and slid out what was inside. She couldn’t believe what she saw.
A passport.
New, unused. Karen flipped through it. It had Charlie’s face inside.
Charlie’s face—but with a completely different name. A fake one.
Weitzman. Alan Weitzman.
In addition, she slid out a couple of credit cards, all made out to the same false name. Karen’s jaw fell slack. Her head started to ache. What are you hiding from me, Charlie?
Confused, Karen sank back into the chair. There had to be some reason for all this that would make sense. Maybe the face she’d seen on that screen was not really Charlie’s.
But here it was…. Suddenly it seemed impossible to pretend anything else. She ran her eyes down the activity sheet again. The box had been opened two years before. October 24. Six months before he died. Charlie’s signature, plain as day. All the entries had been his. A couple shortly after the box was opened. Then once or twice a month, seemingly like clockwork, almost as if he were preparing for something. Karen skimmed to the bottom, her gaze locking on the final entry.
There was Charlie’s signature. His quick, forward-leaning scrawl.
But the date… April 9. The day of the Grand Central bombing.
Her eyes fastened on the time—1:35 P.M. Karen felt the sweats come over her.
That was four and a half hours after her husband had supposedly died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Karen held back the urge to retch.
She felt dizzy. Light-headed. She grabbed onto 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
A passport.
New, unused. Karen flipped through it. It had Charlie’s face inside.
Charlie’s face—but with a completely different name. A fake one.
Weitzman. Alan Weitzman.
In addition, she slid out a couple of credit cards, all made out to the same false name. Karen’s jaw fell slack. Her head started to ache. What are you hiding from me, Charlie?
Confused, Karen sank back into the chair. There had to be some reason for all this that would make sense. Maybe the face she’d seen on that screen was not really Charlie’s.
But here it was…. Suddenly it seemed impossible to pretend anything else. She ran her eyes down the activity sheet again. The box had been opened two years before. October 24. Six months before he died. Charlie’s signature, plain as day. All the entries had been his. A couple shortly after the box was opened. Then once or twice a month, seemingly like clockwork, almost as if he were preparing for something. Karen skimmed to the bottom, her gaze locking on the final entry.
There was Charlie’s signature. His quick, forward-leaning scrawl.
But the date… April 9. The day of the Grand Central bombing.
Her eyes fastened on the time—1:35 P.M. Karen felt the sweats come over her.
That was four and a half hours after her husband had supposedly died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Karen held back the urge to retch.
She felt dizzy. Light-headed. She grabbed onto 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
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