You Don't Love This Man by Dan Deweese Read Free Book Online Page A

around. “I guess just about every penny they ever paid me I gave right back to them,” he’d said, and we had all laughed. But that sentence had stayed with me, repeating in my head. There was a condo down the street from my own—a unit exactly like mine—that had gone on the market two months earlier at a price below what I’d originally paid for mine, and it was still on the market. I did the mortgage on my condo through our bank, of course, so I, too, wrote a check to the mortgage division of my employer every month—a check made larger by the fact that I’d also taken out a home equity loan to finance the cost of Miranda’s wedding. When I applied the list price of the condo down the street to what I owed on my unit and the equity loan, though, the number didn’t cover the debt. On our weekend morning walks, my Realtor ex-girlfriend Trish used to urge me to sell my condo and buy something bigger. People’s homes were their best investment, she told me more than once—the values only go up. I didn’t recall her mentioning the scenario in which, via my home, I had somehow ended up owing my employer more than I could pay.
    It grated. And Catherine was right: the more I spoke about the bank and the robbery that morning—about the police and their theories, about the computers that didn’t work, about all the detailed procedures Catherine and I would be required to carry out—the angrier I was getting. I felt like I was seeing, with perfect clarity, the degree to which all these measures actually made it easier to rob a bank than in the past. I doubted there was a single person out on the street looking for the guy who had stolen our money—everyone was too busy either posing as an expert or looking at screens. It was crazy. And I wanted everyone to see that it was crazy. “I don’t need to take a walk,” I said. “Network problems, failing server, unable to connect—pick a term, it doesn’t matter. Just announce it to everyone. I want to get going.”
    â€œGet going where?” she said. “Ten minutes ago you told me there was no hurry.”
    â€œThat was before you got me going on this. I want out of here. What we’re doing is pointless.”
    Martinez returned to us then with heavy, jingling strides—his keys, handcuffs, and other paraphernalia lent him the effect of a Clydesdale at Christmas. “Seizing up on you?” he said, stopping next to me. We waited together, our eyes on the screen. The computer whirred. Martinez was shoulder to shoulder with me, and I wanted to move, do something, but with him right there, I felt like I had paid for a seat to a show and now couldn’t leave. Amber was in my office, O’Brien was across the branch laughing with Charlotte and Tina, and Fingerprints was bent before the front doors, brush in hand, dusting the panes.
    Catherine had asked if Sandra and I had called the police. Why would we need the police? I checked my watch as if I would find the answer there, but discovered only that it was ten-thirty, which meant nothing in particular.
    Another insanity: the bank relied on sophisticated computer systems to keep funds secure and accurate, but they did not feel that having top-of-the-line computers was a priority at the branch level. I knew from daily experience that the little circle on Catherine’s computer could spin for any amount of time. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I have to make a phone call.” It was a lie, but at that point I would have said my hair was on fire if I thought it would allow me to walk away.
    â€œGo ahead,” Martinez said, his eyes pinned to the screen, hypnotized. “We’ll be here.”
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    T HERE WAS A SET of doors at the back of the branch, seldom used because they opened onto a less-traveled cross street. I unlocked them and pushed my way into the morning sunshine. Tall, thin trees lined the