by Mindy Klasky
Only after she was safe and secure in the room that had been her home for the past month and a half did she pull out her phone. But as she tapped Drew’s number, she wasn’t certain if she wanted him to pick up, or if she wanted the call to roll to voicemail. In the end, what she wanted didn’t matter, she got his efficient outgoing message, and she said, “Drew, call me now.”
She hesitated before making her next call. She needed to bring Chip into the loop. He had to know that their star client was going to be outed as a gambler and a cheat in a few short hours. But first Jessica needed to figure out what had happened, where things had gone wrong, why she’d never even heard of Robert Trueblood before reading Parker’s prose.
Instead of calling Chip, Jessica pressed the number for the library.
“Image Masters Resource Center, Margaret speaking. How may I exceed your expectations today?”
Jessica’s heart rate began to slow as soon as she heard the familiar greeting. “Margaret, thank God you’re there. I’m calling about the Drew Marshall matter, about some research you sent me a month or so ago. I’ve just learned from an outside source about a PRIS we might have overlooked.” There. It was soothing just to use a professional acronym—to ask about a Potentially Relevant Information Source. Everything had a structure. Everything had a reason. Everything could be sorted neatly into its proper place.
“What information do you have on the PRIS?” Margaret’s voice was carefully neutral. She was no fool. She knew her research skills were being called into question.
“Last name Trueblood, first name Robert.”
Jessica listened to Margaret type something into her computer. She heard the sequence of keys repeated a second time, and then a third before the librarian intoned, “Client matter M14-1603, Drew Marshall, PRIS Robert Trueblood. Bank account printout from First Farmers and Mechanics was included as document PRIS147892, transmitted to you on March 18.”
Frantically, Jessica reached for her computer. She should have had it open before she called Margaret. She should have run a search on her own files, tried to track down the document on her own.
But she knew she hadn’t read about any Robert Trueblood. She knew every document she’d ever read that concerned Drew.
She ran a search for the entry and came up empty. “I’m sorry, Margaret. Can you give me that number again?”
As always, Margaret’s voice was perfectly neutral as she repeated the code.
Nothing.
“Are you sure you sent that one to me? I’m searching all my documents in the Drew Marshall matter, and I’m not finding it.”
“Maybe it was deleted accidentally? Try searching your trash.”
Frustrated, Jessica followed the instruction. She couldn’t have deleted the file by accident. Her computer was set to warn her about any deletion, and she never would have trashed a PRIS file in an open matter.
PRIS147892.
There it was, sitting in her electronic trash.
“Thanks, Margaret,” Jessica managed to say. “There it is. I—I don’t know how I missed it before.”
After she hung up, she stared at the timestamp numbly. 2:17 p.m. on March 19.
That was the day she and Drew had first made love. She’d been working on their reply to Parker’s first article. She’d finally taken a shower after spending too many hours hunched over the writing desk. She’d come out of the bathroom to find Drew back in the room because his game had been canceled for rain. To find Drew standing by her computer. To find Drew furious, throwing papers, insane.
And she’d calmed him. Gentled him. Distracted him. Let herself be distracted by him.
He’d lied to her in the middle of that thunderstorm. And he’d lied to her every day since. He’d manipulated her files despite her telling him, from the very first day they’d worked together, how important it was for her to have all relevant information at her fingertips. He’d let her build a case for him, let her expose herself—to Ross Parker, to the rest of the media hordes, to Chip and Image Masters—all the while knowing that he’d deleted data.
Data that had turned out to be vitally important. Data that had just changed the entire shape of their campaign. That had devastated their campaign.
Part of her wanted to walk out of the Vista Linda, then and there. She wanted to drive to the airport, to take the next plane north, whether it went to New York or not. She wanted out. She wanted to be done.
But if she walked away now, there’d be nothing waiting for her in New York. She’d walk into the Image Masters conference room and she’d be fired, because she’d failed the firm’s client. She’d let down Mark Williamson, the man who paid for their services—all because she’d trusted Drew.
She had to finish the job. She had to turn around the press, to light another fire that might distract the ravening public, even from Parker’s devastating blaze.
There was one story left to tell. One story that should generate sympathy, that could spike Drew’s Charisma Index back to where it needed to be if he was going to survive the storm Parker was unleashing.
Drew would hate her for it.
But there wasn’t anything else she could do. Not now. Not when he’d burned all their other bridges. Not when he’d left her without a professional leg to stand on. Not when he’d lied.
She didn’t waste time hunting for a phone number on the Internet. Instead, she picked up the hotel phone and said to the woman at the front desk, “Could you please connect me with one of your guests? Ross Parker. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Jimmy Buffet hollered in her ear with drunken good cheer as the operator transferred the call. Then: “Hello?”
“This is Jessica Barnes.”
“You know I won’t withdraw the story.”
“I don’t want you to withdraw it. I have some additional information you should know.”
“Go ahead.” She could picture him whipping out his notebook; she could imagine him readying his pen.
She took a deep breath. “Susan Marshall is alive and well and living in Spartanburg, South Carolina under the name of Sarah Weston.”
She hung up before he could ask her any follow-up questions.
~~~
Drew sank onto the bench, grateful that batting practice had gone well. Three days left in this dog and pony show. Three days left of always being on display—to Skip, to the press, to Jessica.
Okay, he didn’t mind being on display to Jessica. She had a hell of an imagination for what to do with his kind of displays.
A swirl of uncertainty twisted through his gut. The Rockets would be clearing out of Florida on Sunday. Assuming he made the team—and he was pretty sure Jessica and her Image Masters had done exactly what Williamson had hired them to do—he’d be back in Raleigh for a ten-game home stand to kick off the season. After that, he’d be back to the usual rhythm of the season—a couple of weeks home, a couple of weeks on the road, game after game after game.
He’d adapted to the travel years before. Shit, that was one good thing his old man had taught him—how to pack up and get out of town, how to move on to the next place without a backward glance.
But Drew was itching to look back now. For the first time in his adult life, he wanted to put down roots. He wanted to know where he’d be eating dinner in a week, where he’d be sleeping a month from now, which clothes he’d be wearing from all the clothes he owned, instead of the ones he could cram into a carry-on suitcase.
Or maybe he just wanted to know Jessica’s choices for all those things.
Because Jessica Barnes wasn’t used to life on the road. Sure, she took business trips all the time. And she’d adapted readily enough to living in the Vista Linda.
But a different city every three nights? That wasn’t Jessica’s way of doing things. She belonged in New York City. She belonged in her high-powered job with her Indexes and regressions and all that other crap.
They needed to talk. They needed to figure out what was going to happen at the end of the week. Bu
t they’d both been happy enough to pretend it would be spring forever, to act like they’d dine on shrimp cocktail and grilled lobster every night for the rest of their lives, like they’d always be able to see palm trees from their bedroom window.
“Hey man,” Adam Sartain broke into his thoughts, thumping down on the bench beside him. “What did you ever do to Ross Parker? Sleep with his sister or something?”
Parker. Again. “What’s that asswipe up to now?”
Sartain shook his head. “You’re the star of his latest column. And by star, I mean ‘he’s dragging you through shit all over again.’”
Drew swore, not bothering to keep it under his breath. His phone was back in the locker room. He glanced at the clock on the outfield scoreboard. He had time to get it before the game started, if he hustled.
Five minutes later, he was puking up lunch.
~~~
Jessica sat on the wooden swing, staring out at the ocean. It was dark out there—a heavy blanket of clouds hid the moon and stars that had illuminated the waves the only other time she’d sat on that porch. The air was deadly still, and she could smell fish rotting somewhere on the sand below her. Even the waves were silent; what she could see of the ocean looked like a vast, unmoving lake.
She should get back in her car and drive back to the Vista Linda.
Maybe Drew hadn’t found her note. But he had to have seen it; she’d left it smack between their pillows on the freshly made hotel bed.
She couldn’t stay in that room. She couldn’t sit at the desk where she’d worked for the past six weeks. She couldn’t look at the bed where she and Drew had made love, night after night. She couldn’t…
She just couldn’t.
She folded her arms around herself and began to face reality. She’d left a message on Drew’s phone, and he hadn’t called her back. She’d left a note on his bed, and he hadn’t come to meet her.
It was over. It was time for her to pack up her bags and head back to New York. She’d explain everything to Chip, tell him the truth. She’d throw herself on her boss’s mercy, beg for the chance to work on any project, at any level. She’d go back to the grunt work she’d mastered as a first-year associate, and she’d prove herself again and again and again, hoping to be forgiven some day.
Or maybe she’d be fired, and her first order of business would be searching for a new job. She couldn’t blame Chip if he handed over her walking papers. He’d warned her every step of the way, told her she was making a huge mistake down here in Florida.
The glass door slid open behind her.
“Jessica.”
She’d wondered what Drew’s voice would sound like. She’d thought maybe he’d be apologetic, sorry for all the lies he’d told her, for all the harm he’d done. Or maybe he’d be upbeat, pretending that Ross Parker was a liar, that there wasn’t anything true in the latest story. Or he’d whine that it wasn’t fair, that Bobby Trueblood had set him up, that his father had only surfaced for his fifteen minutes of fame.
She hadn’t imagined how angry he would be.
Jessica pushed herself off the swing. She suddenly wanted both feet on stable ground. She’d come out here because she didn’t want to face him in the hotel room where they’d made love, but she’d been an idiot for thinking this beach house of broken dreams was any better.
“Go ahead,” she said, whirling to face him. “Tell me how this is all my fault.”
That was when she saw his arm. The sling was made out of some dark fabric; it looked black against his button-down shirt. Straps lashed across his back, elevating his white-bandaged wrist.
“Oh my God,” she said. “What happened?”
He started to shrug but winced instead. “Shit happened. I went oh for four at the plate. Rang up an error in the first inning. Overthrew to home in the ninth to let in their winning run. And X-rays show two broken bones in my wrist. They can’t set it until the swelling goes down.”
She steeled herself against the bitterness in his voice. “You broke your hand overthrowing to home?”
“No,” he said. “I broke my hand shattering my bat against the wall when a gang of reporters swarmed me after the game.”
“And that’s my fault.” She didn’t trust herself to ask it as a question. He was furious. He obviously already blamed her.
“Your fault. Image Masters’ fault. Who the hell cares any more?”
“I was trying to mitigate the damage, Drew. I had to dilute Ross Parker’s article about your father.”
“And you couldn’t wait to throw your hissy fit until after Skip set his final roster?”
“Hissy fit? What are you, seven years old? Let’s go over the facts here. You broke into my computer. You deleted a crucial file. I’m going to lose my job because of you.”
Drew glared at her. “That makes us even then, doesn’t it?”
And he was right. They were even. They’d both acted rashly, and she was willing to bet he hadn’t given any more thought to deleting the Bobby Trueblood file than she’d given to siccing Parker on his mother. She’d been angry—furious. But she’d had a plan, a reason, a justification. She suspected Drew had too, at the time he’d sabotaged her work.
None of that changed the bottom line. None of that changed the truth.
“Forget it,” she said. “I thought we had something to talk about here. But I was obviously wrong.” She turned away, ready to walk around the outside of the house instead of edging past him for the more direct route.
“You can’t just leave!”
“Watch me.”
“All your stuff is back in the hotel room!”
“Tell the front desk to ship it to me. Bill it to Image Masters. They’ve got my credit card on file. For the room I never used.”
She couldn’t think of an exit line that was any better than that. But she did walk past him on the way to her car. Because she wanted to feel the heat of his body one last time. Because she wanted to catch the salt and spice scent of him. Because she wanted to see the faintest of night light glinting on the bristle of his beard.
Because she wanted to remember everything that could go wrong when fools took chances and reached for impossible things they could never have.
CHAPTER 8
Jessica’s teeth grated as a nasal baritone voice brayed from the speakerphone. “You have to understand. I’m taking a beating in the press. But I negotiated for that golden parachute fair and square, and I deserve every penny of my payout.”
Fifty-seven million dollars. That was a lot of pennies. Especially for a guy who’d basically driven an investment bank into the ground, disrupting its business so badly that half a dozen federal agencies were looking into what went wrong, along with every financial journalist in the business.
Chip’s response was a lot more soothing than Jessica could have managed. “Of course you do, Don. I’ll tell you what. We’ll put together a plan over the weekend. Print, television, social media, the whole nine yards. You go on up to Vermont and don’t spend another minute worrying about it. We can sit down Monday afternoon and go over everything.”
As Jessica listened to the familiar pitch, the cajoling she’d heard a hundred times before, she looked out the broad window behind Chip’s desk. He had a view of Central Park, of the controlled greenery that passed for wilderness for most New York residents. From here, it all looked perfectly manicured, precisely sculpted, like some model railroad fanatic had laid out an antiseptic master plan. She couldn’t imagine a storm whipping through, couldn’t imagine a single branch or leaf daring to fall out of line.
“This is going to cost me an arm and a leg, isn’t it?” their would-be client complained.
Jessica swallowed the urge to laugh out loud. Of course it was going to cost him. It was going to cost him because he was stealing Wall Street blind—legitimately, with the blessing of an ironclad contract, but he was walking away with more money from being fired than most people saw in a lifetime. In a dozen lifetimes.
&nb
sp; Chip said, “Image Masters is the best, Don. You get what you pay for.”
The investment banker grumbled for a few more minutes, and Jessica let herself study the photograph on Chip’s desk, the family portrait that was anchored off to the side. Chip stood at the back, smiling and relaxed beside his pretty, lacquered wife. Their three sons sat in front of them in varying stages of teen awkwardness. Jessica remembered that the youngest still played Little League. She wondered when Chip had last attended a game.
Her boss snapped off the telephone connection, jerking her back to the matter at hand. “So,” he said, nodding toward the speaker to indicate their newest client. “You can get a prospectus to me regarding Mr. Bender by the end of the day?”
“Of course,” she said.
Her heart should be leaping. A prospectus was the plan of attack for their entire campaign, the scaffold for everything else they would do. Chip’s trusting her to draft the prospectus was a sign that she was back in his good graces. Her meek acceptance of entry-level work for the past month had paid off. Entry-level work, and working every weekend. Working till midnight most nights, too.
She was forgiven.
But it was hard for her to muster the excitement she knew Chip expected. Maybe that was because she was exhausted. She was burned out.
She shook her head and forced herself to smile. “Thank you,” she said, and she actually sounded sincere. Not at all like she was ready to fall asleep on her feet. And definitely not like she resented another weekend donated to Image Masters, another exhausting forty-eight hours, fleshing out the prospectus he’d approve that afternoon, then getting a complete presentation ready for the Monday Status Meeting.
At least she wouldn’t have to fight the crowds as she tried to get uptown after work—the hundreds of people constricting every crosswalk, the rivers of bodies flowing to the subway, the forests of sharp-elbowed commuters angling for a seat on the bus. When she finally finished up at one or two or three in the morning, she’d call a car service. Charge it to Donald Bender, the Wall Street executive.
