brunson,” Edward says as they march him toward the door. “Tell him I’ve been set up and I need him right away.”
The reality of calling our friend who is a lawyer to get Edward out of jail hits me like a semi, and I can’t breathe. Dumbly I take in the scene unfolding. Of Edward being hustled down our steps. Of my hydrangea bush being trampled by some careless agent checking the exterior of our house. Of our neighbors stepping out into their front yards, pulling curtains back, some standing boldly on the porch with folded arms and judgmental faces, gawking in the early-evening glow of streetlamps. I step onto the porch and blink at the tears standing in my eyes, not falling by sheer force of will.
“This is a mistake,” Edward screams as they walk him across our perfectly manicured front yard, I think as much for the benefit of the onlookers as to reassure me. His eyes are wild when they meet mine, and I’ve never felt less assured, less safe in my life.
A sob from behind me draws my eyes to all three girls huddled at the front door, faces thunderstruck, watching their father be dragged away. Watching agents swarm our house searching for God knows what.
“Girls,” I say, fighting the panic crawling up my throat and threatening to strangle me. “Get inside.”
“Daddy!” Inez screams, the word torn from her throat as she shoves past me and down the porch steps. She throws her arms around Edward’s middle, though he can’t hug her back with his hands cuffed behind him. She burrows into his chest, tear-streaked face buried in his shirt, her small frame shaking with sobs. I rush across the yard, picking my way through the agents encircling my husband and daughter.
“Hey, it’s okay, sweetie.” Edward bends to hold Inez’s tearful gaze. “It’s a big misunderstanding. I’ll be home in no time.”
I meet Edward’s eyes over her tousled curls, and I have no idea if we can believe the words coming out of his mouth. There’s too much smoke for there to be no fire at all, and watching my daughter come apart, watching our lives fall apart, I’m afraid we’ll all get burned.
An agent prods him toward the car waiting at the curb.
“Sol!” Edward yells, ducking his head when the agent nudges him into the back seat. “Call Brunson.”
“Okay.” I nod, feeling the weight of every eye in the cul-de-sac bearing down on us. “I will.”
The door slams, and Edward drops his head to the seat, not looking back when the car pulls out of our driveway.
“Come on, baby,” I whisper to Inez, my eyes fixed on the disappearing taillights. “Let’s go back inside. We’ll talk to your dad soon.”
We cross the yard, Inez clinging to my arm. Lottie and Lupe stand on the top step, tears streaking their faces. My heart pinches at their chorus of sniffles and sobs, and I shuffle them inside, slamming the door on the wave of curiosity and censure rising over our cul-de-sac. Herding them back past the marauding agents, through the dining room, and into the kitchen, I close the door behind us, blocking out the mayhem in our home and sealing us in this space where, for just a second, the madness can’t reach us.
“What did Dad do?” Lupe asks, her voice hushed.
“He didn’t do anything,” Inez says, her tearful words pebbled with anger. “You heard him. Judah Cross set him up.”