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“They told me I couldn’t,” I lied, implying that the US Attorney had forced me to keep it from him. I cared about Josh too much to tell him the truth——that I’d suspected his girlfriend Brinna. I still didn’t know why she’d been following me around with her camera, but that could wait for another day.
After Josh left, I called Nick to thank him. “I am a piece of shit,” I began.
He didn’t hang up on me since I’d gotten the password phrase right. “I’m growing tired of that shit. How ‘bout I give you a promotion to douchebag?”
“Sounds good to me,” I replied.
“Is the show over?”
I looked out the window. “Sure is. The TV crews are packing up. Thanks for telling me what to put in the last bait note.” I’d argued with him, but Nick had insisted that I include a juicy trade secret.
“That was the only way to make this a federal offense; otherwise all you could do was fire the bitch. Eighteen US code eighteen-thirty-two makes trade secret theft a ten-year federal offense, and I promise you just a month in prison will be worse for her than anything you could have come up with.”
No doubt.
Nick had the personal experience to back up his claim. Two years in state prison had taken away a chunk of his life he would never get back.
“I mean, egging her house? That’s such a pussy move.”
I sat down. “How about you come out here so I can show you how grateful I am?”
“Kiss my ass, college boy.”
I laughed. “That wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“You couldn’t pay me to come out there. The weather sucks.” He had a point. Boston weather might be good for the northeast, but it didn’t compare to southern California.
“Later, douchebag. I gotta get back to real work,” he said.
At least I’d been promoted on the Nick scale.
Chapter 37
Amy
The dayafter Liam’s spectacular victory over the company mole, I had to face a battle of my own. Today it would be the two of us against the two of them.
My negotiator took my phone and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Do not worry, Amy. This will go just fine. The most important thing is to not react to whatever they say. Merely remember your lines.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“Trust me.”
“I do,” I replied, steeling myself for the onslaught.
The elevator doors opened, and we stepped out into the sixteenth-floor lobby: glass, chrome, and mahogany, the expensive digs of Maximilian Forrester, my ex-husband’s super-slimeball divorce lawyer. It hurt to think some of my money had subsidized this.
We made our way to the receptionist. The pretty young thing behind the desk put down her iPhone and smiled up at us.
“Ms. Hudson to see Mr. Forrester. I believe we have a ten o'clock appointment,” the old man intoned to the girl behind the desk.
I checked my watch; we were right on time.
“Please have a seat,” she said. “I'll let him know.”
We sat in the overstuffed black leather chairs——which had likely seen their fair share of nervous ex-wives——while the receptionist called back to the offices.
I crossed my legs and waited.
