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“I’m not saying you are, but from what I’ve picked up, that’s Jane Whaley’s story line. That you pressured Chris to give you money in exchange for not revealing that he’d had a fling with you, and perhaps specific, even sordid details about your night together. Because otherwise—and I assure you this isn’tmespeaking—why would he leave his entire trust to you?”
That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it, or should I say the three-and-a-half-million one, and I don’t have an answer for it. But I certainly know it has nothing to do with me threatening to expose our encounter.
“Thank you for letting me know,” I tell Kane feebly. My heart’s racing hard now. “So—how do you think I should protect myself?”
“My advice, Ms. Moore, is to retain a lawyer, and I’d suggestsomeone in trust and estates who also is a litigator. I’m afraid I need to jump on a conference call at this moment. Let me know if you have any problems reaching Ms. Wilcox.”
“Okay,” I say, and he wishes me a good day, which almost makes me laugh out loud.
I toss the phone on my worktable, and pace the small studio, raking my hands through my hair. Jane Whaley told me I hadn’t heard the last of her, but this is worse than anything I imagined. She’s accusing me of committing a crime. What if this becomes public?
Kane mentioned recent cases of women extorting money, so I grab my phone again and start googling. Right away I find four or five links to a fairly recent story about a struggling actress who reportedly slept with several married Hollywood executives in exchange for help lining up auditions, but after she ended up with only a few bit parts, she texted each of the men hinting that there would be consequences—and those texts were eventually leaked. The resulting fallout: her career never went anywhere to speak of and the men all lost their jobs.
As I click through different links, I discover variations on the theme, including stories about men who engaged in online sexual activity with strangers who then threatened to send revealing videos to their romantic partners if they didn’t pay up. The FBI even uses a specific word for this type of blackmail:sextortion.
God, wouldn’t my mother love to see my name in the papers as a “sextortionist.”
I have to hire a lawyer, I know. But I don’t have a clue where I’d find one with the expertise Kane’s suggesting, and whom I can afford right now.
My stepfather, David Severson, is a midlevel insurance executive in Hartford, and from what I recall, one of his pickleball buddies is a lawyer. Maybe that guy could recommend someone in New York.But I dismiss that thought a second after it surfaces. Though David has always been kind to me, even after what happened to Chloe, engaging him would mean my mother would have to be in the loop about the inheritance, and I have no intention of telling her about it, at least right now.
Perhaps I should have asked Kane for a recommendation. It might even be good to have an attorney from Scarsdale representing me. But I’m not sure whether or not I can trust him after what happened with Jane Whaley.
I suddenly think of Mikoto. She mentioned she’s a second-year law student, and though I certainly don’t want to be beholden to her, she might at least be able to give me some names. I shoot her a brief text, asking if I can steal five minutes of her time.
And before doing anything else, I call Ava Wilcox, because it seems smart not to wait another second on that front. Isn’t possession supposed to be nine-tenths of the law or something? It might help if I can secure the trust sooner rather than later.
She answers the phone herself, sounding possibly middle-aged and very no-nonsense. I start to tell her who I am, but she cuts me off. “Yes, how do you do,” she says. “Mr. Kane mentioned you’d probably be getting in touch today.”
“Thanks for taking my call. I was hoping that you could tell me what comes next. Is there something I’m supposed to do?”
“Yes, there’s paperwork that has to be filled out on your end. If you provide me with your email address, I can have my office send it to you—though it might be at least a few days.”
Her tone is on the cool side, and I wonder if that’s simply her being a banker or if she’s privy to the details of Jane’s theory and has already passed judgment on me.
“And once I complete the paperwork, how long before I can expect the—the assets to be transferred to me?”
She clears her throat, and I swear she’s tempted to say,Not sofast, sweetheart.
“That’s going to take some time,” she tells me instead. “First, we need to determine that the trust was properly exercised. We also need to receive releases from Mr. Whaley’s descendants, since they are potential beneficiaries. It’s critical to make sure that no one has plans to contest this.”
The wordcontestmakes my stomach clutch. I briefly wonder if I should tell her what’s going on with Jane Whaley, but I decide not to put any ideas in her head.
“All right,” I say, sounding far meeker that I’d like. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”
I smother a wail as I disconnect. The money is seeming more and more out of reach. Ihaveto get a lawyer.
Feeling claustrophobic inside the studio, I’m tempted at that moment to lock up and leave. But my only options are to wander the East Village or sit at home and watch Tuna lick her way to a fresh fur ball, and neither will quell my unease. Better to stick with my original plan to clean. The physical activity might help me burn off some of my anxiety.
After wresting open both windows to let in fresh air, I start rounding up various art supplies—paint brushes, scissors, craft knives, and glue sticks—that I’d left scattered on every surface while finishing the last collage. Some go in plastic storage boxes, others into the couple of antique coffee cans I keep on the counter. Once I’ve finished tidying, I wash the worktable and counter with a sponge, Windex the windows, then clean the floor as best I can with wet paper towels.
Though the studio has a shabbiness that elbow grease can’t fix, it’s a relief to see it clean, to have turned down the volume of visual noise for when I start on my next piece. I fill the electric kettle on the counter and make a cup of tea, then I grab the plastic bin whereI store items I’ve collected for my collages. It’s time to go through and curate.
There are some intriguing items in there, including a few that might work for my next project. Though my idea’s still rough, I think I want to do a series about destinations I’ve dreamed of traveling to but so far haven’t had much hope of seeing, and I want to make them even more exotic than the real thing, let my imagination completely off the leash. I grab a notebook and start sketching, playing with a few ideas.
I end up lost in my task, and when I finally check the time, I see that it’s nearly six o’clock and I should head out. Mikoto still hasn’t responded to my text, I see.
I store the items that might work for the next collage in a separate plastic box, return everything else to the storage bin, and pack up my cleaning supplies. Before departing, I make a run to the ladies’ room down the hall, one of my least favorite places on the planet. With its grimy white subway tiles, ancient fixtures, and rusted sinks, it could get freelance work as a set for a film about a 1950s insane asylum. Per usual, there are no paper towels and I end up drying my hands on the sides of my jeans.
