by Sheila Lowe
Obviously not used to having her say no to him, Simon faltered. He dropped into the other guest chair beside her and stretched out his long legs until the soles of their shoes were almost touching.
“I don’t want to tell you what I thought. But God, I’m thankful to see you alive.”
“You thought I was dead.” The words hung on the air, stunning in their baldness.
“Where the hell were you, Jen?” He repeated for the third time.
“Where do you think I’ve been?”
Simon slammed his hand on his desk, making the coffee mug jump. “Don’t fucking answer a question with a question! Where have you been for the past three days? And what did you do to your hair? You look like hell.”
Although she would rather have avoided his eyes, Jenna made herself look at him, this man who, judging from the torn photograph, had broken her heart. “It’s not nice to tell me I look like hell when you know I’ve been sick.”
“Don’t play with me. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“The battery’s dead.”
The disbelief on his face made her want to laugh. If she had come up with some kind of lie, he would have accepted it. Simon let the moment pass, then changed tactics when she had nothing else to add. “Baby, you’ve got to tell me what happened. Did they hurt you? Threaten you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said truthfully.
“You don’t know?” His voice hardened in frustration. “You just disappear and it had nothing to—I accused Christine—What happened?”
Who is Christine and what did he accused her of?
Her tone was as sharp as the broken glass she’d dumped from the picture frame. “I told you, I don’t know!” She might as well have slapped his face.
“You can’t just pretend nothing happened,” he retorted. “The way you stormed out of here, then you didn’t answer the phone. I thought Christine—I went off on her—”
Jenna followed his eyes to a portrait on the wall to the side of his desk. An attractive woman in a red power suit, standing before a furled U.S. flag. Pride and ambition shone from her face. Offset a few inches from the portrait was a grouping of family photos featuring the same woman with Simon Lawrie and two handsome young men in cadet uniforms.
Her stomach flipped.
An affair with your married boss, Jenna? Seriously? How stupid can one person be?
“Jen? Earth to Jenna.” Simon was leaning into her space, snapping his fingers in her face.
She batted his hand away. “Stop that!”
“I’ve been worried to death about you and you just blow it off like nothing happened.”
“Why were you so worried, Simon? Why did you think she’d done something to me?”
Simon jumped to his feet and began pacing, enumerating on his fingers. “Friday, you freak out, then you disappear. Saturday, you don’t show up at the hotel. Sunday morning, you don’t answer your door.” His voice rose. “You’ve ignored my phone calls, emails, texts. Look, I know you were upset, but that’s not like you. Just tell me where you’ve been, Goddamn it!”
“Do you have to always know where I am?”
“Yes!”
Some part of her enjoyed baiting him. She took a coaster from a small stack on his desk and set her mug on it with exaggerated care. “Maybe I just needed a break.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What were you so afraid of?” she pressed.
“You know the answer to that. With her connections it’d be easy enough...” He stopped abruptly, a frown forming. “Wait--you’re not going to make trouble with my wife, are you?”
“Is that what you’re worried about?” She looked away, letting her eyes roam his office. He was nicely set up with the hand-crafted Italian-made furnishings, an original LeRoy Neiman on one wall. Men like Dr. Simon Lawrie didn’t rock their comfortable boats. Her head was beginning to ache with the effort of keeping up the pretense of knowing what he was talking about, but she had to hold it together. If she blacked the way she had in Dr. Gold’s office, the charade would be over and she was not ready for that.
Simon slumped back into his chair and scrubbed his face with his hands as if he were tired of the conversation. “I know you’re still mad, but baby, I can’t file for divorce now. She’s just about to get the nod at the Convention. Her chances for the nomination would be ruined if we were in the middle of a divorce—or worse, a scandal. My life wouldn’t be worth a good goddamn if she lost it because of something I did.”
Convention? Nomination? Jenna’s eyes returned to the official portrait and the penny dropped. Jesus Christ—his wife is running for President? This can’t get any worse.
“Shouldn’t you have thought of that before?” she asked.
“It’s not like you didn’t know I was married,” he countered.
His petulance irked her. “I think there are a lot of things about you that I don’t know,” said Jenna.
Simon reached out and grabbed her wrist, squeezing it tight. She tried to pull away but his grip was too strong.
“Right now, Jenna, I’m thinking that I don’t know you. Now what the hell’s going on? I ask you where you’ve been and you say you don’t know? What kind of bullshit answer is that? What the hell am I supposed to think?”
“Let go of me now Simon, or you will regret it.”
His jaw dropped and she could almost hear him wondering who this person was with steel injected into her voice. But he let go of her hand. “It’s not like you to be secretive, Jen. Paranoid, maybe, but not secretive. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Isn’t it enough that I’m here?”
Simon’s features softened. “Ah, baby, you know I love you, don’t you?”
For half a second Jenna was tempted to believe his sweet-talk, to allow her vulnerability to blind her to the facts. Then the cold voice of reason chimed in: Are you totally whack? He’s married to a freaking presidential candidate.
Without knowing what had happened between them, she felt her way as if walking blind without a cane. “Simon, you must have always known that this—thing between us could never go anywhere.”
He threw up his hands and blew out a big sigh of frustration. “Why are you being like this, Jen? How many times have we had this conversation?”
She had no answer for that. Why had she allowed herself to fall for a married man, especially this one?
His looks and social standing might be enough for some women, but she knew that was not enough for her. Not who she was now, anyway.
They sat in an uncomfortable silence during which Jenna considering getting up and walking out of the building. But she didn’t. Until she knew more, she planned to stay put.
As if he had just seen the light, Simon’s expression cleared. “This isn’t just about my marriage, is it?”
“What does that mean?”
“All those questions you were asking last week. About Project 42. Your ‘concerns,’ the way you flipped out.” Simon raked a hand through his hair, leaving little tufts of it standing on end. “Look, Jen, I’ve had a lot of time to think about it over the last few days, and the thing is, you took that email out of context. You don’t understand what it is we’re doing.”
That’s for sure. What is Project 42? What email? What is he talking about?
“I get that some things you saw upset you,” he continued. “But you didn’t see the bigger picture.”
“Which is what?”
“Once we’ve finished the clinical trials and get the results the client’s looking for, it’s going to improve so many lives.”
“If it’s so great, why would I be upset?”
Simon compressed his lips into a tight line as though he were trying to hang on to the last thread of his patience. “I don’t know, Jenna. Maybe you resented having to deal with all the specs and the early experiments and all the rest of it, seeing how normally it would be the word processor’s job. But honey, with the level of
confidentiality on this project, you’re the one I trusted. I think the trouble is, you misunderstood about how the device works.”
“Why don’t you could explain it to me so I understand it better?”
He gave her a wink, doing his best to charm her. “I will, baby. Let’s get together tonight at the apartment and we can talk. Right after some fantastic makeup sex.”
Jenna gave him a thin smile in return. “What about Christine’s campaign?”
“We’ve always been careful. Nothing has to change.”
She gave a little snort of disgust. “You know, I’ll bet a lot of work piled up while I was gone. I’d better get started on it.”
“Dammit, Jen, why are you being so frigging stubborn? Okay, I get it. You’re still mad. Fine. For now. Just don’t think this is over.”
She rose and so did he.
“I left some files on your desk,” he said, moving toward her. She turned her face so that his lips grazed her ear. Simon spun her around and caught hold of her chin. He turned her face up, kissing her on the mouth with the assurance of ownership. Jenna could not miss the triumphant gleam in his eyes just before he let her go.
t h i r t e e n
Her office had the unique chill of a space that had been unoccupied for several days. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, glad of the cold air on her flaming face. With a deep sense of shame, she had to admit that some perverse part of her had allowed that bruising kiss, and even enjoyed it.
Just muscle memory responding.
Whatever gets you through, dumbshit.
In her first glance at her workspace she saw nothing that personalized it. No photos. It wouldn’t do to advertise that you were sleeping with the boss.
Were sleeping with the boss. No more.
He’s kind of old, but he’s pretty hot.
He’s a cheater. I hate cheaters.
How do you know what you hate?
Shut up.
You helped him cheat, stupid.
When she moved around the desk Jenna saw that her assumption was incorrect. There was something personal after all. A plastic mermaid was propped against the monitor stand. Recognition.
Ariel.
Wondering what special meaning it held for her, she reached for the figure and picked it up. It was from the Little Mermaid, an old Disney animated film, she knew that much.
She closed her eyes and waited, hoping for a memory, but the rubbery material was a cold and unfamiliar lump in her hand. A minute or two passed; nothing happened.
Swallowing the bitter pill of disappointment, Jenna set the mermaid back against the monitor and turned to the stack of files Simon had left on her desk.
He had stuck handwritten post-it notes on the files, explaining what he wanted done with them. His handwriting was difficult to read. As she deciphered the hieroglyphics it crossed her mind that Claudia Rose, the handwriting analyst Dr. Gold had told her about, might have something to say about them.
At least she had no qualms about performing the tasks Simon had set her, the notes about interoffice memos he wanted her to correct and email; notes on items to be filed; notes about arranging meetings; notes about a PowerPoint presentation she was to prepare for his lecture at a conference. A trip to DC with his wife that she was to book with the company travel agent—how galling.
That’s what you get for screwing around with a married man.
Leave me the hell alone.
As she skimmed through the contents of the files she began to form an impression of the types of projects being handled at the BioNeutronics Laboratory. She did not find any reference to Project 42.
According to Simon, something about Project 42 had caused Jenna to storm out of work on Friday. The reverent way he had spoken about Project 42 made it sound like the elixir that held the secret to eternal life. What had he said? It was going to improve the lives of many people.
The computer booted to a company splash screen that featured the BioNeutronics logo on a black background: a wireframe globe turning in the open palm of a disembodied hand.
Encircling the globe, coiling itself through the wireframe like a ribbon, was a UPC bar code.
The logo transformed into a network user login that asked for a network password.
Now what?
The desk drawers held paperclips and pens, odds and ends, arranged with precision in plastic holders. No handy cheat sheet held the password, but under the desk was a locked file cabinet. Jenna flashed on the small silver key on the ring in her purse. She took the fact that it fit as a good omen.
The file cabinet contained Simon Lawrie’s personal correspondence: responses to fund-raising letters from the local symphony, correspondence related to a private jet and boat; his estate in the upscale neighborhood of Montecito, some thirty miles north of Oxnard.
At the back of the drawer, she struck gold: a file that held an administrator’s list of user names and passwords for everyone in the lab, including hers and Simon’s.
Her password was *!Ariel*. Like the Disney character on her desk. So there was some special significance to the little mermaid after all. Relieved that her memory loss had not robbed her of her ability to use the computer, she keyed in the password and soon found herself connected to a standard desktop.
In Windows Explorer she found a folder titled Projects and began combing through the long file tree. Files were named in numerical order: Project 41, Project 43, and so on. Project 42 was conspicuously absent. When a system-wide search yielded nothing she turned to the two-drawer lateral file cabinet behind her desk.
The top drawer was filled with green hanging folders, but a quick look through them proved fruitless.
The bottom file drawer offered up a pair of size five and a half athletic shoes and a small stack of three-ring binders that contained diagrams and specifications with headings like clinical pharmacology, clinical trials, contraindications, side effects. A plastic holder on the front of each binder contained a project name printed in a large font. No Project 42.
Had she misunderstood or misheard the name? Nope. Simon had spoken clearly and her problem was amnesia, not hearing loss.
At eleven forty-five, Simon poked his head around the door without knocking and tossed a twenty dollar bill on her desk. “Kung Pao Chicken,” he said. “Get whatever you want.”
Walking back through the corridors of BioNeutronics, Jenna felt far more confident than she had on her arrival that morning. So far the day had gone easier than she had expected. Even though an affair with a married man—her boss, for crying out loud—was something she was not proud of, she had learned a little about her life before her memory loss. And she had managed to keep her amnesia secret.
On the way through the building she ran into various people who complimented her on her haircut, so it must have happened over the last few days. The smile she produced still felt stiff, but with practice she figured she would get the hang of it.
It felt good to leave the hermetically sealed laboratory office and its subtle smell of cleaning fluid.
The heavy marine layer had kept the day overcast and would not lift over the coast until mid-afternoon.
On the morning drive, Jenna had noticed a strip mall across the street from the lab, which boasted several fast-food restaurants, including Chinese. Glad for the opportunity to stretch her legs, she crossed at the light and picked up Simon’s order, then went to the Starbucks next door and ordered a mocha latte and a protein plate for herself.
A rolling cart with ‘Oxnard Plant Care and Maintenance’ painted on the side was outside her open office door. From the doorway she could see a woman in a green and tan uniform on her knees, polishing the leaves on the tall rubber tree plant in the corner.
Jenna tapped lightly at Simon’s door and entered. He was working at his conference table, sleeves turned up, tie loosened. He gave her a warm smile and pushed aside an untidy array of papers. “Stay and eat with me.”
Almost tempted, she shook her head
. “I’m going to rest at my desk.”
“Maybe you came back to work too soon.”
“Maybe. It was a pretty bad flu.” Having practiced the lie, it came readily, but she wasn’t so sure he bought it.
When she entered her office, the plant lady was snipping dead leaves near the base of the rubber tree. Turning with a shy smile, she said, “I just finishing.”
Jenna returned the smile. “It looks good.” Having eaten nothing since before her visit to Dr. Gold, she was starving.
After the hypnosis session, followed by the terrifying experience of blanking out at the intersection, food had been the last thing on her mind.
Salivating over the wedge of brie and cracker, the hardboiled egg and grapes, she sat at her desk and snapped the plastic lid off her protein plate.
The plant lady’s broken English interrupted. “Uhn, lady, you wan’ me to water with thees thing in here?”
Jenna put down the egg and swiveled her chair to face the woman, who was in a squat at the base of the rubber tree plant.
“What thing?”
The woman pointed. “Aqui esta.”
Jenna searched her head for Spanish words, but if she had known the language before, it had disappeared with everything else. “Uh, what is it?”
Apparently not having any more English than Jenna had Spanish, the woman gave her a blank smile and said, “Oh, okay.” She collected her gardening tools and said a cheery goodbye.
Jenna got up and closed the office door behind her. Curious, she parted the glossy leaves near the bottom of the rubber tree. The corner of a plastic bag stuck up from the soil. Her stomach tightened uneasily. The bag was effectively hidden unless you were looking for it. Or you were trying to water the plant.
Oh, Jesus, am I a drug dealer and this is where I hide my stash?
Dealing drugs could explain the two driver’s licenses in different names.
Heedless of the soil that caked under her fingernails, she excavated the bag and tugged it out of its hiding place.
Not drugs.
A flash drive—a one-inch long portable storage device that plugged into the USB port of a computer. It was in her office, it seemed logical to assume that she must have been responsible for burying it.