by Kira Peikoff
The BRCA 1 and 2 mutations can greatly increase a woman’s risk of developing breast and ovarian cancer. . . . Finding out your genetic predisposition gives you the knowledge you need to make informed decisions....
She skimmed as fast as she could, looking for only one word.
At the bottom of the page, it assaulted her: Positive.
CHAPTER 5
Joan
5 months, 1 week before, New York
Joan heard the front door close behind Greg with a thud. It was time. She had only ten minutes while he ran out to buy wine for the Saturday-night feast she had cooked. Then their son, his wife, and toddler would arrive, and there would be no time left to accomplish the task that she had once scolded herself for even contemplating, but today, at last, had decided to do.
Seeing him cry from afar was the tipping point. She could no longer abide the tacit rules of computer privacy that existed between a husband and wife.
She raced into their living room, her bare feet sliding over the polished wood. There, on the marble coffee table, was his silver laptop. It was already propped open. With her fingers inches away from the keys, she froze. Her red manicured fingers hovered in the purgatory between truth and betrayal.
Outside, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the egg yolk sun was sinking down to meet the green foliage of Riverside Park. The sunset usually calmed her, but now her heart kicked in her chest. She glanced around at her home’s treasured objects—the ornate rug from Thailand, the six-piece black leather sofa set, the Renoir and Degas prints collected from trips to Paris—but even their familiarity failed to comfort her.
The clock above the mantelpiece was ticking. In five minutes, Greg would return.
Her hands descended on his keyboard. The screen lit up. Under his full name, Gregory David Hughes, was a box waiting for his password. That was easy. He’d had the same password for years. She typed it in: “JemAdam41685.” The initials of her maiden name, Joan Eve Miller, their son’s name, and their wedding anniversary.
The box wiggled, rejecting the password.
She frowned and typed it in again. Rejection. Her fingers trembled. She tried multiple permutations of capital letters, to no avail.
The one and only time he’d hidden a secret from her was eight years ago, when he’d coped with a frustrating string of career disappointments by escaping into the numbing haze of Vicodin. He grew increasingly withdrawn, and one day Joan caught him writing himself prescriptions to feed his addiction. Together they found help in a twelve-step program; he got clean, founded a charity to help other doctors with addiction, and life returned to normal.
Or had it? After all these years, had he gotten sucked back into that dark place? Or was it something else? Perhaps his flirtation with his assistant wasn’t as harmless as she wanted to believe . . .
So far there was no evidence in his drawers, cabinets, or closets. If only she could get on his computer and poke around. But him changing his password wasn’t tantamount to hiding something. Was it?
His key jangled in the lock. She yanked back her hands as if from a hot stove. As the door opened, she jumped to her feet and tugged on her beige silk dress. Several voices echoed in the foyer—Greg’s, and also Adam’s, his wife, Emily’s, and the high-pitched giggles of Sophia.
The little girl led the charge into the living room, squealing when she saw Joan. A toothy grin spread across her face. “Grammy!” She leaped into Joan’s arms, blond ringlets bouncing, and wrapped her chubby legs around her waist. Joan laughed, stumbling back a step, and hugged her tightly. All worry was momentarily dissolved by the scent of baby shampoo and the soft cheek on her shoulder.
“Gentle, kitty cat,” Adam called after her, following behind with Emily. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, guys.” Joan set down Sophia and kissed her son and daughter-in-law on the cheek. Adam was a young doppel-gänger of Greg, tall and slender, with a full head of wavy brown hair and her own lively blue eyes. Emily was petite, blond, curvy, and just as sweet as her dimpled smile implied. Seeing them, Joan felt reassured. How lucky she was! Many of her friends’ kids had moved far away to raise children, relegating their relationships to weekly Skype chats. But you couldn’t have tickle wars through a screen, or teach a toddler to walk, or feel the weight of a small body sleeping in your arms. No matter what was happening with Greg, these three were always there; they lived in a darling one-bedroom apartment just ten blocks away.
“Where did your father go?” she asked Adam.
Just then, Greg walked out of the kitchen carrying a tray of wineglasses and an uncorked bottle of Merlot. He briefly acknowledged her with a peck on the cheek before turning to the others.
“Sit, sit,” he said. “The night is young. I thought we could start with an aperitif.”
The breeziness in his voice sounded forced, but if anyone besides Joan noticed, they didn’t show it.
“Sounds good,” Adam said. They all settled into the comfortable L-shaped leather sofa. As Greg set down the tray on the coffee table, Joan moved his laptop to the nearby desk. She noticed with relief that there was no evidence on the screen of her attempted log-ins. Then she opened a drawer in the coffee table and handed Sophia a coloring book and crayons, while he poured wine for the adults.
“Hey, so can you guys believe what the Dow did this week?” Adam shifted in his seat. “I feel like maybe we should pull out of our stocks. Things are getting kind of crazy.”
“Nah, it could still turn around,” Greg said, pouring himself an ample amount of wine. “Just give it more time. I think all the talk of a crash is premature.”
Joan felt a tightening in her stomach. According to Greg’s recovery program, he was supposed to stay away from all narcotics, but enough years had passed that he occasionally indulged in a few ounces of alcohol. She cast a disapproving glance his way, but he avoided her gaze and took a sip.
“For now,” Adam allowed. “But if banks start going under, then we’re really in trouble.”
“Oh, forget all that,” Joan said, waving off the topic like an annoying fly. “It’s the weekend. Stock market’s closed. Can’t we all just relax?” She tried to trade a look with Emily—men and their money worries—but her daughter-in-law just smiled feebly and smoothed a wrinkle on her blue cotton dress.
Adam cleared his throat and took Emily’s hand. Her face was a shade too white, Joan noticed, but a small smile was tickling her lips.
“The thing is,” he said, “we actually can’t afford to ignore it.” He took a breath.
“We’re moving,” Emily blurted.
Joan’s gaze darted to Sophia, who was scribbling happily on the floor, then back to Adam and Emily. “You can’t be serious.”
He pursed his lips in apology. “I’m afraid so.”
No more mornings with Sophia visiting the park jungle gym. Joan lived for those mornings. Now she would have to take a train to some far-flung place. The Hudson River Valley, or maybe Jersey City. That was where the young people flocked these days.
“Why?” Greg asked. “Where?”
Adam hesitated, biting his lip. “Kansas.”
“Like the Wizard of Oz!” Sophia piped up with glee.
Joan stared at her son. Greg set down his glass. He looked as shaken as she felt.
“It’s so much cheaper there,” Adam went on, “and Emily’s parents will be nearby, so we’ll still have some family at least . . .” he trailed off, seeing his mother’s crestfallen face.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why do you have to go that far?”
“You get so much more for your money,” Emily said. “With the way the economy is going, it makes sense to get out of the city . . .”
“But we have plenty of money,” Joan said, not caring if she sounded tactless. She turned to her husband. “We can help them out, right, honey?”
Greg ignored her. “Adam, you have a degree from Harvard Law. Why don’t you take a job you were trained to do, not mess around all day in a m
usic studio? I’m sorry, but it needs to be said. You have to make sacrifices for your family.”
Adam refused to be rattled. “I’m following my dream, Dad. It would be nice to be near you guys, but right now, this is the best solution for us.”
“And I fully support him,” Emily added. “Trust me, I don’t want some dead-eyed corporate lawyer coming home at eleven every night.”
Joan shook her head. The idealism of youth was galling; that was one thing she and Greg could agree on. Here was their son, highly educated, with every opportunity to make a big success of his life, and he was going to throw it away for some penny-pinching middle-class existence. It reminded her of her own naïveté when she was in her late twenties, with that same dreamy-eyed determination to conquer the journalism world, practicalities be damned. But Greg had come along and saved her the struggle, and now she would try to do the same for him.
“But would you stay if you could?” she pressed. “If you could have it all?”
“Well, of course,” Adam said. “New York will always be home.”
She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. So there was hope. She would just have to get Greg to agree to an early release of Adam’s inheritance. It was absurd to think that money could wrench her family apart, when they had so much. There was something else, too—a desperation she couldn’t share with her son, but that she tried to impart with her eyes. Don’t leave me, she thought. Not right now, don’t take Sophia away. If Greg left her in spirit, and they in body, what of her life would remain?
“There’s no rush,” she said, too calmly. “Let’s just slow down and think this through.”
“There’s no time to think.” Adam exchanged a meaningful look with Emily, right as Joan noticed that she hadn’t touched her glass of wine. “We’re actually flying out tomorrow to look at houses, because—”
“Sophia’s going to be a big sister,” Emily announced, breaking into a grin. Adam patted her belly. “Three months along. With all the time it will take to find a place and move and get settled, we can’t start looking soon enough.”
Joan’s hand flew to her lips. Elation and despair mounted in equal measure. She reached instinctively for Greg’s hand, but he was raising his glass in a toast. The edge in his voice was not lost on her.
“To a healthy baby!” he declared.
Joan raised her own glass, miming celebration. Hers clinked against his. A crystal note rang out, sharp and shrill. It was the sound of her heart breaking.
CHAPTER 6
Victim
5 months before, Key West
The ring of the doorbell on Monday night caught Mrs. Ruth Bernstein by surprise. She had forgotten the sound. No one visited her anymore, not that she minded. At eighty-three years old, widowed and blind, she had grown pleasantly accustomed to solitude. Except for Autumn, her golden retriever guide dog, she spent her days at home alone, in a cozy studio apartment that was small enough to navigate without feeling lost.
She counted the eleven steps from her recliner to the front door, Autumn’s soft head under her fingertips. The dog and she were like a single organism, rising and walking everywhere in tandem.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Mike,” came a man’s voice. “I work for the landlord.”
She unlocked the bottom and top locks and opened the door. The sensation of light beyond her eyelids was all she could detect—no shadows or forms.
“Hello, ma’am,” the man said in a polite voice. Sounded young, in his twenties, though she couldn’t be sure. “I came to check the batteries on your smoke detector and carbon monoxide alarm. Florida law says we gotta check it once a year.”
“Oh! Of course, come on in. It’s—” She hesitated, realizing she had no idea where the alarm was. She hadn’t thought of it when she rented the apartment the year before; it had a balcony overlooking the beach in Key West, and just smelling the salt air was enough to sell her on the place, no questions asked. Thanks to her life settlement payout, she could afford to live out her days in such luxury.
She felt a swish of air as the man marched past her into the apartment.
“Right over here,” he said kindly. His voice came from the kitchen area, about fourteen steps away. “Directly above your dining room table.”
“You’re a dear. Do you need a stepladder?”
“Nah, I’m good. I can reach it if I just climb up on this chair here . . . all right, hang on, it’s gonna make a loud beep when I check it.”
Ruth knelt to cup her hands over Autumn’s ears. The dog whimpered anyway when the shrill note pierced the room.
Then she heard the man’s feet hop to the floor and walk back through the kitchen, toward her. He paused to cough—a dry, noisy hack. What she couldn’t see was that he was turning on the burners of her gas range.
His footsteps resumed.
“All done,” he said, heading past her. “You have a good night now.”
“Thanks very much.” She wondered if she should tip him, but he was already opening the front door.
She closed it behind him and locked the locks.
Within an hour, she began to feel sleepy, though it was only 8:30 P.M. She changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed. Autumn curled up next to her so their backs were touching.
She knew something was wrong before she could articulate the thought. Compelled beyond her control, she felt the need to gasp for air. She sucked in each breath with rising desperation, despite telling herself that there was plenty of air in the room. It was probably one of those panic attacks that used to sneak up on her after her husband died.
She rolled over to spoon Autumn. Her heart was beating frantically. The dog lay beside her, oblivious. She buried her face in its soft furry neck and stroked its chest. But her symptoms only escalated.
If she turned her head an inch, a tidal wave of dizziness smacked her. She thought of trying to reach for her phone, three steps away on her dresser, but knew she would fall over first. The balance she depended on was gone.
Autumn was trained for emergencies. She knew how to press a special large button on the landline that went straight to the police. It was time. Ruth shook her.
The dog remained motionless.
“Autumn,” she choked out. “Go call 911. Nine-one-one!”
The dizziness was unbearable, accompanied now by a paralyzing nausea. But what was wrong with the dog?
She shoved her ear against Autumn’s chest. There was a heartbeat, but it was faint. Very faint.
“No,” she whispered. “Oh God, no.”
That’s when she realized: it was something in the air. A tasteless, odorless poison seeping into their lungs. She needed to get them outside, onto the balcony, as fast as possible. The idea of going alone never crossed her mind.
She squeezed her arms around all seventy-five pounds of Autumn and hauled her toward the edge of the bed. The dog barely budged.
After a minute she realized the task would be impossible. She was choking and coughing, too dizzy and disoriented to figure out what direction to go. Her strength was fleeting along with her consciousness.
She fell back against the bed, still loosely hugging Autumn to her chest. In her last bid for strength, she pressed her lips against the dog’s velvety ears.
Of all the parting words she wanted to say, none were enough.
But it didn’t matter.
None came.
CHAPTER 7
The Diary of Richard Barnett
4 months, 3 weeks before, Key West
I know you think I’m the bad guy, Isabel, and you’re not completely wrong. But there’s more to it than you think. I’m writing this account to tell you the truth—the whole truth—behind our relationship, because by the time you know enough to demand answers, I’ll be gone.
The good news for us both is that I won’t be around to squirm at your reaction.
In the spirit of openness—nothing to lose—I’ll admit that when you walked through my d
oor the second time, I was delighted.
You, considerably less so.
Your hair was tied in a bun at the nape of your neck, and I remember thinking how slender and breakable it looked. Despite your tough girl act, you were just as vulnerable as my sick and dying clients.
Vulnerability was my currency. I could spot it like a shark a mile away. I’m not proud to tell you that I swooped in for the kill. (Sorry, too soon?)
“I have the mutation,” you announced, marching into my office and plunking down into the chair across from me. “Eighty-seven percent odds of getting my mom’s cancer.”
Your expression was part horror, part boast. It was a strange combination to behold.
But even stranger was my own gut reaction. Normally I would have launched into transaction mode without a second thought. A positive BRCA mutation was a value-added proposition, a welcome bargaining chip to any life settlement broker. Like jaded surgeons, we came to see bodies as parts, not persons; but in our trade, the faultier, the better.
That’s why I was surprised when I felt my stomach clench. Your type of mutation was particularly lethal in young women.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I meant it.
“Yeah, yeah.” You waved me off like my politeness was a charade. “I know I’m worth more to you now.”
“I’ll be able to help you more now,” I corrected.
It wasn’t fair of me to take offense. All you saw was a greedy, heartless asshole. I had given you no reason to think otherwise.
“Do you believe your own spin?” you asked. “Or do you just spout that crap to make people feel better?”
“Look, I know you’re angry and scared. But I’m going to help you save your mother’s life. Our incentives are aligned, okay? I get paid only when you do.”
Any trace of vulnerability disappeared when your green eyes locked on mine: Your stare was unshakable. I had mistaken you for a damsel in distress, but really you were Prince Charming coming to the lady’s rescue.
