Page 53 of The Love Thief

In my gut, I knew Barry was a liar and a con man and a thief. I knew he must have an ulterior motive for returning my money now, or he would have done it months earlier. My gut was telling me not to trust him and that he was somehow trying to lure me back into some kind of a trap.

Was Barry trying to implicate me into accepting a payoff not to testify against him? I stood there, looking down at the money, mentally trying to put the pieces together when Barry spoke again.

“Holly, I’m returning this money with no strings attached. This is proof of my love for you and my desire to be with you.

“You have to believe me,” he continued. “I had no idea about the origins of that art. This was all my mother’s doing. You know what an evil witch she can be. She is the one who used me! Give me another chance, and we can send her to prison and live the life we always talked about.”

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my body and refocus my mind, both of which felt completely destabilized.

As if sensing my weakness, Barry’s tone changed, now growing more firm.

“Holly, even if you can’t love me again, even if we can’t be together, you don’t want it on your conscience to send an innocent man to prison when you know my mother is the one who’s guilty.

Not even you could be so selfish.” And then he added, “You know I could never do what they’re accusing me of. You know me. ”

Something about those words, You know me , hit me like a sharp slap in the face.

Suddenly I was jolted awake from the hypnotic dream state Barry had been trying to lull me into.

As I thought about all the things I did, in fact, know about Barry Randal Tavers, a flood of words erupted from me like lava and, with them, all the pent-up rage from the months of hell he had put me through.

“That’s right, Barry,” I snapped. “I do know you.

“I know that you are nothing like the man you represent yourself to be. I know you didn’t go to Harvard Law and that you were disbarred three years after you graduated from whatever overpriced, no-name law school your family bought your way into.

I know that your only source of income—other than selling precious art stolen from the Jews by the Nazis—is filing lawsuits in which you name yourself the plaintiff against anyone with deep pockets.

“I know that you’ve been married not once but three times and that you have a disabled child whom you abandoned and disowned.

I know that you’re not forty-two like you told me, but forty-nine.

I know that you have exceptionally gaudy taste and zero class.

Who in the hell ‘gifts’ their fiancée a boob job months before the wedding?

With all your physical and moral imperfections, did you think it was a good idea to cast that stone?

And did you really think I’d go through with it?

“What I know about you, Barry Tavers, is that you are nothing but a coward and a parasite. You’ve gotten away with it all these years, slithering under the radar by using your corrupt knowledge of the law.

But this time, you’re up against people smarter than you.

And my career? Better than ever. Thanks for asking. ”

I was practically panting at the end of my tirade, feeling a huge wave of relief followed by an intense fear of Barry’s response.

To my surprise, Barry looked completely unmoved, his right lip curled up in a sick half-grin. Taking a condescending tone, he said quietly, “Holly, I don’t know who’s been filling your head with these lies,” as he approached me with a sympathetic, outstretched hand.

“My mother, Barry. That’s who,” I said, pushing his hand away.

“My mother always sensed you were a total and complete scumbag, so she hired a private investigator to find out who you really are. I read the report, every word of it. You are nothing but a sick, twisted, sadistic motherfucker. And you’re also an idiot if you think you just show up here with a bag full of my money, and buy my love or my silence.

I’m not like you, Barry. I can’t be bought. ”

With a deep breath, I crumpled up the Tiffany’s bag and threw it at him, sending a dozen loose one-hundred-dollar bills blowing down the driveway.

Barry looked at me with raw, unveiled rage before turning to retrieve the money. Without meaning to, I had just bought myself enough time to plan an escape.

With a shaky hand, I scrolled through my phone and located the home security app, my finger hovering above the “sound alarm” button.

As Barry shoved the last of my crumpled money into his tasteless Tiffany’s bag and started to lunge toward me, I pressed the button on my phone, filling the neighborhood with a loud, piercing siren.

“You have about ninety seconds to crawl back under your rock before the San Diego police arrive,” I said, before turning on my heel and walking inside, feigning a lot more confidence than I actually felt.

I collapsed face-first onto the couch and seconds later my phone rang, an emergency response woman asking if I needed assistance.

I quickly explained that my would-be intruder had run away.

She kindly suggested she send someone out anyway, just in case he came back, but I told a white lie and said my boyfriend was on his way over and I didn’t feel I needed a visit from the cops.

With shaking hands, a pounding heart, and adrenaline buzzing through me, I checked to see if the Ring had captured the drama.

Sure enough, in high-def Technicolor, there was Barry holding the Tiffany bag with the money, all of it, clearly visible.

Strangely, it was nearly impossible to hear anything he was saying, but my tirade, f-bombs, and all was fully audible.

I texted Jackson, “Please call me soonest.”

“Call you in two minutes.”

As I waited for his call, I thought about doing some deep breathing but opted instead to head for the freezer to pour myself a double shot of ice-cold tequila. The smooth, smoky golden elixir was exactly what I needed to calm myself down.

The phone rang, and I gave Jackson a fast, detailed rendition of what happened, including that I had taken his advice and installed the security camera doorbell, which had captured all the drama.

He listened carefully, asked me if I was unharmed, and then said, “Showing up at your door with a hundred thousand dollars in cash sure sounds like witness tampering to me. Best to lay low for a while, Holly. Make sure all the doors and windows are locked and call me immediately if he tries to make contact with you again.”

I agreed, feeling relieved but still shaken by what had happened. Hoping to keep him on the phone a bit longer, I tried to think of something more to say, but Agent Turner was all business. “I’ve gotta run now, Holly,” he said, somewhat abruptly. “I’ll be back in touch when I know something more.”

“How’s my favorite witness?”

A text from Jackson, finally. It had been more than a month since the Barry-with-money fiasco. Seeing his name light up my phone, my heart skipped a beat.

Hmm, favorite witness . . . that’s kinda cute, I thought, as a variety of feelings began to surface from joy (he made contact!) to confusion. How should I answer this?

“Well, favorite FBI agent,” I responded playfully. “I’m currently mastering the art of making South Indian dosas, a savory crepe filled with curried potatoes and spices.”

“Sounds delicious. I have some very good news to share. Can I stop by in a few hours?”

My monkey mind rapidly jumped from “Oh my God, finally! Thank God!” to “Oh no . . . I’ve got to wash my hair.”

“Does 5 P.M. work?”

“Yep, see you then.”

After a rapid shower and blow-dry, a little mascara and lipstick, I put on my Moondoggie’s branded T-shirt and a pair of leggings and placed the fragrant dosas, plated on a bright-red-and-orange serving tray, in plain sight on the kitchen counter.

Whew. Ready. Now, what in the world is the good news? I wondered. Right on time, he knocked on the door, a huge smile on his face.

Skipping all the usual pleasantries, I nearly shrieked as he walked into the living room. “Please don’t keep me waiting!” I begged.

“Good news number one: you don’t need to testify. Barry has accepted a plea deal. He is definitely going to prison. I can’t give you the details yet, but I thought you’d be excited to know the end is in sight,” he said with a big smile.

Without thinking, I jumped up, threw my hands in the air, and started to shake and shimmy while shouting, “Yes, yes, yes!”

“Whoa, Holly! Holly, settle down! I’m going to get seasick watching this,” Jackson jokingly complained.

“OMG, I can’t believe it! This is just . . . yes! I’ll never have to see or hear from that monster again,” I said gleefully. Jackson knew just how much this meant to me, particularly in light of Barry’s latest ambush.

“Well, that’s up to you of course, but here’s good news number two: the sentencing hearing has been set for Monday, July 20.

And, if you want to, you can attend the hearing.

You can be there when the judge sentences him, and he is walked out in handcuffs.

How would you like that?” I took a moment to consider what that would be like.

To actually bear witness to justice in action.

I felt a rush of adrenaline that was partly fear at being in the same room with Barry and partly the excitement of knowing he was being punished for his crimes in the real world.

And for his crimes of betrayal and the theft of my heart and my money.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” A wave of gratitude engulfed me as I became present to the reality that all of this could have turned out far differently.

“Jackson, thank you for everything you’ve done to make this happen! Thank you for believing me and for making sure Susan believed me. You have restored my trust and faith, and I now know there really are white knights out there.”

After he left, I instantly called Deepak. Even though it was a little after 6 A.M. his time, I knew he’d be up, and I pictured him walking about his café, preparing for the day. I wanted him to be the first to know my nightmare was over and had a happy ending.

During our hour-long chat, we talked as if we had never been apart. He shared that he was deepening his meditation practice in between cleaning, reorganizing, and rearranging the thousands of dusty books he had accumulated over the years. We planned to talk weekly.

After Deepak and I hung up, I realized it was still too early to try to reach Maya.

My good news would have to wait a few more hours until my sister from another mother was awake.

Fortunately, Mom was in the kitchen. I could hear the sounds of food prep and the smell of onions and garlic sautéing, the precursor to her quinoa veggie delight bowl.

“Mom, I’ve got great news,” I said as she stood in front of the stove with her back to me.

No response.

“Mom,” I shouted.

She turned while pulling out her earbuds.

“Hey, Honey, dinner’s almost ready. How was your day?” she asked without really looking at me.

“My day was amazing. It was perfect. It may be one of the best days of my life. We have to celebrate!” I proclaimed.

Now I had her attention. Tilting her head and her eyes slightly squinting, I could see her brain scrambling to make sense of what I was telling her.

Without giving her a chance to speak, I launched into a recap of Jackson’s visit, Barry’s plea deal, the timing of the hearing, my unfettered joy that I didn’t have to testify, and that justice would soon be mine.

Mom’s face lit up. She went to the fridge and pulled out a chilled bottle of prosecco.

“You’re right. This is a reason to celebrate!

I’m thrilled this darkness is over. We have to tell Auntie Geeta right away.

Oh, it just makes my heart sing when the judicial system works.

Why don’t you go call her, and I’ll finish cooking? ”

To properly celebrate, I set two places on the well-worn butcher block island, added a small bunch of mini-sunflowers in a mason jar, lit two candles, and poured the prosecco into crystal flutes. We sat down with steaming bowls in front of us.

Mom placed the blue-checkered cloth napkin in her lap and then raised her glass and said, “Let’s toast Agent Jackson for—”

“Mom, stop,” I interrupted. “Wait, let me video this, and I can send it to him.” I quickly adjusted my phone to selfie mode and framed the two of us, flutes held high. “Okay, go,” I instructed.

“Agent Jackson, tonight we are toasting you for a job well done. We are toasting you for being a smart, dedicated catcher of bad guys and for making our world safe again,” Mom crowed.

“Yes, ditto to all of that, Jackson. Thank you for being my hero,” I said with a wink of my own.

I quickly texted him the video with the line, “Are your ears burning?”