The Marriage Lie: Shockingly twisty, destined to become the most talked about psychological thriller in 2018!. Kimberly Belle

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СКАЧАТЬ heart like she claims, she’d tell me what I really want to hear.

      “How did my husband get on that airplane?”

      It takes Ann Margaret a second or two to register my change of subject, and then she gives me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.”

      “What I mean is, did someone actually see him walk on? Because he was late leaving the house, and even if he didn’t hit rush-hour traffic, which he most probably did, he would have had to haul ass through security and to the terminal. He probably would have been the last person on the plane, if he even made it on time.”

      She shifts in her chair, and she glances at my father as if to request a little help. When she doesn’t get any, her gaze returns to me. “Are you asking how Liberty Airlines knows your husband boarded?”

      “Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

      “Okay. Why don’t we just back up a minute, then? All airlines have procedures in place, so mistakes like the one you’re suggesting could never happen. Passengers’ tickets are scanned at the security checkpoint and then again at the gate, right before they board the plane. Technology doesn’t lie. It assures us there are no false positives.”

      I hear Will’s scoff, as clearly and surely as if he were sitting right here, right beside me. If he were, he’d tell this lady that technology lies by design, because it is created and controlled by humans. There are bugs. There are crashes. There are false positives and false negatives, too. So Ann Margaret can try to talk me out of beating this particular horse, but as far as I’m concerned, this horse is far from dead.

      My flare of fury settles into one of self-satisfaction. If Liberty Air can make a mistake as grievous as neglecting to call me before contacting the media, then who’s to say Will’s name on that passenger manifest isn’t another? A gigantic, life-altering mistake, but a mistake all the same.

      “What if halfway down the Jetway, he turned around and went back out? He could have slipped right past the gate agent while she was scanning someone else’s ticket. Maybe she didn’t even notice.”

      “It’s possible, I suppose...” Ann Margaret looks away, and she doesn’t bother to conceal her doubt. She doesn’t ask the most obvious question, either—why would anyone turn around and leave? If she did, I’d tell her because it was the wrong flight, headed in the wrong direction. “Perhaps you’d like to speak with someone?”

      Now we’re talking. I’m already nodding, assuming she’s referring to her boss or, better yet, the head of security for Hartsfield.

      “Religious or secular? We have Red Cross grief counselors on hand, as well as clerics of every major religion. Which would you prefer?”

      Irritation surges up my chest, lurching me forward in my chair. “I don’t need to talk to a psychologist. I am a psychologist. What I need is for someone to tell me where my husband is.”

      Ann Margaret falls silent. She chews her bottom lip and glances around at her colleagues, stationed at nearby tables and consoling their inconsolables, as if to say Now what? They didn’t teach us this one at Care Specialist training. I’ve stumped her.

      “So, what now?” my father asks, ever the planner. “What do we do next?”

      Ann Margaret looks relieved to be prompted back on script. “Well, there will be a memorial service this weekend here in town. Liberty Airlines is still working out the logistics, but as soon as I know the time and place, I’ll pass it on. I am available to pick you up at your house and escort you to the service if you’d like. It’s of course up to you, but there will be media there, and I’ll know the way to get around them. And if you’re interested, I can help plan a visit to the accident site.”

      My throat closes around the last two words. Accident site. I can barely stand seeing the images on television. The idea of walking among the wreckage, of standing on the earth where 179 souls crashed into it, feels like a vicious punch in the gut.

      “There’s no hurry,” Ann Margaret says, filling up the silence. “When and if you’re ready.” When I still don’t respond, she consults her papers for the next item on the agenda. “Oh, yes. Liberty Airlines is working with a third-party vendor to manage the process of returning personal effects to the rightful family members. You’ll find the form on page twenty-three of your packet. The more detail you can provide here, the better. Pictures, inscription texts, distinguishing characteristics. Things like that.”

      Will isn’t big on jewelry, but he wears a wedding band and a watch. Both were gifts I had engraved with our initials, and both are things I’d want back.

      “Again, you’re assuming he was on that plane.”

      My denial, I know, is textbook. I don’t believe, therefore it cannot be true. Will is not buried under Missouri soil. He’s in Orlando, dazzling conference attendees with his keynote on predictive analytics and bitching in the hotel bar about the heat. Or maybe he’s already home, rumpled and tired from wherever he’s been all this time, wondering what’s for dinner. I picture myself walking through the door to find him there, and a bubble of joy rises in my chest.

      “Mrs. Griffith, I realize how difficult this must be, but—”

      “Do you? Do you really? Because was it your husband on the plane? Was it your mother or father or daughter or son who was blown to bits all over a cornfield? No? Well, then, you don’t know, and you can’t realize how difficult this is for me. For anyone in this room.”

      Ann Margaret leans into the desk, and her brow crumples. “No, I didn’t lose a family member on Flight 23, but I can still feel deep sadness and compassion for you as well as everyone else here today. I share in your anxiety and distress, and I’m on your side. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

      “Give me my husband back!” I shriek.

      All around us, tables fall still, and heads turn in my direction. Solidarity, their teary faces say. They want their loved ones back, too. If we were sitting close enough, we’d bump fists. It’s a shitty, fucked-up society, but at least I’m not the only one in it.

      Dave presses a palm to my right shoulder blade, a show of brotherly support. He knows I’m on the verge of a meltdown, and I know his newest, most urgent goal is to get me out of here. “Is there anything else?”

      “Yes. It would help greatly if you would provide the name and address of your husband’s doctor and dentist. Be assured that all information collected is confidential and will be managed only by forensic personnel under the guidance of the medical examiner. And I’m very sorry to have to ask, but, um, we’ll also need a DNA sample.”

      My father reaches for my hand. “Anything else?” he says through clenched teeth.

      Ann Margaret pulls an envelope from her packet and pushes it across the desk. “This is an initial installment from Liberty Airlines to cover any crash-related expenses. I know this is a very difficult time, and these funds are intended to, well, take a little of the pressure off you and your family.”

      I pick up the envelope, peek at the printed paper inside. Apparently, death has a price, and if I’m to believe Liberty Air, it’s $54,378.

      “There is more forthcoming,” Ann Margaret says.

      The anger that’s been simmering СКАЧАТЬ