When I Was You (15 page)

My original supervisor was recently replaced with a man aptly named Dick, who likes to crack his invisible whip and gets pissy anytime Brian asks for time off. I imagine he’d be the same way with me, so I intend to lie low.

The biggest concern I have at this point is how long they’re going to let me drag my feet on her medical records. Everything I gave them was falsified, painstakingly copied and pasted and retyped from various documents I found online. I even managed to find a logo on a now-defunct private psychiatric hospital that the state shut down years ago. All their medical records were sent to some central processing place out of Georgia, and requests have to go through some automated system where they state it “may take up to six weeks” to receive your copies.

I can’t imagine they’ll kick Brienne out of the facility as long as her account is current and she’s actively participating in her treatment. I
just have to be careful to keep my excuses straight, to say all the right things when they ask about the status of the records.

I’m not worried.

And honestly, I just need to get through the next couple of weeks.

“Feet off the desk.” It’s Brian. “This is a hospital, man. Gotta keep it sanitary.”

I let my sneakers linger long enough that his nose twitches, and then I drop my feet to the ground. “You’re right. Sorry about that.”

We sit in silence, as we do most of the time since the two of us have very little to say to each other. The few times we have had remotely in-depth talks, I excused myself from them as soon as he started talking about his live-action role-playing club, his collection of first-edition J. R. R. Tolkien novels, and his addiction to
World of Warcraft
.

My leg bounces when I check the time. I’ve got another half hour until lunch.

I page through an oncology medical journal I swiped from one of the break rooms the other day. I suppose I don’t need to keep reading up on this as I no longer need to play a role for Brienne, but I’m beginning to find this stuff fascinating.

I’ve got a handful of phone calls to make on my break today, which means I’ll need to shove a food court sandwich down my throat and sit in my Volvo in the west parking lot taking care of business.

But we get another page for a transport on the OB floor, and Brian exhales, as if he’s annoyed at the fact that he has to do his job.

I’m in a playful mood today.

Think I’ll make him run.

CHAPTER 27

I have a cigar on the back steps Tuesday night as the locksmith does his thing, and then I pay him in cash before all but shoving him out the door, appreciating the subtle irony in the fact that I lock up behind him. It doesn’t take much to amuse me these days, and there are moments I feel like I’m walking on air, like nothing could possibly bother me. It’s got to be that feeling Sonya always talked about—the not-having-a-care-in-the-world feeling.

After heading back to Brienne’s office, I take a seat in the creaky wooden chair and pull out the first vertical file.

Taxes.

I shove them aside and move on to the next.

Business licenses, permits, and insurance sales certifications.

Next.

I’m six more file folders deep when I finally come across the golden goose: her retirement portfolio.

The most recent statement is two months old, and I count the zeroes twice to make sure I’m reading this right. I knew Brienne Dougray was loaded, thanks to her grandparents. I just didn’t know she was
this
loaded.

$13,358,000.

Thirteen’s never been a lucky number for me, but I find no reason to get upset about this.

I crack the lid of her laptop next, and I’m gifted with a pleasant surprise when it doesn’t prompt me for a password.

Smirking, I think of Sonya and how proud she would be that I had the courage to go for this, to right these wrongs in her honor.

I’m the man I am today because of Sonya and no one else.

The good, the bad, and everything in between—it’s all her.

I learned the art of negotiation by listening to her phone calls with the power company whenever our electric payment was late. I learned the power of a soft, apologetic tone when she’d fake a less-than-great experience at a roadside diner and earn us a couple of free take-home meals for tomorrow’s dinner. I learned how to leverage all the authority in relationships by watching her manipulate her boyfriends with what she sweet-talked them into believing was love.

Pulling up an internet browser, I type in the website listed in the letterhead of Brienne’s most recent statement. Once the page loads, I click on “Sign In.” Her email address populates automatically as the username, but the password is blank. I hover the cursor over the box, hoping it’ll ask if I want to use a saved password, but nothing comes up.

But it’s not the end of the world.

I click on “Forgot My Password,” and in under thirty seconds, Brienne’s in-box dings. Just like that, I’ve got a link to click on to reset her log-in credentials.

It’s so easy it’s almost taking all the fun out of this.

I type in a nonsense password, though one I’ll be able to remember, and a second later, I’m greeted with a welcome page and a myriad of buttons prompting me to check the latest account activity, download recent statements, or request transfers.

My fingertips are hot to the touch, electric adrenaline making its way through every part of me.

It’s a rush like nothing else.

Grabbing a notebook and pen from the corner of her desk, I record every last account number along with their corresponding balances, and I rip the page out and tuck it in my pocket—an added precaution in case I get caught up in all this excitement and forget something.

Next, I click on “Request Transfer.”

A pop-up warns me all about the tax repercussions of cashing out certain accounts early, and then it asks if I want to proceed.

I check the box next to “Yes,” and on the following page, I request a paper check be sent to Brienne’s home address.

Please allow 7–10 business days for your request to be processed. If you have not received your check after 10 business days, please call our customer-support line.

That’s going to be cutting it close, but it’s nothing to break a sweat over. Quick on my feet, I can pivot with the best of them. I can turn on a dime. Been doing it my entire life.

Leaning back in the chair, I hook my hands behind my neck and stretch until my shoulders pop and the hint of tension in my upper back releases, and then I head to the kitchen to grab another beer.

By the time I’ve taken a couple of king-sized swigs, my phone rings. A South Dakota area code fills the screen, and I realize I forgot to call them back yesterday.

Summoning my inner Dr. Lucas, I clear my throat, put the beer aside, and take the call.

“Dr. Emberlin speaking,” I answer, my tone neutral and professional.

“Hi, Dr. Emberlin, this is Nancy with Crestview,” a woman says. “I left you a message yesterday about—”

“Yes, I’m so sorry about that. I actually worked a double, covered for a colleague. Gosh, I’ve been sleeping all day.” I add an apologetic chuckle to my gentle tone. “I did check my schedule, and unfortunately, I won’t be able to move things around for the rest of the week, but I could get up there first thing Saturday if that works?”

She’s quiet for a second and then asks me to hold. When she returns, she informs me that Dr. Schneider is off this Saturday, but he’s agreed to come in from eight to nine for this appointment.

I don’t like the patronizing undercurrent of her words or the fact that she’s insinuating he’s doing
me
a favor when I’m shelling out the big bucks that pad his paycheck, but I swallow my pride and let it go.

“I’ll be there. You have my word,” I say. “By the way, how’s she doing?”

“You’ll need to speak with one of our nurses,” Nancy says. “Let me give you Diane’s voice mail. She’s with a patient right now.”

Before I can thank her, she’s transferred me. I leave a message after the tone, identifying myself and asking for an update on the status of my wife. I also ask that she have “Kate” call me when she gets a chance. I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t yet—though maybe it isn’t allowed. If that’s the case, I’ll have to step up my game, show more effort in the concerned-husband department.

I grab my beer from the counter as the back door swings open and Sam enters. Her heels click against the hardwood floor, and she’s dressed like she just left the office.

Really? She couldn’t have changed before coming here?

“You didn’t have to stay all dressed up for me, babe,” I say, taking her in my arms.

“You’re cute.” Sam chuckles under her breath and drops her fake designer bag on the kitchen table before sliding off her heels. Until meeting Brienne, I’d never heard of Goyard, and some quick research proved they don’t sell their products online. If I wanted the real deal, I was going to have to call Barneys in New York City or the like. Thank God for knockoffs and resale websites. “I’m pretty sure you’ll take me any way you can have me.”

“You put in your notice yet?” I change the subject.

She frowns. I know how much she liked her job and how much it meant to her to finally feel like she was someone in the world. If a
person starts at the bottom, they tend to stay at the bottom. People like Sam and me don’t tend to have the brightest of futures given our initial circumstances and less than privileged upbringings, and it’s a crying shame because Sam was born with a heart of gold. It’s her best quality—especially when it’s directed at me—but it’s also her biggest flaw. In fact, it’s one of the reasons I couldn’t quite tell her every detail about what it is we’re doing here in Quinnesec Bluff.

“Yesterday,” she says, collapsing in one of the nearby chairs. “I gave them my notice yesterday.”

“Come on, Sam. Cheer up. Don’t be sad. You had a good run there, but it’s time to move on.”

“I liked my job.” She chews on her thumbnail, a dirty habit that makes her look nothing like Brienne in this moment.

“For the first time in your life, you don’t need to work anymore. And for the first time in my life, I can finally take care of you. Let’s enjoy this.”

Initially I told her I had family here that I was looking to reconnect with, that my mom was from here and I wanted to get in touch with her relatives, feel closer to her in that way. Sam thought it was sweet of me and jumped on board with the plan to move here. No questions asked.

I had no problem landing a job at the hospital, making fifteen bucks an hour transporting sick people from room to room, but Sam struggled to land even an interview at the local Burger King.

It wasn’t her fault, though.

I got into some trouble back home years ago, took a couple of jobs as a middleman in some stolen car operation this guy I knew was running out of the back of his mechanic shop. Long story short, Sam took the fall for me (all of her own accord, the angel) and did some prison time at the Nebraska Correctional Center for Women. As a result, she’s a bit less hirable than she once was. Everybody loves Sam the first time they meet her. With her sugary voice and bright-green eyes and infectious smile, she can ace an interview like no one’s business. But people
don’t look at her the same once they get her background check. They tell her they’ll call her back, and then they ghost her.

It took some convincing, but I talked her into applying for jobs under an alias. Once she finally agreed, I whipped up a carefully tailored résumé, applied for a handful of jobs on her behalf, and maxed out a couple of stolen credit cards, surprising her with a new wardrobe and look to go with her career-woman persona.

The apartment at the Harcourt was as much a treat for her as it was a necessity for me.

I told Sam I was working on the side as a live-in caretaker for an elderly woman named Eleanor, which was why I couldn’t live with her. And I needed Brienne to think someone else was living as her so she would start doubting her sanity and ultimately believe me when I told her she was Kate Emberlin.

I don’t love lying to Sam. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s the only person on this earth who would take a bullet for me, and that loyalty isn’t lost on me. But her moral compass was going to get in the way of this entire plan, and for that reason, I couldn’t have her in on it. I’m hopeful someday she’ll realize I did this all for her. And for us. So we could have the future we’ve only ever dreamed of. So we could rest our heads at night without a care in the world.

This week, “Eleanor” is visiting her brother and his family in Minnesota, which is why I’ve finally allowed Sam to set foot in this house.

I’ve managed to convince Sam that I’m rolling in the dough working for this fictional elderly lady, that I’m pulling in the equivalent of two generous full-time incomes.

Sam exhales as she stares ahead lost in thought, her shoulders falling. “It was fun being her.”

Cold sweat runs down my back. “Her?”

“Brienne,” Sam says. “That fake name you gave me. It was like I was living someone else’s life for a few months. And it was fun being
someone else, you know? When I was her, people looked at me different. They treated me different. Better, I mean.”

“I’d take you over
her
any day of the week.” I go to Sam, cupping her chin in my hand and angling her mouth to mine. I lower my lips to hers and give her a sweet, moderated kiss this time. No blood, no biting.

A golden heart might be Sam’s weakness, but
she
happens to be mine.

Her mouth smiles against my kiss, and her posture relaxes—as it should. Life’s about to get very sweet very soon for her. The life I’ve always promised her is within arm’s reach, and she doesn’t even know it’s coming.

Over the next week, my elderly charge is going to tragically pass (peacefully and in her sleep, of course), and I’m going to feign shock when I tell Sam the dear old biddy left
everything
to me.

I won’t tell her an amount—just that she’s never going to have to work or want for anything another day in her life.

“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the TV room, or the “back parlor” as Brienne would say.