Without a Net

by Blake, Jill

  She shifted in her chair. “What about herpes?”

  “We don’t typically test for it unless you’ve had an outbreak. Have you…?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then. One last thing. There’s a so-called window of opportunity after your last possible exposure, when the test may not actually show infection. A couple weeks for gonorrhea and chlamydia, three months for syphilis, up to six months for HIV. So we should recheck everything in three to six months, to be sure.”

  Eva bit her lip. “It’s been more than a year.”

  “Ah. Well, in that case, today’s tests should be sufficient.” He glanced at her over the bridge of his reading glasses. “Do you need a new prescription for birth control?”

  She blinked. She’d stopped using the pill when she’d run out of refills a while back. Eight, maybe nine months ago. And now…what was the point?

  The image of green eyes and cocky grin flashed through her mind. She wondered briefly if the bum knee would get in the way of his sexual performance. Somehow she doubted it.

  Not that it mattered. The last thing she needed was another womanizing male. She’d already buried one, and that was all she could handle in this lifetime.

  She tightened her grip on the shoulder bag and stood up. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, let me know if you change your mind.” He handed her the order form and ushered her toward the door. “Go ahead and get these done. You remember where the lab is? Good. I’ll call you in a few days with results.”

  Chapter 5

  Angie was waiting for her when she got home. Much as Eva loved her sister, today she didn’t feel up to having company.

  Despite being seven years younger, Angie had always been able to out-argue Eva. She had the tenacity of a bull terrier, a nose for blood like a foxhound, and the killer instincts of a Rottweiler. No doubt great qualities for a lawyer, but when it came to dealing with family, the combination could sometimes be a bit much.

  The moment Eva’s minivan pulled up to the curb, Angie jumped off the low stone wall that bordered the property and brushed off the seat of her tailored slacks. “Where were you? I’ve been waiting here for ages!”

  “I had a doctor’s appointment,” Eva said, leading the way toward the house. “You could have called or texted.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Sure.” Eva unlocked the door and headed into the kitchen, dropping her purse on a nearby chair. “Just an annual checkup. You want something to drink?”

  Angie glanced at her watch. “I skipped lunch, and I’ve got a deposition in the Palisades at two.”

  Eva sighed. “One of these days, Angie, you and Logan are going to have to learn how to cook.”

  “Maybe,” Angie grinned, heading down the hall to the powder room. “But not today.”

  Eva washed her hands at the kitchen sink and started a fresh pot of coffee. By the time Angie returned and settled herself at the kitchen table, Eva had tossed a salad and set out a platter of hummus, olives, and toasted pita.

  “There’s some leftover pasta and—” Eva rummaged through the fridge. “Leftover pasta.”

  “Then pasta it is, thanks. How is Logan, by the way?”

  “Tinkering with mouse genes, as usual. Grumbling about undergraduates wasting his time, when he could be pursuing real science.” She grabbed a couple potholders and waited for the microwave to ping. “He’s taking Ben to see the Angels this weekend. That’s all Ben’s been talking about for days.”

  “He’s a good kid.”

  Eva joined her sister at the table. She waited until both plates were loaded before asking, “So, why are you really here?”

  Angie took her time answering. “I had a meeting with Zach Stewart this morning.”

  Eva set down her fork, appetite suddenly gone. “What did he say?”

  “He and his father sympathize with your situation, but they can’t commit to making any offer on Roger’s share of the company until a formal valuation is done. And they can’t do a formal valuation until the claim that they filed with the SIPA trustee is adjudicated. Apparently Roger invested some of the company’s loose change in Blackwell a couple years ago. It’s not clear how much of that original amount they’ll be able to recover. Even if they manage to get their entire net equity back, they’ll still be out whatever interest that money could have earned elsewhere.”

  “What about the personal money Roger put into their current project? Can they at least cash that out?”

  “I’ve asked. Zach says not until they reach a certain critical mass in terms of condo sales and long-term retail space leases. But I’ll continue to press, Eva, believe me. Tom’s a nice guy. It’s his son who wants to play hardball.” She resumed eating. “Too bad Roger withdrew so much personal money based on fabricated profits. Would have saved you a whole lot of grief if he’d just kept the funds where they were. Or better yet, not cleaned out all your savings to invest in Blackwell Securities at all.”

  Even though Eva had thought the same thing many times since this whole nightmare began, hearing it from her sister stung. “It wasn’t his fault,” she said. “If the SEC didn’t catch on to the fraud for years, despite however many audits, how could Roger have known?”

  Angie raised a brow. “You’re defending him? After everything he did?”

  Eva frowned. She should have expected this. Confiding in her sister was always a risky proposition. Sure, Angie was fiercely loyal and protective of her family, as well as anyone lucky enough to be considered a friend. But she could also be incredibly judgmental. The problem was Angie had caught her at a weak moment, when Eva felt trapped by Roger’s illness in a marriage that she’d just discovered to be based on a lie.

  On the surface, they’d been the perfect couple. Ambitious general contractor-turned-real estate developer, and his graceful artist-turned-homemaker wife.

  She’d been twenty-three when they met. Barely out of college, highly impressionable, and eager to please. She could count the number of boyfriends she’d had on one hand and still have fingers left over. Roger had been in his prime, ten years older, his body honed by construction work. He’d been known to strip to the waist and pitch in right alongside his crew. This was before he and Tom hit the big time, before they’d started buying and developing commercial real estate. Back then they were just a couple guys flipping houses.

  Eva had fallen hard and fast. How could she not? Roger was smooth, sexy, confident, a ladies’ man even then—something she recognized only in hindsight. He’d swept her off her feet, barely giving her a chance to catch her breath. Within two years, they were married and Eva was pregnant.

  If he hadn’t been the most attentive husband, or the most doting father, she brushed it off, made excuses. He had a business to grow, new projects to design and build. While she stayed home, caring for their son, and later volunteering her skills and time, he went out to conquer the world. Or at least to reshape it into something slicker, glitzier, more profitable, taking advantage of the ever-upward spiral of the southern California real estate market. He and Tom bought up prime beachfront property and transformed it into planned developments, with luxury condos and shopping meccas for people whose only goal in life seemed to be the acquisition of more and more. In a culture of conspicuous consumption, Roger and Tom were happy to fuel the frenzy.

  The travel was all part of the job: networking, bringing in new investors, attracting corporate tenants and private buyers. Eva never dreamed there could be another, hidden, purpose to the trips.

  Later, after he’d cleared his conscience by dumping everything in her lap, Eva couldn’t sleep. Night after night, the images flickered across her brain, like a montage from some low-budget skin flick. Flesh spilling out from spandex and leather, blood red lips and fuck-me heels. Stained sheets and nondescript hotel rooms, trash-strewn back alleys and graffiti-covered bathroom stalls. And Roger, her husband, the father of her child, straining and sweating, teeth bared as he grunted and pound
ed into perfect strangers from behind.

  There was a reason sleep deprivation was used as a torture device. By the time Angie had cornered her, alarmed by the hollowed cheeks and dark shadows beneath her eyes, Eva was ready to spill everything.

  And that was even before she’d known about the money. Before she’d been served with the thirty-five page complaint alleging that she and Roger had received a series of transfers totaling $6.3 million, a sum that significantly exceeded Roger’s original investment. Before she’d learned that the term “net winner” wasn’t actually a good thing, at least when it came to Ponzi schemes. Before she’d been able to trace, with Angie’s help, where those funds had gone. Before she’d discovered the lapsed life insurance, and the depleted bank accounts, and the fact that Roger’s business interests were all tied up in the same legal quagmire she was now facing.

  Angie’s voice broke the silence. “Do you have a court date?”

  Eva shrugged. “Your friend Quinn is working on it.”

  When it came to litigation, Angie claimed she lacked the experience needed to ensure Eva good representation in court. Somehow she’d managed to convince Quinn Kirkpatrick, one of the senior securities fraud attorneys in her firm, to take on the case, even though Eva didn’t have a clue as to how she was going to pay him.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Angie told her. “Quinn and I will work something out.”

  Eva scraped back her chair. “You want some coffee?”

  “Would love some.” Angie rose to help clear the table. “Any chocolate to go with it?”

  Eva eyed her sister’s slim form. “Where do you put it all?”

  “I’ve got an incredibly fast metabolism. Plus I run three miles a day and hike on weekends. So, about that chocolate…?”

  “How about some brownies instead?”

  Angie grinned. “There’s a reason you’re my favorite sister.”

  Eva rolled her eyes. “Grab a cup.”

  Angie was halfway through her second brownie before she spoke again. “Did you go over the paperwork I emailed you?”

  “Yes.” Eva set down her half-drunk coffee. “I don’t know, Angie. It seems somehow wrong to apply for the hardship program when there are so many people who are worse off. It’s not like we lost all our retirement savings, or had to declare bankruptcy.”

  “Not yet,” Angie muttered.

  “The sale of the house should cover what I’m being asked to repay. As long as Quinn can knock the total down to just the net gain.”

  “You shouldn’t have been forced to sell in the first place.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Eva soothed. “This place is too big for just the two of us anyway.”

  “What does Ben think about having to move?”

  Eva fiddled with her mug. “I haven’t exactly told him yet.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t see any need to worry him. It’s not going to happen until after the school year ends. If we find a place nearby, he can stay at the same school, keep all the same friends. Considering what’s already happened, whether he lives in a rented apartment or a McMansion won’t make that much difference.”

  “If you say so.” Angie pursed her lips. “But do me a favor, fill out the application. It’s worth a try. At the very least, it’ll buy you some time. Even if everything goes well, and Quinn gets the court to agree to revised numbers, and the house sells, you’re still in the red. Don’t forget you’ll owe capital gains tax on the house. And you’re writing big monthly checks for the payment plan we worked out with the hospital. Not to mention living in Santa Monica isn’t cheap. Whatever you’ll be paying each month for rent, utilities, and food could probably support a family of four in Wichita for a year.”

  “You’ve never been to Wichita. How would you know?”

  “Stop avoiding the subject. If we miss the filing deadline, we’re screwed.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Eva disagreed, ignoring the fact that there were plenty of times she’d felt just as pessimistic about the future. If all else failed, she could still auction off the meager collection of jewelry and designer clothing Roger had given her over the course of their marriage. She’d have done that already, if not for the fact that she needed to maintain at least the façade of success in order to attract paying clients. And whatever she would get on eBay for her Louboutins and Jimmy Choos, it would still be just a drop in the bucket compared to what she owed because of Roger’s unfortunate investment choices. “The accountant says I can claim a tax deduction for the capital gains taxes Roger paid on his withdrawals from Blackwell.”

  “Meaning you’ll get that money refunded?”

  “Not exactly. More like it’ll offset whatever taxes I owe going forward. So in the end, I probably won’t have to pay the IRS anything on the sale of the house. As long as I have all the supporting paperwork, and can get it in on time.”

  “Great. Prepare to be audited.”

  “I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “Right. That was your husband.”

  Eva gritted her teeth. “Look, Angie, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but rehashing the past isn’t particularly helpful.”

  “Sorry.” Angie glanced at her watch. “I have to run. At least promise me you’ll go over the form. Three pages, that’s all I’m asking.”

  Chapter 6

  Max watched the virtual fish swim across his laptop screen. He’d been doing a lot of that lately, staring at the computer screensaver in lieu of doing something productive.

  Everyone had one book in them. At least that was the conventional wisdom. Well, he’d written his, and now he was stuck trying to figure out what to do next.

  The whole process of accumulating rejection slips from agents and publishing houses didn’t appeal. Besides, it took too long. In a world where everything else moved at lightning speed, data bytes streaking along fiber optic cables, transmitting billions of signals and data points per second, the glacial pace of getting a book out to the public seemed ridiculously dated.

  Luckily, while he was recuperating, he’d stumbled onto an online community of indie writers—authors who self-published their work. He devoured their blogs, eavesdropped on their discussion groups, and slowly shed all his preconceptions. Gone apparently were the vanity presses of previous generations, outfits that charged a writer exorbitant fees to print a limited number of books, which the author was then responsible for hawking. He recalled one of his high school English teachers going that route, passing out books to anyone who wanted one. Max had at some point used his copy as a doorstop. He cringed now at the memory. Having spent the past three months slaving over his own manuscript, he knew how hard the process of writing could be. Whoever said it was like slitting open a vein and bleeding was right.

  At least today’s technology made sharing books with readers much easier. Thanks to distribution giants like Amazon, and hand-held devices like the Kindle, Nook, and iPad, indie books were reaching the public in unprecedented numbers. Uploading a finished manuscript was quick, easy, and the digital platforms integrated seamlessly into whatever e-gadget a reader had.

  So that’s what Max decided to do. He’d already had an editor proofread his work. All he needed was someone to design an eye-catching cover, and he was good to go. Maybe a website as well. And a blog. It seemed every writer had a blog these days.

  Problem was, he really didn’t feel like dealing with all the minutiae and scut work involved. As an attending physician, he had residents and medical students, nurses and X-ray techs, case managers and clerks to handle all that. He was more like an Army general, assessing the situation and directing the movement of ground troops. But when it came to writing and marketing, he was still trying to figure things out.

  His computer skills were rudimentary at best. He’d always preferred being physically active, outdoors when possible, rather than cooped up inside pecking away at a keyboard. The only way he’d made it through the first couple years of med school was by studyi
ng at the gym: reading and highlighting while logging countless hours on the stair-climber or treadmill or stationary bike. By the time clinical rotations rolled around, he hit the wards running, and he’d rarely stopped since.

  Luckily, emergency medicine, despite the occasional lull in activity, was a high energy field. Mentally engaging and physically demanding. Nothing like a multi-car pileup or a drive-by shooting to get the adrenaline really going. In a good twelve hour shift he’d be guaranteed at least one V-tach or respiratory distress requiring intubation. He rarely had time to sit around twiddling his thumbs.

  It wasn’t until the skiing injury forced him to take a break that he realized how much of a challenge prolonged inactivity could be. Within days, he was ready to climb the walls, bulky knee brace be damned.

  His sister Nina was the one who gave him the idea. “I don’t want to hear another word,” she said. “You want to gripe? Write it down.”

  And so he did. Writing took his mind off the frustratingly slow recuperation process. The fracture might temporarily prevent him from bungee jumping or scuba diving, but at least he could sublimate his craving for adventure by writing about it. What started out as a litany of complaints morphed into an action-packed story, with a fictional alter ego who did all the things Max wished he could be doing.

  When it came to creative writing, Max was in good company. Plenty of physicians had blazed the way, penning everything from medical thrillers to literary fiction: Robin Cook, Michael Crichton, Tess Gerritsen, Leonard Goldberg, Khaled Hosseini, Abraham Verghese.

  What to do with his book now that it was written, though, still stumped him. He was completely out of his depth when it came to marketing. And unlike the first time around, when the words seemed to pour from some deep well of frustration, this time he couldn’t seem to get past the blank screen and blinking cursor.

  His leg still wasn’t a hundred percent. He was due to return to work next month, at least on a limited basis. In the meantime, he had five weeks to play with. The writing bug had bitten him, no question. He’d been tossing around ideas for a new thriller, but somehow in the last few days, the words simply wouldn’t come.