Thought I Knew You(19)

I laughed. A real laugh and it felt good. “Why Irony?”

“Because it contains nine photographs I took of complete poverty, not in Ethiopia or some third world country, but in New York City. It’s disgusting, and the guy who eventually bought it paid three hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. He hangs the whole collection in his foyer, which I swear would hold your house. So there you go. That’s irony, right?”

I was awed by the figure, but tried not to let it show. “If you’re so disgusted by it, why do you do it?”

“Because what else am I going to do? I love photography, and I love making money on it. I hate that people will pay that amount of money for photographs of poverty, though. It seems criminal. I mean, that guy should have just donated three grand to charity. But he told his rich friends, and now, everyone wants pictures of poor people. It’s so twisted.”

“The world is twisted,” I agreed.

“You know the worst part? I gave more than half of that away. I gave it to the people whose pictures I had taken. I condemn the rich for paying that much for art, but then I give only half of it away? I should just give it all away, but I don’t.” He shook his head.

I gaped at him. “You gave that much away? That’s amazing. Nobody else would do that. Why would you put yourself down for that?”



“It doesn’t matter anyway. The point is, I came here for you and your crisis in part, but really, I came for me. So thank you.”

My heart swelled with love. It didn’t matter if his story was true or not. I knew he had told me to help me feel as if I wasn’t using him, though we both knew I was. I also knew he told me some of it to distract me from my own plight for the first time in about two weeks. That alone was worth the trip.

Five hours later, when we pulled into my driveway, Detective Matt Reynolds stood on the porch waiting for me.





Chapter 10



“No, you’re right. I’m not happy with it.” Detective Reynolds sat in my living room, in Greg’s easy chair. Drew and I sat on the couch, chastened children in my own home. “Here’s why. We don’t know Greg at all. For all we know, he was involved in something criminal and is now at the bottom of the Delaware River. Or more likely, the Genessee River.”

I must have made a face because the detective gave me a stern look. “Mrs. Barnes, excuse me if I don’t mince words, but you openly admitted you didn’t know your husband well at the time of his disappearance. So you go to Rochester and start asking questions. What if someone finds out and decides you should take a swim with your husband? It’s not out of the realm of possibility. Let us do our job. I repeat. Let. Us. Do. Our. Job.”

“I understand,” I said. “But you have to understand. Wouldn’t you be drawn to the last place your wife was seen alive? I don’t know if Greg is dead in a ditch somewhere or hiding out in the Dominican Republic with his mistress. I have no idea. Although I did find something that you didn’t, so it wasn’t a wasted trip.”

“Okay, we’ll retrace your steps. But please don’t do that again. I promise we’ll do all we can to find your husband. Now, please, let’s run through what you did, who you talked to, and what you found out.”

Drew and I recounted the events of the last two days.

When I told Detective Reynolds about confirming with Burt Rainer that there was no scheduled training class for that week, he nodded. “We knew that, but we didn’t check with Toronto. So, that was good thinking.” He wrote something down in his notebook.



I told him about Pad Thai, and he looked surprised. “We’ll have to go back and formally interview the hostess, but we were planning on going back up there next week anyway.”

“But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m driven to do something. I need to be part of this, to find resolution.”

The detective shook his head. “Claire…” He reached over and put his hand on mine. “You can’t be part of this. We will update you as often as we can. We have Greg’s car. It was at the airport, where we expected it. It’s been at the station for a few days. It had to be searched and processed. You can come get it at some point, or I can drive it over.”

“I don’t want to drive it.” I closed my eyes. I pictured the driver’s side with the seat fully extended for Greg’s long legs and his glasses, which he wore only to drive, in the glove compartment. All the mirrors were positioned for his eyes, and adjusting them so that I could drive would feel like another erasure, another small exorcism of Greg from our lives. Greg’s car had a wonderful smell, like leather, cologne, vanilla air freshener, and Greg, all mixed together in an intoxicating cocktail. I knew there was no way I’d be able to drive that car.