Yield

  I might be falling in love.

  In the midst of the most fucked-up time of my life, I think I am falling head over heels for Cal.

  That is all.

  Love,

  Macy

  Chapter 8

  Macy is rigid as she sits next to me in my small conference room where we're waiting for the federal prosecutor, Deanna Switzer, to meet us. I insisted the meeting be here at my law firm, which I knew would help ease Macy's nerves, and I chose for Macy and me to be in the room at least fifteen minutes early. I wanted to her to be settled in, and I wanted Miss Switzer to feel like the stranger in the room.

  The news stories have started to die down a bit, the big excitement of the arrests over now. Macy's father and uncle, as well as the rest of the indictees, all made bail. Macy's father was obviously the largest at ten million, but not one of them got out of jail for less than six zeroes on the end.

  It would be at least a year, maybe more, before the trials ever started. Until that time, Travis and Luke Carrington had been suspended from their board seats but were still earning a salary. I expect that will end once the dust starts settling, but what did they care... they had billions in savings.

  Macy's mom finally stopped calling her. Her father, however, was not dissuaded. He knew Macy would be approached by the feds, and he tried his damnedest to have a face to face with her before that could occur. The day he made it out on bail, he had his driver take him straight to Macy's apartment.

  Luckily, she was at lunch with me and not there to have to deal with it. She only knew he stopped by when she heard the voice mail he left her stating such and that he would appreciate it if she would call him at her earliest convenience. She ignored that message and the eight others that followed. She stayed at my apartment the rest of the week, wanting to avoid her father showing up on her doorstep.

  Whatever went down in Brussels, it has her dad immensely worried.

  Which makes me worried, because I'm thinking Macy is the key witness to this.

  And she's not talking.

  God forbid Miss Switzer has evidence that links Macy to having knowledge of whatever went down, and she refuses to answer. If so, she's going to find herself in hot water. It's why Macy and I stayed up late last night and went over every possible contingent that could occur today, and I coached her repeatedly on how to answer the questions... yet not really answer the questions.

  A sharp rap on the door and it swings open. Janis steps in first, and then pushes her back against the door, making room for Deanna Switzer to enter.

  And she's exactly what I imagined a tough, federal prosecutor who I knew had been at her post for twenty-three years would look like.

  She's maybe five-five, so not too short, but she's rounded in most places. Her mousy, brown hair is styled in a bouffant-like helmet and then frozen in place with what looks like a gallon of hairspray. Her jowls hang down, her face sort of doughy. She wears no makeup and has on a sensible black pantsuit with black loafers.

  I stand up to greet her, giving Janis a quick nod that she can leave. Giving me what would pass as a smile I suppose, the prosecutor leans across the table and gives my hand a bruising shake. "Dee Switzer," she says in a raspy but clipped voice. "Please call me Dee."

  I can smell the stale cigarette smoke on her, and I bet she's the type of person that would smoke right at her desk in the federal building regardless of their no-smoking policy.

  Motioning with my hand for her to take a seat across from us, I say, "Call me Cal. And this is my client, Macy Carrington."

  Dee looks across the table at Macy and gives her a warmer smile than was bestowed upon me. She even manages to tilt her eyebrows in such a way as to convey an almost "motherly" type of aura. Which was a totally wrong move since Macy doesn't respond well to her own mother.

  "Miss Carrington," Dee says with sympathy oozing from her voice. "Thank you for taking the time to meet me. I have quite a few questions, but I'm hoping it won't take too long."

  Macy doesn't say a word, just gives a polite nod of her head.

  Dee pulls a recorder out of her briefcase and sets it in the middle of the conference room table. Before she can turn it on though, I'm shaking my head and leaning forward. I place the tips of my fingers against the unit and push it back toward her.

  "You're not recording this," I tell her calmly.

  Dee doesn't miss a beat. She knows better than to argue with me, so she just shrugs her shoulders and plops the recorder back in her case. She takes a moment to pull out a yellow legal pad, a pen that she clicks on, and then perches a pair of reading frames on her nose.

  "Alright," she says after taking a deep breath. "Miss Carrington... may I call you Macy?"

  "Of course," Macy responds generously, and I'm pleased to hear with a sure voice.

  "Lovely name," Dee says as she taps the pen on the legal pad. "As you know, your father and uncle, as well as several other board members of Quarter Mine and some of the members of Quarter Mine's accounting firm, have been arrested. I am the attorney who will be prosecuting those cases, and I believe you may be a witness."

  "I don't have any dealings with Quarter Mine," Macy says calmly.

  "Have you ever held a position at any company owned in whole or in part by Quarter Mine?" Dee asked.

  "No," Macy responded.

  "Have you ever volunteered or interned at any company owned in whole or in part by Quarter Mine?"

  "No."

  "Ever owned any stock in Quarter Mine?"

  "No."

  "Their subsidiaries?"

  "No."

  "Ever stepped foot inside Quarter Mine's offices located over in the financial district on Wall Street?"

  "Once," Macy says but offers no more.

  Just as I taught her. Answer the question and only the question. Don't elaborate.

  "And when was that?" Dee asks, not in the slightest bit perturbed that Macy isn't being overly forthcoming. She knows anyone represented would be prepared to handle the interrogation.

  "When I was ten years old," she says, giving nothing more.

  "And what was the purpose of that visit?" Dee asks, but this is a dead end. Nothing a ten year old saw or didn't see would be of use to her case.

  "I had the flu. My mom was out of the country at a spa. The nanny was sick. So my father brought me to Quarter Mine's offices with him. Had me sleep on the floor by his secretary's desk while he worked."

  I wince. Macy told me this story last night, because I had already asked her these questions. What kind of fucking father takes their kid with the flu into work with them?

  "I see," Dee murmurs as she scribbles something on the legal pad.

  "Have you had any relationships with anyone that has ever worked at Quarter Mine or one of the subsidiary companies?"

  "Define relationships," Macy requests.

  "Friendship, dating, sex... relationships."

  Macy was also expecting this one from our prep last night. "You mean outside of my father and uncle?"

  "Yes," Dee huffs out, and for the first time, I can see her getting frustrated with Macy's evasiveness.

  "No."

  "No relationships with anyone other than family?" Dee clarifies.

  "That's correct."

  "Let's talk about Brussels," Dee says in an abrupt change of subject. Macy's body practically vibrates with nerves as she sits next to me. I can see the knuckles on her hands turning white as she clasps them in her lap. "You went to Brussels approximately eleven years ago, correct?"

  "Yes. A family vacation," Macy says quietly, but she holds eye contact with the woman across the table.

  "Your mother and father went?"

  "Yes."

  "How about your uncle, Luke Carrington?"

  "No, he didn't go."

  "Was this unusual... going on a trip out of the country?" Dee asks, tilting her head inquisitively to the side.

  "Not at all. My parents took me to many foreign places."

  "Like w
here?"

  "I've been to Paris, Vienna, and Prague to name a few. Sicily for a few days. Oh, and Berlin."

  "Sounds lovely," Dee says appreciatively. "What did you and your family see while on vacation in Paris?"

  Macy just blinks at Dee Switzer for a moment before hesitantly answering, "The usual vacation stuff. Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame."

  Dee nods with an encouraging smile. "Oh, and what about Vienna? Did you get to see the opera house?"

  "Yes," Macy says... actually giving a small smile in return. "It was beautiful."

  "How about in Prague? Did your family go sightseeing there?"

  "Yes, we walked around the city mostly, looking at the architecture. My dad worked a lot on these trips, so it was mostly my mom and me going out shopping."

  "What did you do in Berlin? I've heard that's an amazing city," Dee asks, and in one moment of clarity, I know exactly what she's doing.

  "We saw the Berlin Wall, the Brandenberg Gate, the Reichstag building," Macy prattles on about her German vacation. I want to reach out and put my hand over her mouth, but it's too late.

  "And what about Brussels, Macy?" Dee asks sweetly. "Tell me all the things your family did while on vacation in Brussels."

  Macy's face pales, and she realizes that Dee led her down a very carefully constructed path. She stammers, "Well... we didn't get to really do much because my dad was working."

  "But you said your mom and you would go out on your own in those other cities," Dee supplies helpfully. "Surely, you went out and saw all the sights in Brussels?"

  "Not really," Macy whispers.

  "How long were you in Brussels?" Dee asks crisply, again changing routes slightly.

  "Three days I believe," Macy says meekly.

  "Yet, you spent a few weeks in all those other places, didn't you? At least, that's what the flight records show."

  "I don't know," Macy says with her face lowering... unable to hold up to Dee's scrutiny. "I'm not sure."

  "What was the purpose of the trip to Brussels?" Dee asks gently, and it's clear by the tone of her voice she doesn't believe for a fucking second it was a vacation, yet she's still speaking in a very polite and gentle tone with Macy.

  She's doing that because she believes she needs Macy and doesn't want to alienate her.

  Macy lifts her head and turns it to me. Her eyes are pleading with me to step in and do something.

  Leaning forward, I insert myself into the conversation. "Dee... I hardly understand why a vacation a fifteen-year-old child took with her family is important to you."

  Dee doesn't even spare me a glance. She knows she has Macy on the run.

  "Macy," Dee says, and I can tell she's switching gears again. "Do you know a man by the name of Emiel Coppens?"

  I didn't think such a thing could ever be possible, but I watch as it looks like every bit of life, beauty, and vigor gets sucked right out of Macy's body. Her skin actually turns gray, her eyes dull, and she seems to physically shrivel in on herself.

  My hand involuntarily reaches out... to her shoulder, and I can even feel the iciness of her skin through her silk blouse as I grip her.

  Macy's mouth opens but a tiny, mewling sound comes out.

  "Miss Carrington," Dee presses her. "I take it you know Emiel Coppens?"

  I become alarmed when Macy's eyes roll backward, her eyelids fluttering as if she's fighting to stay conscious, but they just as quickly open wide and pin me with a look so filled with misery and despair, I want to weep.

  "I have to go," Macy moans as she shoots up from her chair and starts rounding the table, dislodging my hand with her own.

  "I'm not finished with my questions," the prosecutor says.

  I'm already up and out of my chair, giving Dee a pinned look. "We're fucking done."

  "You know I'm not, Mr. Carson," she says with meaning. "She knows something--"

  I lean over her and snarl. "We're fucking done. Don't come near her again unless you have a warrant."

  Shooting out the door, I look left down the hallway, and then right, just getting a brief glimpse of Macy slipping into the women's restroom. I sprint after her, pushing the door open hard, and causing one of the paralegals standing at the sink to shriek in surprise.

  "Get out," I growl as I hold her eyes in the mirror. She scrambles and is gone.

  Then the air is filled with the sounds of violent retching, bouncing off the tiled floors and walls. I walk with almost-leaden feet to the stall at the end. The door is open and as I get closer, I see Macy bent over the toilet, heaving and heaving and heaving, producing nothing but the expulsion of pain and sickness. She holds her hair in one hand, the other shakily grasping the toilet paper holder.

  She retches again, then sobs loudly, and my heart just fucking cracks right in half. I've never felt such heartbreak in my life, and I now understand that there is real and true pain with it. I feel absolutely helpless because I don't know what she needs. I don't know how to make her feel safe or soothe her nightmares, and it's hard for me to fight a dragon I can't see.

  I squat down behind Macy, pull her hair gently from her grasp, and hold it for her. Her dry heaves turn to more sobs, until I finally just pull her up from the toilet and turn her into my chest. I hold her cheek against my heart, letting her tears soak into my shirt. Stroking her hair, I press soft kisses to her temple.

  Eventually, she quiets... goes still, takes in a quavering breath, and then lets it out slowly.

  "Come on," I say quietly as I pull back from her. Turning her toward the door, I put an arm around her shoulder. "I'm going to take you home. You need to get some rest."

  "I don't want to go to my apartment," she says, almost in a panicked voice. "My dad... he will--"

  "Shh," I quiet her down. "I'll take you somewhere else then."

  She nods, her own arm coming around my waist and clutching at me hard.

  We exit out of the bathroom, turn the corner, and run smack into Dee Switzer. She doesn't look pleased with herself, and she's not gloating. In fact, she almost looks sorry as she takes in Macy's red eyes and the way she holds on to me. If she had any question as to what our relationship was outside of the legal bounds, she has it now.

  "I said we're done," I tell Dee, keeping my voice calm, but also not giving her an inch with which to maneuver.

  "I know," she says softly as her hand slides into the side of her briefcase-satchel that's slung over one shoulder. She pulls out a paper folded into thirds and hands it to me. "I'm sorry, but I have to serve this."

  My gut clenches as I take the paper and briefly release Macy so I can look at it. My eyes scan the document, but I see the only two words I need to see.

  Forfeiture Order.

  "What is it?" Macy whispers.

  I don't answer, just put my arm back around her and lead her away from Dee Switzer. "We'll talk about it when I get you settled," I tell her.

  "It's not an arrest warrant, is it?" she asks fearfully.

  "No," I immediately assure her. "They can't arrest you just for refusing to cooperate."

  "But it's bad?" she guesses as my strides lengthen.

  "It's bad," I tell her softly.

  "Mr. Carson," Dee Switzer calls from behind me. I almost ignore her, but something in the tone of her voice gives me pause.

  I halt my progress and look over my shoulder at her.

  "I can make that go away," she says as her eyes flick down to the paper in my hand. "If she just tells me everything she knows."

  Chapter 9

  We're headed back to Warwick--to my parents'--and Macy didn't even argue. Before we left my office, I had made a command decision. Gathering work up, I put it in my briefcase. I took Macy to her apartment and told her to pack up enough clothes for a few days. She did this all in a quiet state, which I'm guessing is mostly shock and probably exhaustion. We then went to my place, I sat her down on my couch with a glass of wine, telling her I was going to get packed and we were going to go hang out at my parents for a
few days.

  She just nodded acceptance and took a dainty sip of Cab.

  She never argued with me once, completely putting herself in my hands to care for. That fucking touched me deep, but I also realize she may be so overwhelmed she would have given herself over to the hot dog vendor down the street if the circumstances were right.

  I have no clue what the fuck happened this afternoon at my office. I don't know a fucking thing about this Emiel Coppens or what the government wants from Macy. I can't fathom why a fifteen-year-old could be important to this investigation.

  But what I do know is that Macy was seriously disturbed when that man's name was mentioned. She was terrified and sickened... and I'm not going to lie... my imagination ran wild and I was, in turn, terrified and sickened.

  I'm so fucking lost over what to do for her, and she gives me no indication as to how I can help.

  Because she's been largely silent up until now, I've had almost too much time to think. To ponder. To play every potential scenario in my head, and yet I can't come up with a thing. I know the minute I get Macy to sleep tonight, I'll be Googling Emiel Coppens.

  But I have to put that aside for now. There's something more pressing we need to discuss.

  "That paper the prosecutor handed me," I start the conversation. Macy turns in the seat to look at me, and I try to give her a confident smile. I know it fails. "It was a forfeiture order for you."

  "What's that?" she asks, her voice merely puzzled rather than panicked as I know it should be.

  "I read it in more detail when you were packing," I say quietly. "It's an order by the government confiscating everything Quarter Mine and your parents and uncle own. That includes your apartment, as well as your trust fund."

  I expect Macy to bellow with outrage, but I think she's too far gone into shock to do that.

  "How can they take my apartment? I own that. And my trust fund? That's solely in my name," she asks with bewilderment.

  "Part of the government's case includes claims that your dad and his conspirators defrauded investors, and because of that fraud, they gained immense wealth. The government is immediately allowed to seize anything--monies or properties--they reasonably believe were ill gotten, so that restitution can be made down the road if they get successful convictions. The order claimed your trust is funded completely from profits your father made from Quarter Mine. Apparently, your apartment was deeded over to you from your father, and same theory... that was made possible with Quarter Mine profits."