Karen held back the urge to retch.
She felt dizzy. Light-headed. She grabbed on to the edge of the table to steady herself, unable to free her eyes from what she saw on that sheet.
1:35 P.M.
Suddenly, there was very little that made sense to Karen in that moment. But one thing did, flashing back to his grainy image from that handheld camera up on that screen.
Her husband was definitely alive.
Reeling, Karen ran through the contents of the safe-deposit box once again, accepting in that moment that everything she had felt and taken for granted over the past year, every shudder of grief and loss, every time she’d wondered empathetically what Charlie must have felt, every time she’d crawled over to his side of the bed at night and hugged his pillow, asking, Why … why?—it had all been nothing but a lie.
He had kept it all from her. He had planned this.
He didn’t die there that day. In the blast. In the hellish flames.
He was alive.
Karen’s mind shot back to that morning … Charlie hollering to her over the dryer, about taking in the car. In her haste, words she had barely heard.
He’s alive.
Then to the shock that had gripped her at the yoga studio as, glued to the screen, panic taking over her, she slowly came to accept that he was on that train. His call—the very last sound of his voice—about bringing home dinner that night. That was 8:34 A.M. The blown-apart top piece of the briefcase with his initials on it. The sheet from his notepad that someone had sent.
It all came tumbling back—deepening with the force of a storm circling in her mind. All the pain and anguish she had felt, every tear …
He was there. On that train.
He just hadn’t died.
At first it was like the cramp of a stomach flu forcing her insides up. She fought back the urge to gag. She should be jubilant. He was alive! But then she just stared blankly at the cash and the fake passport. He hadn’t let her know. He’d let her suffer with the thought all the past year. Her confusion turned to anger. She sat there staring at the fake passport photo. Weitzman. Why, Charlie, why? What were you devising? How could you do something like this to me?
To us, Charlie?
They had loved each other. They had a life together. A family. They traveled. They talked about things they were going to do once the kids were gone. They still made love. How do you fake that? How do you possibly do this to someone you loved?
Suddenly Karen felt jelly-legged. All that money, that passport, what did it mean? Had Charlie committed some kind of crime? The room began to close in on her.
She felt she had to get out of there. Now.
Karen clasped the box shut and called outside. In a moment Megan Walsh came back in.
“I’d like to just leave this here if I could for now,” Karen said, brushing the perspiration off her cheeks.
“Of course,” Ms. Walsh replied. “I’ll just give you my card.”
Karen asked her, “Did anyone else have access to this box?”
“No, just your husband.” The bank official looked back quizzically. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” Karen lied. She took her purse but before running out requested a copy of the activity sheet. “I’ll be back in a few days to decide what to do.”
“That’s fine, Mrs. Friedman, just let me know.”
Out on the street, Karen sucked a breath of cooling air into her lungs. She steadied herself against a signpost. Slowly, her equilibrium began to return.
What the hell is going on here, Charlie? She turned away from people passing by on the sidewalk, afraid they would think her a lunatic to be reeling around in such a distraught state.
Didn’t I take care of you? Wasn’t I good to you, baby? I loved you. I trusted you. I mourned you, Charlie. It tore me fucking apart when I thought you were dead.
How can you possibly be alive?
Saul Lennick’s office was close by, on the forty-second floor of one of those tall glass office towers on Forty-seventh and Park.
Karen hurried over, without even calling, praying he was there. His secretary, Maureen, came out and immediately saw the distress and nerves all over Karen’s face.
“Can I get you anything, Ms. Friedman?” she asked solicitously. “A glass of water?”
Karen shook her head.
“Please come on back. Mr. Lennick’s available. He can see you now.”
“Thank you.” Karen exhaled with relief. Thank God!
Saul Lennick’s office was large and important-looking, filled with a collection of African masks and Balinese burial artifacts, with a view of the Manhattan skyline and, to the north, Central Park.
He had just hung up from a call, and he stood with a look of concern as Maureen rang Karen in.
“Karen?”
“Something’s going on, Saul. I don’t know what it is. But Charlie’s done something … in his business.”
“What?” Lennick inquired. He came around and pulled out a chair for her in front of his large desk, then sat back down.
She was about to blurt out everything she knew and had discovered—starting with seeing Charlie’s face in the documentary. And that he was alive!
But she managed to catch herself at the last second, worried that maybe Saul might think he was talking to a raving lunatic, and decided to tell him only what she’d seen today.
“I came across something, Saul. Something Charlie wrote out before he died. I don’t know how to even begin to explain, but I do know it fits into all these crazy things that have been happening. Those people from Archer. Samantha. I didn’t know what to do with it, Saul.”
“With what?”
Agitated, Karen told him about finding the safe-deposit box. The cash and bonds. The passport. Charlie’s photograph next to the fake name.
“At first I thought maybe it was another woman, but it wasn’t another woman, Saul. It’s worse. Look at me, Saul, I’m a goddamn wreck.” She took in a breath. “Charlie’s done something. I don’t know what. He was my husband, Saul. And I’m scared. I feel like those people are going to come back. People are coming after us, and now I find this box full of cash and a false ID. I’m not going to put my kids in danger, Saul. Why would Charlie be hiding this stuff from me? I know you know something. What the hell’s going on here? You owe that much to me, Saul—what?”
Lennick rocked back in his leather chair. Behind him the vast skyline of New York spread out like a giant panoramic photo.
He exhaled.
“All right, Karen. I was hoping I’d never have to bring this up. That it had somehow all gone away.”
“What, Saul? That what had gone away?”
He leaned forward. “Did Charles ever mention someone by the name of Coombs? Ian Coombs?”
“Coombs?” Karen shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t recall.”