The Last Thing He Told Me by Laura Dave (bill gates books to read .txt) 📗

Does it look like Avett spearheaded the fraud alone or is the corruption more widespread? What does it look like happened, how much has been stolen? But he didn’t want to know more. Not about any of it.”

“What did he want to know?” I say.

“How long he had to get out,” she says.

Twenty-Four Hours Earlier

Owen and I sat on the dock, eating Thai food straight from the take-out containers. Drinking ice cold beer.

He was in a sweatshirt and jeans, bare feet. There was barely a sliver of moon, the Northern California night chilly and wet, but Owen wasn’t cold at all. I, on the other hand, was wrapped in a blanket, two pairs of socks, puffy boots.

We were sharing a papaya salad and spicy lime curry. Owen was tearing up, the heat from the chilies going straight to his eyes.

I stifled a laugh. “If you can’t hack it,” I said, “we can order the curry mild next time.”

“Oh, I can hack it,” he said. “If you can hack it, I can hack it…”

He stuffed his mouth with another bite, his face turning red as he struggled to swallow. He reached for his beer and guzzled it down.

“See?” he said.

“I do,” I said.

Then I leaned in to kiss him.

After I pulled back, he smiled at me, touched my cheek.

“What do you think? Can I get under that blanket with you?” he asked.

“Always.”

I moved over, wrapping the blanket over his shoulders, feeling the heat of his body. His barefooted body, a good ten degrees warmer than mine.

“So tell me,” he said. “What was your favorite thing today?”

This was something we sometimes did on days we got home late—on days we were too tired to get into the big stuff. We each picked one thing from the day to tell each other about. One good thing from our separate lives.

“I actually think I have a pretty cool idea for a little treat for Bailey,” I said. “I’m going to re-create the brown butter pasta for dinner tomorrow night. You know, the one we had on her birthday at Poggio? Don’t you think she’ll love that?”

He wrapped his arm more tightly around my waist, kept his voice low. “Are you asking me if she’ll love that? Or if that will make her love you?”

“Hey. Not nice.”

“I’m trying to be nice,” he said. “Bailey’s lucky to have you. And she’s going to come around to that. Pasta experiment or not.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugged. “I know things.”

I didn’t say anything, not exactly believing him. I wanted him to do more to bridge the gap between Bailey and me, even if I didn’t know what that could possibly be. If he wasn’t going to do that, I at least wanted him to tell me I was doing everything I could.

As if hearing my thoughts, he pushed my hair off my face. He kissed the side of my neck.

“She really loved that pasta though,” he said. “It’s a sweet thing to do.”

“That’s all I’m saying!”

He smiled. “I should be able to duck out of work early tomorrow. If you’re in the market for a sous chef?”

“I am,” I said.

“Count me in then,” he said. “I’m yours.”

I put my head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” I said. “Okay. Now you.”

“Favorite part of my day?” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “And don’t cop out and say right now.”

He laughed. “Shows how well you know me,” he said. “I wasn’t going to say right now.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he said.

“What were you going to say?”

“Sixty seconds ago,” he said. “It was cold outside the blanket.”

Follow the Money

Jules doesn’t leave until after 2 A.M.

She offers to stay over, and maybe I should have let her because I barely get any sleep.

I lay awake most of the night on the living room couch, unable to face my bedroom without Owen. I wrap myself up in an old blanket and wait out the dark, playing it over and over in my head—the last thing Jules said before she left.

We stood at the front door and she leaned in to give me a hug. “One thing,” she said. “Did you keep your own checking account?”

“Yes,” I said.

“That’s good,” she said. “That’s important.”

She smiled approvingly, so I didn’t add that I’d done so at Owen’s insistence. Owen was the one who wanted to keep some of our money separate for a reason he never fully explained. I assumed it had something to do with Bailey. But maybe I was wrong about that. Maybe it had to do with leaving what was mine untouched.

“I ask because they’re probably going to freeze all his assets,” Jules said. “That’s the first thing they’ll do while they’re trying to figure out where he went. What he knew. They always follow the money.”

Follow the money.

I feel a little bit queasy, even now, as I think about the duffel bag shoved under the kitchen sink, a bag full of money that Owen probably knows they can’t follow. I didn’t tell Jules about the duffel because I know what it looks like to any reasonable person. I know what it should look like to me too. It looks like Owen is guilty. Jules had already decided as much, and a mysterious bag of money would only convince her further. Why wouldn’t it? She loves Owen like a brother, but it isn’t about love. It’s about what points toward Owen’s involvement in this mess: that he’s running, that he acted suspiciously with Jules on the phone. Every single thing.

Except this. Except what I know.

Owen wouldn’t run because he is guilty. He wouldn’t leave to save himself. He wouldn’t leave to avoid prison or to avoid looking me in the eye and admitting what he’s done. He wouldn’t leave Bailey. He would never leave Bailey unless he absolutely had to. How can I be so sure of this? How can I trust myself to be sure of anything when I’m obviously biased in what I’m willing to see?

Partially