Monk by Ivy Black
Chapter One
Kasey
After spitting the mouthwash into the sink, I hang my toothbrush on the holder and turn off the faucet. After that, I go through my nightly skin care regimen, though honestly, I don’t know what I’m trying to keep myself pretty for. Oh right, those occasions when I need to be trotted out like a show pony to play my role of loving and devoted wife.
I try to stuff down my cynicism—it does nothing but make me feel like crap. Walking back into the bedroom, I change into a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and sit down on my side of the bed. Cutting a glance over at the other side, I see the bed’s still neatly made and untouched. As it seems to be most nights. Seems like the only time I see my husband on this bed is when he wants to get laid. But even that’s become increasingly rare these days.
I’m just about to lie down and turn out the light when I hear a loud banging on the front door. Alarmed, I get to my feet and hustle over to the door, opening it just a crack. My heart is beating wildly, and adrenaline is making my entire body tingle as my fight or flight response starts to kick in.
I open the door a little wider, trying to control my wildly jangling nerves as the pounding on the front door resumes. I take a step out, already planning my route down the back staircase and to the panic room when I hear the door open. Pausing for a moment, I strain my ears to listen.
There’s a moment of silence, but that’s quickly followed by the sound of voices murmuring. I recognize Spencer’s voice, but not the other. They’re obviously trying to keep their voices low, but they sound friendly enough, so the fear of imminent danger passes. I’m guessing this isn’t a home invasion. Glancing over at the clock, I see that it’s just past one in the morning, which piques my curiosity as much as it annoys me. Who in the hell will stop by and bang on the door at one in the damn morning?
I can still taste the faint hint of wine on my breath, and my mouth is sour. The open book on the bed and the mostly empty glass of Cabernet sitting on the nightstand confirm that I fell asleep while reading. I’d just gotten up to use the bathroom and clean myself up a bit when the pounding on the door started.
The adrenaline beginning to ebb, I walk into the bathroom and fill my water glass, drinking it down to wash some of the staleness out of my mouth and figuring I’ll brush my teeth when I come back up. But my curiosity gets the better of me, and I want to find out what’s going on downstairs.
I walk out of our bedroom and quietly pad down the stairs. Our house is large and thoroughly modern, favoring a more open floor plan with fashionably spartan furnishings and decor. Tasteful modern art, abstract statuary, furniture that’s utilitarian and far from comfortable—these are things one will expect to see in a home owned by one of the more successful lawyers in the Bay Area.
But for me, it’s way starker and more sterile than I prefer. To me, it’s less a home and more a museum installation. It’s got none of the warmth I want or quaintness I wish for in a home. But this is what Spencer has always wanted. And what Spencer wants, Spencer gets. It’s been that way from the start.
“That’s not goin’ to work,” says a man with a heavy Spanish accent. “It’s too long.”
“This isn’t something that can be done overnight,” Spencer argues. “You know this. Mr. Zavala knows this.”
“He needs this done, Spencer—”
“I understand that. I’ve been working with Mr. Zavala for a while now,” he interrupts. “And from day one, I told him this isn’t something that can be rushed. Not if we want to keep off the radar.”
The one thing about this large and austere house is that voices tend to carry. It makes eavesdropping easy. I descend the stairs, the socks on my feet making my steps whisper quiet. I can tell they’re in his office, so I head down the hallway, the stark white walls making me feel like I’m moving through a spotlight. My stomach clenching and my entire body taut, I stop just outside the door to Spencer’s office.
“He needs it cleaned quickly,” the man with the Spanish accent says.
“You’re telling me he can’t pull a million dollars from somewhere else?” Spencer protests.
“I’m telling you he needs his cash cleaned and available to him as soon as possible.”
The other man’s voice is cool and smooth, but there is definitely a hint of steel beneath his words. What he’s saying to Spencer isn’t a request, it’s a demand. It’s just couched in friendlier terms rather than saying straight out, “do this or else.” But you don’t have to listen too closely to hear it anyway.
I hear Spencer sigh. “This isn’t going to be easy.”
“Never said it was,” the other man says. “But that’s why Mr. Zavala pays you well.”
I stand there processing everything I’ve heard so far, trying to make some sort of sense of it all. Just from what I’ve heard, it sounds like Spencer is talking about money laundering. A queasy feeling starts churning in my stomach. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
There has to be some mistake. Some misunderstanding. There just has to be. Spencer is a lot of things, but a criminal isn’t one of them. There has to be an explanation. I must have misunderstood something.
“How fast can you have it?” the Spanish-speaking man asks.
Spencer sighs. “I don’t know. I’m going to need a little time to set up some shells and move the money around—”
“How long?”
“Give me a month,” Spencer says, sounding exasperated. “Maybe two.”
“Make it one.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Nah, carnal. You don’t need to see. You just need to do,” the man replies. “You know what happens to people who disappoint Mr. Zavala. He likes you, Spencer. Don’t give him reason to be upset with you.”
There’s a pause for a moment, and my heart thunders in my chest. It’s so loud in my ears, I’m half afraid they can hear it in the office. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It makes no sense to me. Spencer is a lawyer, not a money launderer. Not a criminal.
“Tell Miguel—sorry, Mr. Zavala—that I’m not going to let him down. I won’t disappoint him,” Spencer says.
“See that you don’t, ese. Or my next visit won’t be so friendly.”
The chair in the office creaks, sending a jolt of fear through me. I know they’re getting up, and I have a feeling they won’t appreciate finding me lurking out here in the hallway. I turn and dart back to the stairs, moving silently up, taking two steps at a time. When I get to the second-floor landing, I duck behind the wall and listen to their footsteps echoing off the marble flooring.
Their voices are a low murmur, and I can’t hear what they’re saying, but their conversation sounds intense. Heated. My mind is still swirling with everything I’ve heard, trying to sort it out, and I don’t know what to think. I know it’s stupid, but I lean out just a bit and peer around the corner. I see them standing in the foyer, leaning close to one another, whispering urgently.
The man standing with my husband is a few inches shorter than Spencer’s six-foot-one frame. He’s wearing a nicely tailored dark suit, and though he’s not bulky, I can tell he’s fit. His skin is tawny, he’s got dark hair, cut close to his scalp, and a neatly trimmed goatee.
I rack my brain, trying to think back to the countless number of boring cocktail parties we’ve been to, but I come up with nothing. I don’t know the man. But there’s something about him that scares me. He’s not an exceptionally big man, but he has a presence about him that’s intimidating. It’s like the air around him just crackles with tension and the whispered threat of violence, and fear ripples through my entire body.
As if my thinking about him draws his attention, he starts to turn his head up to the stairs. I duck behind the wall, then dash back down to the bedroom. I quietly close the door, half expecting the man to burst in and shoot me or something. I press my ear to the door, straining my ears to listen. I hear the front door close and a moment later, I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs. Turning, I dash over to the bed and jump in, pulling the covers over myself, and then close my eyes.
The sound of footsteps stops just outside the bedroom, and beneath the small gap between the floor and the bottom of the door, I see the shadow of Spencer’s feet. I hold my breath, waiting for him to come in. Time crawls by and my heart is beating like a jackhammer inside of me.
But then he turns and walks down the hall, the echoed thump of his footsteps receding. Only then do I let out a breath of relief. I wait a few minutes just to be sure he’s gone, then grab the phone off my nightstand. After calling up Google, I type in the name, “Miguel Zavala”, and when the articles about him start popping up, my eyes widen. With each piece I read, the nervous feeling in my belly only grows stronger. I can taste bile in the back of my throat and feel like I’m going to be sick.
“What have you done, Spencer?” I whisper. “What in the hell have you gotten us into?”
