"I take it you remember what my occupation is." I smiled warmly.
She nodded. "If memory serves."
But as I launched a new Web browser on my laptop and navigated to the last page viewed, I had to wonder if I even knew what my occupation was. Part of me wanted to continue doing exactly what I had been doing. Reinitiate my quest. Pick up exactly where I had left off and pretend that I never left. Encountering someone like Jamie Richards was certainly enough to make it feel like more than just a viable option. And the less-than-subtle, very personal reminder that those types of men are still out there made me want to continue my fight against them even more.
But then there were all those other factors.
The secrets I would have to continue to keep from the people I love and everyone I meet on the street. The lies I would have to keep telling them.
"Well, my family doesn't know anything about it," I continued to Anne.
She studied me with distrust. "I would assume as much."
I turned the laptop around so the screen faced her. And then I gave her ample time to take in the entire essence of what was now sitting in front of her before I blankly added, "Your husband put it up. About a week after he failed his assignment. And he refuses to take it down."
I watched as her eyes quietly scanned the page, and then a sly smile appeared across her lips.
In that moment my hope sank. I knew immediately that she was mocking me. Quietly triumphing in my misfortune. And even though I knew she blamed me for all the wrong reasons, I couldn't blame her.
The heart heals in different ways. But I guess the most important thing is that it heals at all.
I nodded knowingly and slowly shut the lid of my laptop, placing it back in my briefcase. "Well, sorry to take up your time. I'll let you get back to your day."
I slid my handbag strap over my shoulder and rose from my seat in a quiet surrender. I should have known it was a long shot.
"Wait." Anne stopped me.
I turned back around. "Yes?"
"You still haven't told me what you want me to do." Her tone revealed nothing. It remained blank, detached, and completely void of compassion.
But my spirits lifted in spite of it. "Well," I began, standing awkwardly in the center of the living room. "I don't have any sort of leverage. I have nothing to bargain with. I know you said that Mr. Jacobs's reputation is very important to him, and so I thought that maybe..." I let my voice trail off, hoping that I had said enough. That the implication was there and I wouldn't ever have to say the very words that I wanted to say: I need some dirt on your husband.
And then, as if our earlier conversation had never even taken place, Anne tossed me a vacant glance and said, "I'm sorry. I'm really not sure what you're referring to."
I uncomfortably shifted my weight, standing in the middle of the living room – halfway to her, and halfway to the door, wondering if I had just received my cue to exit.
I opened my mouth to speak, not quite sure what was supposed to come out – or if anything even would. But before my scattered thoughts could begin to form into a sentence that, for once in the last two days, didn't begin with the word "Um," Anne's lips slowly curled up into a cunning and deliciously wicked smile. The kind you would only see on the faces of witches and evil sorceresses in your favorite childhood movie.
"But I do have something you might find interesting," she said at last.
33
Beware of the Ides of March
"I SEE you've decided to come back and pay me a little visit," Raymond Jacobs said smugly, as I stepped into his large corner office once again and took a seat on the all-too-familiar couch across from his desk.
I nodded, keeping my head low.
"And to what do I owe the honor of this visit? Reconsidered my offer, I hope."
I lifted my head slowly, looking demure, unsure of myself, and completely defeated. "I...um," I began timidly. "I can't take it anymore. The Web site, the e-mail forwards, the letters to my niece..." My voice trailed off, the painful memory of Hannah's questioning face too much for me to handle.
He smiled and rose to his feet. "I agree," he said, nodding his head sympathetically. "It's too much. Maybe I went a little overboard."
My eyebrows raised hopefully as I watched him walk over to the small bar tucked in the corner and pour himself a glass of clear, syrupy liquid. "Drink?" he asked.
I shook my head. "No, thank you."
He nodded, and with drink in hand walked around his desk and leaned assuredly against the edge of it. "So what do you propose we do about it, then?" Raymond asked, seemingly delighted to finally be on my side. To finally have us both on the same page.
"You could just take the Web site down and leave me alone?" I suggested softly.
He considered this option as he took a sip of his drink. "Yes, I suppose I could do that," he offered thoughtfully. "But honestly I don't know if that's the best option. I mean, it certainly is an option. But it feels somewhat incomplete to me."
He was enjoying this. That much was clear. He knew he still had the upper hand in this negotiation and that made him happy. After all, it was a hand he had grown accustomed to having. Raymond Jacobs did not become the multimillionaire he was today by settling for low hands.
"Why's that?" I asked quizzically.
He took another sip of his drink, and from behind the rim of the glass, his eyes flashed me a creepy smile. His face gave away the bitter taste of his cocktail as he willfully swallowed it down. Then, with his hand still wrapped around the glass, he stretched out his index finger and pointed at me. "I'm glad you asked that."
He pushed himself off the edge of his desk and began walking toward me. This time his steps weren't menacing or filled with wicked amusement. They were gentle and purposeful, as if he were walking toward a small child who had gotten lost in a large shopping mall and needed an adult to help her find her way.
He approached the couch and I tilted my head to look up at him. He motioned to the seat next to me. "Mind?"
I nodded reluctantly, and then scooted all the way to the edge, my body practically wrapping around the armrest. He took a seat on the other end.
"So," he began, settling with his drink in one hand and his other hand resting on the opposite armrest. "Your question was: Why does your proposed solution feel somewhat incomplete?"
He was clearly playing games with me. And even though I hated him for it and it made me want to stand up, knee him in the crotch, and then pour his stupid little afternoon cocktail over his head, I played along.
Because this was the game.
And Raymond Jacobs was 100 percent certain that he would once again be victorious.
But what was so unbelievable to me was how a successful businessman, who had obviously created his wealth and power by making wise choices and playing off of people's strengths and weaknesses, had so blatantly forgotten the history of our relationship.
The story of Raymond Jacobs and the elusive Ashlyn had begun not with a victory on his part but with a defeat. And, therefore, he should have remembered that one of Ashlyn's strong suits is knowing exactly how to play along.
"Yes," I replied anxiously.
"Well," he stated, turning to look at me from the far opposite corner of his office couch. "The answer is quite simple. In order for a solution to be complete, it has to satisfy both interested parties. And your solution, unfortunately, fails to do that."
I stared at him, mouth open, exuding a sensation of absolute bemusement, as if to say, I have no idea what you're getting at.
He smiled condescendingly at me and even allowed a low guttural laugh to escape his lips. "In other words..." He transferred his drink to his other hand and then leaned deeply toward my side of the couch turned battlefield. "There's nothing in it for me."
THE PHYSICALLY and emotionally exhausted woman had returned to the living room with a large manila envelope. She stood before me, clutching it tightly, as if parting from it would mean parting from the
only thing that had ever made her feel safe.
I looked at her, longing to ask what was inside. Longing to rip it from her hands, dump the contents out on the coffee table, and riffle through it like a child searching desperately for the best pieces of candy from the recently busted piñata.
But I knew this process would have to go at her pace. And so I would wait.
"I don't know why I've kept this," she said softly, still holding the envelope close to her body like a shield. "My husband doesn't even know I have it."
I nodded, trying to look sympathetic and understanding, while all the while trying to keep my lips as tightly closed as they would go. Because I knew that one tiny crack would leave enough space for those persistently inquisitive words to pry my mouth open and escape.
She moved back to her seat on the couch, clutching the envelope in her hands. "I guess it always made me feel like I had something. Something that would protect me. Doesn't that sound silly?"
I shook my head insistently. "Not at all!"
She shrugged and eventually surrendered a nod. "Yeah. I guess it doesn't seem so silly now."
I smiled, the impatience boiling up inside of me. This had to be it! This had to be my key. The key that fit the rusty lock that kept me chained to the evil man's maliciously destructive schemes.
And then I watched as the woman's tightly clasped fingers slowly started to loosen. And her firm, securely wrapped arms slowly started to relax. Until I could see the mysterious manila envelope held close to her body slowly starting to be pulled away.
She looked at it as if she were saying good-bye to an old friend. Throwing away the security blanket that used to keep her warm at night, the only thing that promised her a way out from under a pile of rubble that had hung threateningly over her head for what felt like a lifetime.
Then she began to laugh at her own foolishness, mocking her childish desire to grasp on to something that had promised to keep her out of harm's way. When all along, as it would turn out ...she had never been safe. "Well," she said, extending the envelope across the coffee table in my direction. "Looks like you have something now."
RAYMOND JACOBS was quite pleased with himself.
He had successfully managed to lure this helpless little girl into his clever web of trickery and illusion. And I had without a doubt fallen into it.
And the reason he knew I had fallen for it was because I now sat on his red leather couch, feeling overpowered and lost and ready to give in. To lie down and simply accept my defeat... literally.
This time... he had won the game of chess.
This time... he had conquered the conqueror.
This time...he had made me feel small and helpless. Just as I had done to him. And he took every ounce of satisfaction from the triumph that he knew he deserved.
Raymond shifted his weight onto one hip so he could dig into his pocket and pull out a mangled piece of paper. From the inside of his suit jacket he carefully removed a shiny, silver ballpoint pen that he clicked to life with great fervor and pride. He then began scribbling words onto the piece of paper and handed it to me.
"Here's my address. Shall we say ten-thirty? I have an early meeting tomorrow morning, so I don't want to be up too late."
He winked at me as I hesitantly reached out and took the death sentence from his large grimy hands and attempted to read the illegible black handwriting
He smiled and stood up, offering his hand for me to shake as if we had just completed a successful business transaction and I could now happily go forth and produce, or build, or invest, or whatever it was we had just agreed upon.
But I didn't shake it. I simply stared at it. Then at him. "I think you're wrong," I said modestly.
He flashed an amused grin. "Oh yeah? About what?"
I swallowed hard. As if what I was about to say was the hardest thing I'd ever had to force out of my mouth in all my life. But in all actuality, I had been eagerly, breathlessly, impatiently waiting to say it from the moment I walked in the door. "I think you're wrong about there being nothing in it for you."
His grin never faltered. He was clearly entertained by my last-minute attempt to negotiate a better deal. "And what would that be, my dear?"
"Silence," I replied matter-of-factly.
A hint of confusion spread across his eyes, but he immediately shook it away. "Silence, huh? What kind of silence?"
"My silence."
His smug grin faded into a slightly irritated roll of his eyes. He was now starting to lose his patience. "Silence about what?" he grumbled.
But I had plenty of patience left. I had a whole lifetime's worth of patience in my vault. "About March 15, 1989," I stated simply.
MARCH 15, 1989, is what I read off the document that I had hastily pulled out of Anne Jacobs's enchanting manila envelope. And the reason I read that particular line of text first was because it was highlighted. Along with the ten lines below it. All offering the same seemingly useless piece of information – March 15, 1989.
"What is it?" I asked, my anticipation no longer kept inside, rather now written all over my face.
"Look at the highlighted lines," she instructed me.
I felt an overwhelming sense of frustration. I had been looking at the highlighted lines for what felt like an hour. And they still made no sense to me. I read through them once more, and then looked up desperately at Anne. "They all just list stock trades that took place on March 15, 1989." I studied the paper again. "Each for ten thousand shares of 'KII.'"
Anne nodded. "Kelen Industries Incorporated."
I held the paper up in front of my face. Of course! Kelen Industries! Raymond's car-engine manufacturing corporation. Honestly, I don't know why I didn't recognize the stock symbol when I first looked at it. I had seen it listed on several reports that I had read while doing my research for his assignment. But what was so significant about that date? And what did it matter if Raymond Jacobs had trade confirmations for buying stocks of his own company?
Then I noticed something at the top of the document. My eyes had been so attracted to the bright yellow highlights radiating off the middle of the page like rays of sunlight that I hadn't even noticed who the stock trade confirmation belonged to. Kenneth Pauley. That name certainly didn't sound familiar.
"Who's Kenneth Pauley?" I asked.
Anne sat back in her seat and folded her hands in her lap. She looked so at peace now. As if she had just eliminated a gigantic burden she had been carrying around for years. And now that it was no longer in her hands, literally, she could finally relax. "He's an old college friend of Raymond's. They got their MBAs together. Supposedly they stopped talking soon after graduation. But apparently" – she motioned to the document in my hands – "that wasn't the case."
I looked at her curiously. That's it? That's the only explanation I was going to get? That still didn't make any fucking sense. That still wasn't enough to march into Raymond Jacobs's office with and wave in his face. "Ha-ha, I know who Kenneth Pauley is. You're a dead man!" I still had nothing!
"There's more," Anne urged me, gesturing toward the envelope I had tossed down beside me.
I frantically snatched it up and reopened it, pulling out three more documents that looked surprisingly similar to the one already in my hand. Stock trade confirmation pages. All dated March 15, 1989. And all with several highlighted lines of purchase activity for stocks of Kelen Industries Incorporated.
But as I looked closer at the second page, and then the third page, I noticed one very distinct difference among them. They all had different names listed at the top. Lawrence Wilson, Gary Morningstar, Weston Davidson. "More MBA buddies?" I speculated.
She shrugged. "Some."
Why was she being so damn elusive? Why couldn't she just spit it out and tell me what these stupid documents meant. Why?
"Do you know what March 15, 1989, is?" she asked, possibly sensing my growing aggravation.
I shook my head adamantly.
"I'm sure you must have co
me across it in your research," she prompted, as if this were a final exam. My whole career, life, and happiness came down to this one moment. This one question. And out of the kindness of her heart, she was offering me a clue. Tipping me off to the exact page of my textbook from which this answer would have come.
I thought back to all the articles and annual reports and financial statements I had read about Raymond Jacobs. But honestly, they were blurring together in my mind with all the other articles and annual reports and financial statements I had read about every other man I had ever tested.
Car engines. I remembered car engines. I remembered that he took over his father's small engine-manufacturing company right out of grad school. I remembered one particular article that told the story of Raymond's path to success, and how he had managed to take the small manufacturing outfit and turn it into the huge corporation it was today. And how his big break finally came when he...
"Oh my God," I suddenly said aloud, my stomach doing a small flip.
Anne smiled. She knew I had stumbled upon it. She knew I had sourced the right page in my memory and had finally come up with the correct answer.
And like any proud teacher, she knew I would pass the test... with flying colors.
RAYMOND JACOBS staggered backward. I watched him intently, my eyes never blinking, my face never revealing a thing.
"What about March 15, 1989?" he said, desperately trying to hide the obvious terror that was filling his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said dismissively.
"Hmm," I continued, staying true to my mastered game of coyness and modesty. "That's funny. I would think you would remember that day quite well, given your obvious success and all." I nodded, indicating his spacious corner office.
He closed his eyes tightly, feeling the humiliation of an unforeseen, surprise attack. One he had never seen coming in a million years, but one that he would inevitably never forget for the next million.
"I mean, March 15, 1989, was a huge day for you, wasn't it, Ray?" I continued, basking in my glory yet refusing to outwardly gloat. It was much more fun this way. Playing the unassuming detective who would have never guessed that this man was anything more than just an honest, hardworking businessman.