A shrug. “Maybe. But I don’t want anybody else right now.”
“Why do you want me?”
His gaze skitters away. “Maybe because we’re both lonely. You got that big job, but I saw you there, and even surrounded by a hundred people, you still looked all alone.” He’s not wrong, but I don’t want to admit it. “Me, I go to work, go to the gym and I come home. I don’t like a lot of other people. But sometimes that gets lonely too.
“So,” he continues, fidgeting slightly, “if you want to do this, I’ll promise that all that revenge stuff is in the past, and you promise not to take off in the middle of the night.”
I glance at him, guilty and hesitant.
“We’re different now,” he adds. “We’re not stupid kids, we know we’re not going to fall in love and live happily ever after. When you want out, you can go. Anytime. Just tell me to my face, don’t sneak off.”
“What about when you want out?”
“You planning to hide my keys?”
“Your bus fare, maybe.”
That big hand squeezes my knee, tight. “Whaddya say—we got a deal?”
I picture young Dean, lying next to me in the double-wide. Whaddya say—you wanna be my girlfriend, or what?
“This is so romantic.”
“I do what I can.” He stares at me, waiting, serious.
I’ve negotiated hundreds of contracts, faced off against a lot of intimidating men. But I’ve never felt as strongly about something as I do about this; none of those contracts would affect my life when I left the office, none of them offered something I so desperately and irrationally wanted.
“Deal,” I say, glancing at him.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, then.” Dean pushes me back onto the bed. “Let’s be lonely together.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jose and I are waiting in the garage next to the small fleet of company cars when Parker arrives at exactly seven o’clock the next morning. I’m holding the coffee and cinnamon bun Dean insisted on buying despite my protests, and I don’t tell Parker he wasn’t the intended recipient when he gleefully accepts my breakfast before climbing in.
“To the doldrums,” Parker intones as we exit the parking garage and begin the familiar trip to Camden.
“Doldrums isn’t a place,” I say, watching the waking city zip by. “It’s more a state of being.”
“That’s what I meant. Our spirits are going to the doldrums.”
I laugh.
Parker flips open the folder on Martin Lucas, our first interview of the day. He’s one of the people whose blood work Sonia Wheeler had stolen, and his tests found a whopping five milligrams of perchlorodibenzene per liter of blood. That’s two milligrams more than Hector Nunes, who will spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. The fact that Martin Lucas is alive at all is a wonder, though I really have no idea what we’ll find when we finally meet him face-to-face.
We’d sifted through our half of the BioShare results and sorted them accordingly, aiming to start our interviews with the most potentially serious cases and working our way down. Martin Lucas ranked at the top of that list but had been nearly impossible to reach by phone. Only after five days of calling did the tenacious Belinda finally get through and convince him to meet with us.
“You sure this is it?” Parker asks, peering doubtfully out the window when we arrive.
I double-check the address and lean over him to look, frowning. “That’s what it says here,” I reply. “4150 Ashburn Street.”
Ashburn Street is located at the very edge of Camden, on the side closest to the city. It’s a relatively new development, with small cookie-cutter houses with well-kept postage-stamp front lawns with minivans parked in front of each one. Yards are dotted with sprinklers, bicycles and the occasional shrub—all in all, it’s decidedly normal. Nice, even.
For this reason, 4150 Ashburn Street is something of an anomaly. Not only is it nice, it’s extremely nice. While most of the homes here are single-story bungalows, Martin Lucas’s house has a second floor that is an obvious recent addition. The lower half of the house is brick, like most of its neighbors, while the top floor boasts pristine white siding with bright red shutters flanking the windows.
If it wasn’t in Camden, the house wouldn’t turn heads. If it wasn’t owned by thirty-nine-year-old Martin Lucas, whose most recent income tax return showed that he hadn’t worked in five years, collected minimal unemployment insurance and lived alone, it wouldn’t raise eyebrows.
Like Hector Nunes and many other former Fowler employees, Martin had filed a disability claim against the company, but had never followed up. To the best of our knowledge, he hasn’t earned a dime since leaving Fowler, yet he somehow owns the nicest house on the block.
We get out of the car, head up to the front door and ring the bell. I hear it chime inside, but there’s no answer, not even when I press it two more times. Parker and I exchange a look and tiptoe around the house, finding a beautifully landscaped backyard, but no Martin.
Eventually we give up and return to the car, where Parker tries calling again, jumping in surprise when he gets an answer. “Hello, Martin?” he begins in his best lawyer voice. “This is Parker Finch from Sterling, Morgan & Haines. How are you this morning?” A pause. “Uh-huh. We’re actually at your beautiful house right now. Did you remember our—” A longer pause. I can hear Martin speak, but can’t make out the words. “May I ask why?” More indistinct words. I don’t need to know what’s being said to know that it’s not good. “Let’s reschedule,” Parker suggests smoothly. “There’s no need—” He cuts off abruptly, holding the phone away from his ear. “He hung up,” he says, staring at the phone as though it’s an alien.
“What did he say?”
“That he changed his mind about meeting us. He’s not interested in participating in the suit. He wouldn’t say why.”
“Maybe he’s a bank robber,” I suggest. “That’s the only thing that would explain the setup he’s got here.”
“Well,” Parker says, tossing Martin’s file on the floor. “Onward and upward. Or eastward and downward, depending on your perspective.”
The second interview is in the center of Camden, more familiar turf. We’re a few minutes away when Parker sits up straight. “What the hell?”
Jose hits the brakes and we slow.
“What is it?” I ask.
Parker is momentarily speechless and taps his window to indicate something outside. I lean over him to look, and my jaw drops. Hector Nunes’s dilapidated house is looking noticeably better than before. The wheelchair ramp has been replaced, the broken rainspout has been repaired, there’s even a brand-new mailbox next to the front door. And perhaps most surprisingly, a gleaming new van is parked in the driveway.
“What happened here?” I ask, not expecting a response. I squint at the license plate on the van and send a text to Baxter, asking him to find out who it’s registered to.
Parker’s twisting his head this way and that, looking at other houses on the street, but from our position I can’t see any other recent home upgrades. But Parker has an idea. “Martin Lucas gets a new second floor and a new deck,” he says, ticking the improvements off on his fingers. “Now our friend Hector has a new ramp, new van—even a new mailbox.”
I nod slowly. “Okay...”
“Someone’s paying them off.”
My phone beeps with a reply from Baxter. The van is indeed registered to Hector Nunes.
I close my eyes. “This cannot be happening.”
“Fowler’s settling before we can go to court. They’re getting the big cases out of the way. Try calling him.”
“Why call when we’re here?” I ask, unbuckling my seat belt and climbing out of the car.
Parker hurries after me up the newly laid stepping stones to the ramp, now lined with rubber. We don’t miss these details, and when I knock on the door, I notice that the old lock has been replaced with a shi
ny new one.
Hector Nunes, at least, answers his door.
“Hey, Hector,” I say, smiling brightly. “How are you?”
The look on his face confirms our worst fears. “Rachel,” he stammers. “Parker. Did you—did we have an appointment?”
“No,” I say, still smiling. “We were in the area and I couldn’t help but notice the new van in your driveway. That’s nice.”
Hector’s eyes flicker to the van. “I—”
“And your new ramp. This has to be helpful. The other one didn’t feel very steady.”
“No, it—”
“And this new mailbox is really something.” I’m trying to sound professional and not betrayed, but it’s hard. It’s not even ten o’clock in the morning and I feel really fucking exhausted. And angry. No amount of five-hour naps with Dean can ease the knot forming in my belly.
Hector blinks, fingers strumming the control panel on his motorized wheelchair. I smile sadly when I realize that it, too, is new.
“Who?” I ask.
He slowly raises his eyes to mine. “He said he represented Fowler Metals,” he admits quietly. “That they had been reviewing recent findings and discovered they’d been using a product that may have caused illness in some employees.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He said a lawsuit would take years and didn’t guarantee anything. He could give me something right away to help with my...suffering.”
I glance at the mailbox.
Hector shrugs as best he can. “I couldn’t keep waiting.”
I know Parker is right behind me, equally deflated, but all I can see is Hector. He’s shrinking away from me like a guilty child, taking all the promise of Patient Zero with him.
“Did you sign anything?”
He glances away and nods.
“May I see it?”
He looks reluctant, but tips his head to indicate I should follow him inside as he retreats down the hall.
“Frick,” Parker whispers as we wait.
The interior of the house looks much the same, if a little tidier. It’s been aired out a bit and the curtains are drawn to let in light. I hear a muted female voice, then soft footsteps come down the hall and a small Asian woman appears with a basket of folded clothing. She’s wearing pink scrubs and smiles when she sees us, carrying on down another hallway, presumably to the bedrooms.
“A nurse,” I say in a low voice. “They ruined his life and now they’re trying to make it easier.”
“How much easier?” Parker asks. He breaks off when Hector returns, a long printed contract sitting on his lap. A cursory glance at the first page makes it official: Hector accepted a sizeable settlement from Fowler, including paid twenty-four-hour support for the rest of his life, in exchange for refusing to cooperate with any suits filed in relation to the perchlorodibenzene poisonings.
“Do you know if they’ve approached anyone else?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes water and he looks close to nodding off.
“Thank you for your time, Hector.” I back toward the door as Parker pushes it open.
“I’m sorry, Rachel.” Only one of his eyes is able to focus on my face as he apologizes, but I wave it away with a smile.
“You have to do what’s best for you,” I tell him. “You look like you’re doing all right.”
“I just couldn’t wait.”
“I completely understand.” I hardly know the man; why am I on the verge of tears?
“You can take that,” Hector says, when I move to put the contract down. “I have a copy.”
Of course. I should take this back to the office so we can read about just how thoroughly Fowler has screwed us. “Thank you. Take care, Hector.”
“I will.”
Parker and I leave, closing the door gently. The wheelchair ramp doesn’t flex as we walk down, my heels don’t skid. The stepping stones are smooth and level, making the trip back to the car slip-free.
“Those fuckers,” I mumble as soon as we’re inside the car.
“Martin, Hector...” Parker flips through the files to the list of BioShare patient results, starting at the top. “Victoria Chang, Lisa Ruiz, Walter Valley... We haven’t been able to reach any of the people at the top of the list. I didn’t pay much attention to it because we had the other interviews, but if they’ve spoken to Fowler...”
My phone rings. It’s Caitlin. I put her on speakerphone. “Good morning.”
“How are your interviews coming?”
I glance at Parker. “They’re not. Yours?”
A pause. “No. We’ve been to three houses. One’s not at home, and two are completely empty. As in vacated. We scheduled these meetings a week ago.”
“It’s Fowler,” I say finally.
“What do you mean?”
“I just spoke to Hector Nunes—”
“Patient Zero?”
“Not anymore.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I’ve got the contract in my hand. They settled.”
For once, Caitlin doesn’t have a comeback. “Fuck me,” she says eventually.
Who hasn’t? Parker mouths, making me smile in spite of myself.
Chapter Nineteen
We get back to the office at three o’clock. Only one of our four remaining interviews had agreed to meet with us, and the case wasn’t strong. Still, we’d signed her up for the class action, taken notes and smiled the whole time, as though our spirits really weren’t in the doldrums as Parker had predicted.
Baxter’s waiting in the garage when we pull in, leaning up against his garishly colored car. “Howdy,” he says, saluting us.
“Hey,” Parker and I mumble, depressed.
“Heard about the payoffs.”
He leads the way to the elevator and pushes the call button.
“Any news about the other interviews?” I ask, stepping into the elevator when it arrives. “Has Fowler fucked all of them, or is it just us?”
Baxter arches a brow at my language. “You’ve all been fucked. It’s like an alien invasion. We’re getting reports from all over the globe. Well, the east coast. And it’s not pretty.”
“Any idea how the partners are responding?”
“As you’d expect.”
We reach the thirty-second floor and exit, Parker and I heading to his office, Baxter disappearing down the hall to do whatever it is he does. I flop onto Parker’s couch and resist the urge to wrap myself in his cozy homemade afghan and sleep, instead sitting primly, as though today’s news wasn’t a major emotional setback.
We spend the next four hours consulting with the associates in the other states, all of whom have had the same shitty morning. Fowler laid in wait, plotted carefully, then struck all at once, deftly settling the most serious cases. There were a few holdouts, mostly the families of people who had died from their exposure to the perchlorodibenzene and saw more value in punishing Fowler than taking the money up front, but not many. If I have to say one nice thing about Fowler, it’s that they’re being surprisingly generous with the settlements.
Lee Haines is reassessing the case and coming up with a new plan, a decision that leaves everybody who’s been working on the case for months in jeopardy.
At seven fifteen Parker hangs up the phone, having followed up with the interviews we’d already completed, determining who Fowler bought off and who remained in our class action. “And that one’s gone,” he says, drawing a line through the next name on his list. The paper is, sadly, full of crossed-out names. Even sadder still, I have a similar paper in front of me.
“We’re twins,” I crack, holding up my tattered page.
Parker high-fives me without his usual enthusiasm. “Hungry?” he asks.
“Starving.”
He reaches into his desk drawer to pull out a handful of our favorite takeout menus, fanning them for me to take my pick. “We’ve got Thai,” he announces, like a carnival barker. “We’ve got Chinese, Mexican, Japanese, Vietnamese, Italian.”
“Hmm,” I muse.
“You’d better order fast before Fowler gets in there and buys it all up,” he warns.
I laugh and have one hand halfway extended toward the Japanese menu when my cell phone rings. “Sorry,” I say. “Hold that thought.” I dig my phone from my bag and glance at the display. Ten digits, no name. But I know the number. And when I glance up to find Parker watching me shrewdly, I remember why I haven’t programmed it in.
I stand up and answer, heading for the door. “Hello?”
“Don’t go on my account,” Parker says, folding his hands over his stomach and looking on with interest. I step into the hall and close the door as he sticks out his tongue.
“Where are you?”
“Hi, Dean.”
“Sorry. Hello, Rachel. How was your day?”
I laugh. “I’m at work, so...not terrific.”
“You eat yet?”
I peek in at Parker, who’s perusing the menus. “No,” I say.
“You know that burger place around the corner from your office? The one with the lanterns out front?”
“Yes.”
“I’m there now.”
I hesitate. “Are you asking me to come out?”
“You want a formal invitation or something?”
“No, just checking.”
“Then yeah, I’m asking.”
“Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“You want me to get you a drink?”
“Just water. I have to come back to work after.”
“Fine.” Dean hangs up and I creep back into the office, looking just as guilty as I feel.
Parker’s as astute as ever. “You’re bailing on me, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“He must be special if he’s pulling Rachel Moser away from the office.”
“Forty-five minutes.”
Parker puts the menus back in his desk. “Take as long as you need,” he says, standing. “Today was shit, there’s nothing to hurry back for. I’ll give you a call if the third doctor’s note magically turns up. It’s the only thing that’ll save us now. Maybe. Sort of.”
“I know it’s rude of me to do this—”
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