Someone named Sally called with news of her pregnancy. “It’s been so long, I didn’t think it would happen. Thank you, Dr. Irons. I don’t know what else to say but thank you. Okay, I have to go call my sister.”
I chide myself for the swell that rises in my chest. Gabe’s qualities as a doctor have never been in question.
The second call is more frantic, a woman named Denise, who’s in severe pain. She thinks it’s ovarian hyperstimulation because of what she’s read online. Nothing irks a doctor more than WebMD. I check back over his call log, and sure enough, there’s a call to Denise’s number, one minute and sixteen seconds in which he must have reassured her with his stabilizing rationale that has so often quelled me. Fooled me.
The folder for deleted voicemails is empty. His text message log is equally sparse. Read messages from me and his sister, a chain with over one hundred unread messages from his med school friends that’s mostlyabout basketball, another with Aram. I scroll through his conversation with Aram, too short given how often Aram contacted him, no texts relating to the patients they constantly discussed. Gabe’s number one priority is patient confidentiality. Well, number two, after getting them pregnant. I’m not surprised he deletes any messages pertaining to them.
His email is the opposite of these other records, so overwhelming it has the same effect as being empty. From the last twenty-four hours alone, he has at least one hundred unread emails—some spam, most from clients or potential clients so desperate that they’re reaching out to him directly instead of through the portal. Cynthia reads through Gabe’s work emails, flagging any that require his response. Only a handful bear that little red flag. The others, Cynthia answers herself. This email is communal. There won’t be any secrets here.
Gabe has a personal email address, too, and it takes me longer than it should to find the Gmail icon in the Utilities folder. Was he hiding it there? There’s a week’s worth of unread spam, punctuated by the occasional email. A few hopeful, enterprising clients have found his personal email. There are forwarded articles from his sister, evite invitations, and check-ins from one of his alma maters. All unread. I scan quickly, certain there’s nothing here. When I’m about to give up, one email gets my attention. The subject reads “Reggie.” It’s from Aram, the day after Regina died. Unlike the other emails, this one is marked as read. I hesitate, then open the email.
Gabe,Pick up your phone!!!! I’m freaking out. We aren’t safe. This is too much. We need to tell the police.Call me!!!
I read the short message over and over again, the fear and anxiety dripping from it like honey. Gabe ignored Aram’s fears. And now Aram’s dead.
I drop the phone back on the end table, trying to slow my racing pulse. The baby rolls, the sensation bordering on pain, a knee or an elbow raising my abdomen in protest, reminding me that she’s there,that I need to shield her, even if I don’t know what from. One thing feels crystal clear. This isn’t just about an affair. Something else was going on between Gabe and Regina, Aram too. Something that got Regina and Aram killed. Something Gabe’s trying to ignore. Something he’s hiding from me. Something that puts us all in danger.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Barb
Tessa never did call me back. All night, after drifting off to sleep, I’d see Tessa’s face and bolt up, berating myself for letting her go home to a murderer, for heeding her plea not to come over. Eventually, at four in the morning, waiting became too labored. I texted her,Are you okay???For the next hour, I checked my phone every few minutes with no word from Tessa, until eventually, involuntarily, I fell back to sleep.
When a crack of light between the curtains shines a bright white, I sit up. It’s early, but not so early I can’t act. On the dresser, I find the earring with its little etching on the back. It scared Tessa, revealed something she didn’t want to know. Fleetingly, I consider calling Officer Gonzales to tell him about Regina’s connection to Gabe Irons. I have no idea what Regina did to make all that money. It feels dirty, twisted. Officer Gonzales certainly will see it that way. I need to find out more before the police recast her from a victim to a villain, someone deserving of her fate. There’s only one person who can help me figure out what she was doing for Rosebud LLC, someone who’s conveniently up at 7:00 a.m. West Coast time.
“Hey, Barb.” Isaac intones my name differently now, no longer elongating thearwith sympathy. Instead it’s short. Curt.
“Did you file Regina’s taxes?”
“If you’re asking, you know I did.”
“So you know she made over two hundred thousand dollars?”
“She’s been doing well the last few years.”
“Doing well at what?”
“As an accountant, it’s not my job to ask.” He saysaccountantlike it’s his superpower. I can’t fight my frustration anymore.
“What about your job as a father?”
“You’re serious? It’s the middle of Regina’s shiva, and you’re giving me a hard time about her taxes? I can’t do this. It’s my fault for answering.”
With that, he hangs up, and I’m left alone with my thoughts and that strip of harsh light between the blackout curtains. I try to envision myself seated beside Isaac and Anna in their living room, day after day of hard chairs and deafening quiet, impossible loss that we’ll never be able to share. I was never going to that shiva, not even if I’d been in New Jersey.
This isn’t Isaac’s fault, but he’s an easy target, especially since that kind of money should have alarmed him. He should have asked questions, discovered what she was up to while we could still help her. I have no idea what she did for Gabe Irons, whether it’s connected to Reggie Ray Casting, which wasn’t listed on her taxes.
These questions bring me back to Tessa, to the worry that’s kept me up all night. I let her go home to a murderer.
Are you okay?I text her again. I pace the room, waiting for her to write back, more certain with every step that she’s not safe. When I can’t take it anymore, I call Linda.
“Do you think she’s in danger? Would he hurt her?” I say when Linda picks up.
“I’m going to need a little more information,” Linda says.
Too much has happened in the three days since we’ve last spoken. I try to catch her up, telling her about Tessa, asking her what she thinks Gabe might do, insisting I will never forgive myself if anything happens to her.
Linda cuts me off. “Barbara, it’s not your job to protect her.” Her words startle me. “Sorry if that was harsh. It’s just hard to watch. You have this giant heart, but she’s not your child. She’s responsible for her own decisions.”
