Chapter 8 - THE DAY OF THE DEPARTURE
Saturday morning,
the air was crisp and the sky was a brilliant,
cruel blue.
Thomas was dressed in a suit,
his suitcase waiting by the door.
“I’ll be back in a week,”
he said,
kissing my cheek.
“Don’t work too hard.”
“I won't,”
I said,
watching him get into his SUV.
I waited until he pulled out of the driveway before I moved.
I didn't cry.
I didn't break down.
I went to the home office,
opened the filing cabinet one last time,
and took out the old brass key.
I left it on the desk with a note.
“Transitions should be painless.”
I drove to the airport,
but I didn't go to the terminal.
I met David and the federal agents in a private room near security.
“He just checked in,”
one of the agents said,
looking at his monitor.
“He’s at the gate.”
We watched the security feed.
Thomas was sitting by the window,
looking at his watch.
He looked nervous,
constantly checking his phone.
He was likely waiting for a message from Patricia Vance.
But Patricia was currently being questioned in an interrogation room in Seattle.
She had been arrested that morning on conspiracy and fraud charges.
Mark had found the link between her and a series of offshore accounts that Thomas didn't even know about.
She wasn't just helping him run,
she was planning to rob him the moment they crossed the border.
She had set up a secondary transfer that would move the Nevada funds to her own account in the Cayman Islands.
Thomas was about to fly to a country with no money and no partner.
I looked at the screen,
seeing my husband for the last time.
He stood up as the boarding call began.
He handed his passport to the agent.
He walked down the jet bridge,
a man who thought he was escaping his life.
“Wait for it,”
the agent said.
A minute later,
two plainclothes officers stepped onto the jet bridge.
They stopped Thomas just before he reached the plane.
I saw the confusion on his face,
then the shock,
then the total,
shattering realization.
They led him back through the gate,
his hands cuffed behind his back.
He looked small.
He looked old.
He looked like a man who had finally found out.
I stepped out into the hallway as they led him past.
Our eyes met.
He stopped,
his mouth opening as if to speak.
I didn't say a word.
I just held up the grocery bag from Safeway,
the one with the soup and the orange juice.
“You forgot your lunch, Thomas,”
I said,
my voice a cold,
deadly calm.
He stared at me,
May you like
his eyes filling with a terror I will never forget.
And then they led him away.
