The whole Chanel-Jack thing bothers me all afternoon, and I don’t know why. Jack is not Adam. Adam is not Jack. It’s not until I’m sliding into an Uber to head to the meeting with the attorney that the nagging feeling abruptly takes shape. That morning I’d sworn Jack was sitting with Adam at the coffee shop is instantly center stage. The same morning that I ran into Mike Adams, ex-schoolmate, who is now FBI.
Could Mike help me deal with Adam?
But, truly, if I told him everything, would I just be admitting guilt by association where Kevin is concerned? Certainly, surely, blackmail would be considered a reason for my silence?
My cellphone buzzes, and I pull it from my bag to find a message from Kara: Great work on the email. Sorry, I didn’t read it, or respond, until now, but others have. I’ve already received several complimentary replies about your written words. More soon! Good luck with your dad.
Any relief I feel by her reply, considering I’ve been hoping to hear her thoughts on my email for hours, is doused in the gas of my memory of Jack with that man at the coffee shop. Was it Adam, and he fooled Jack in some way into thinking he was just a random stranger? I trust Jack, but he and I have shared the same kind of insecurity that I’ve come to believe tends to lead to a certain brand of naivete. Could he be unwittingly being used against me by Adam? Nothing about my thoughts conjures anything resembling common sense, and yet my entire involvement in any of this defies all that I know to be my world.
I scan the news yet again. How many times is this now? Twenty? More? And still I feel like I haven’t thought of Kevin enough. And still there is nothing in the news about a slaughtered man found with his throat sliced. How is that even possible?
My cellphone rings in my hand with Jess on caller ID. “Hey,” I say, not sure what to expect, with bullets flying at me from all directions. “Do you have any good news on the whole Big Davis situation?”
“I wish I did. Big Davis is protected like the devil’s own child. I can’t get to anyone or anything that helps you knock him down. But one thing I heard over and over is don’t trust him. Ever. He’s the kind of guy who could be inside you and thinking of another woman. And, by the way, usually is. He’s a real player.”
Another time I might chide her for the crassness or just cave and laugh at her for being all that I expect of her and more, but not now. “This isn’t surprising.”
“You need to go into this meeting and push everyone to remember who they’re dealing with,” she adds. “Understand?”
I cringe with the now-familiar question that seems to be punching at me from all directions. As if everyone thinks that if I don’t confirm understanding I’ll do something stupid. I’ve never been stupid. I’ve been quiet and submissive. There’s a difference. Then again, maybe there isn’t. Maybe quiet and submissive equates to stupid. I’ve lost a real gauge on such things, it seems.
“I understand,” I assure her. The car pulls up to the building that is my destination. “I have to go,” I add. “I’m arriving at the attorney’s office now.”
“I have a dinner-interview thing tonight for one of my columns. Text me when you’re done. I’ll call you back if I can. But tell me what happens in the text in case I can’t.”
“Will do,” I promise.
We disconnect, and I exit the Uber, glancing up at the high-rise where I’ll meet my parents and attend the meeting with Nick Morris, the attorney, who I can only pray knows how to do his job in a hardball kind of way. Because if we have to resort to me telling him how to get down and dirty with Big Davis, my confidence in the end result of this negotiation is not good. That said, he works for Jess, I remind myself. He’s no pushover—of that I can be certain.
I hurry inside the building, shiny floors and dangling lights surrounded by glass and more glass. Kevin lived in a smaller version of a building like this one, where the windows were the world, where the windows allowed me to watch his last moments in this world. I’m trembling with the idea as I sign in at security and hurry toward the elevator. Once I’m inside, I’m alone, and alone means I’m living in my own head, a cold, dark place where I’m reminded that Kevin only lives a few blocks from here.
Lived, I remind myself. He lived only a few blocks from here.
The elevator dings and the doors open. I’m greeted by a wall with the firm’s long list of partners etched in some kind of tile. This is a big firm. Big translates to powerful, I tell myself. But I also worry about conflicts of interest. Out of every attorney on that wall, is there not one fan, or investor, in some Big Davis project? I turn left to walk toward the glass doors of the lobby. It doesn’t take long for me to discover that my parents are already in a conference room with Mr. Morris. Nor is it long before the receptionist leads me to the same room, another room of all glass, where I join them.
There are four people in attendance, not including me. My parents, a man I assume to be Mr. Morris, and a pretty blonde who reminds me of Jess. Everyone stands. My father hugs me, my mother gives me a nervous nod, and then the attention turns to the man, who shakes my hand. “Nick Morris,” he greets, confirming his identity before motioning to the Jess look-alike. I wonder if Nick knows her as such. A Jess look-alike. Is he as obsessed with her as most men, and could that work in our favor? “This is my associate, Erin Stanford,” he says, introducing the blonde.
Just like that, all the niceties are thankfully over.
I sit between my parents, directly across from Erin. Nick, Mr. Morris, is across from my father. “As I was telling your parents,” Mr. Morris starts, “Big Davis is the highest bidder on your father’s project by a substantial amount. He’s going to make your family quite wealthy.”
I’m prickly, a cactus type of personality I normally do not like but which I seem to resemble right now. “And then bury the patent, right?” I challenge, glancing at my father for confirmation as I repeat, “Right?”
Erin answers for the room. “Big Davis assures us that won’t happen. We’re working on the contractual terms.”
I glance over at her. I do not like her. She might resemble Jess in appearance, but she lacks her vibrating, confident presence. “Big Davis is not that easily agreeable or generous. There’s a catch. What is the catch?”
My mother leans forward and glances at me over my father. “Did you come just to be negative?”
Her opinion of my opinion is never high, and I really don’t care right now. My eyes go to Mr. Morris. “What’s the catch?” I repeat.
“Not really a catch,” he replies, confirming there is indeed a catch. “Big Davis simply thinks making the offering on Lion’s Den will make for good television ratings.”
“No.” My hand actually comes down on the conference table rather firmly, surprising everyone, including myself, but I am not done. “Absolutely not,” I add. “If this is allowed, Big Davis will humiliate my father and find a way to turn his invention into trash.”
“Mia!” my mother proclaims. “Are you serious right now?”
My attention rockets to my father. “You know I’m right,” I say softly.
Erin clears her throat. “We’ll have the offer in writing before the show takes place.”
My eyes are laser beams in her direction at this point. “Pardon me, Erin, or Ms. Stanford, but he’ll find a way to outsmart you.” I glance at Mr. Morris. “What’s the backup offer?”
“Nowhere near as high.”
“Does it allow his project to live on and not be shoved in a closet?”
“Yes, but—”
I turn to my father. “Take it,” I implore him. “Take it and run far away from Lion’s Den.”