Wishing in the Wings (4 page)

Bill nodded, as if he expected as much. “And just to clarify, Ms. Morris. Are you on the signature cards for any of the Mercer Project bank accounts?”

Signature cards? Like the ones you fill out when you first open up an account? “Um, no.” I licked my lips and flattened my fingers on the tabletop. “Why are you asking me all these questions? What exactly do you think I’ve done?”

Bill looked around at the board members, as if he were requesting permission from them. When both Hal and Mr. Ames had acquiesced with the tiniest of nods, Bill turned back to me. “Ms. Morris, we’ve been investigating some…irregularities in the Mercer Project’s accounts. With an organization of this size, we’re accustomed to seeing some fluctuation on a daily basis. The board called this meeting, though, and asked me to attend, because three of the Project’s accounts were closed out completely yesterday morning.”

Closed. Out. Completely.

The words seemed to echo in the suddenly too-small room. My stomach swooped, as if I were flying down a roller coaster’s steepest descent. The board was here. A lawyer was here. And Dean was nowhere to be seen. And money—apparently a lot of money—was missing.

Even as I tried to come up with a benign explanation, I repeated to Bill, “Completely?”

He met my gaze impassively. “Dean Marcus had authority to sign for each of those accounts. He could write checks on them, up to whatever amount he deemed necessary for the Mercer.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat was suddenly too dry to complete the motion. I had to be misunderstanding what Bill was saying. There had to be some mistake. “I—I don’t know,” I stammered, as if someone had asked me a question. “I— How much money are you talking about?”

Bill answered as if he were reciting some obscure clause in the Constitution. “Three million, five hundred thousand, twenty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents.”

My lungs froze. “Thirty-two cents?” I managed to chip past the ice crystals, incredulous at the absurd detail when the figure Bill had just named was a quarter of the theater’s annual budget.

He nodded curtly. “Thirty-two cents.”

I collapsed back in my chair.

Three and a half million dollars.

Dean was good with money. Careful. Precise. When he picked up the check for our dinners out, he tipped an exact fifteen percent, pre-tax, to the penny, because that was the proper thing to do. That was the rule.

I thought back to the Valentine’s Day we’d just celebrated. I’d really splurged. Dean had been working so hard; he’d been so stressed. I’d bought him the cell phone that he coveted, the latest model with more bells and whistles than I could even begin to understand. He had been as excited as a little boy when he opened the package—he’d oohed and aahed and made a big ceremony out of opening the box, extracting the phone as if it were some precious religious artifact.

Then, he’d handed me a little envelope. He’d printed my name on the outside in red ink, a color that might have been romantic if he hadn’t used it every day. His tight scrawl had set out the letters of my name, more precise than a typewriter. Inside, I’d found a gift card to Victoria’s Secret. Twenty-five bucks. Enough to buy one of the slinky lingerie sets that he’d been drooling over in the store window the week before. On sale.

I’d bought the Godiva chocolates on my own, telling myself that Dean would have gotten them for me, if he’d had time. Note to self: Insert long, boring story about all the other skimpy gifts he’d ever given me the entire time we’d dated—Christmas, birthdays. Insert longer, more boring story about the complete absence of presents for silly dating anniversaries. Dean was conservative when it came to money.

But three point five million dollars—that wasn’t even in the same world as Christmas presents, as eating out, as worrying about some overworked waitress left with a too-small tip. Three and a half million dollars.

And I finally understood why I was sitting at this table, why I was staring at the Mercer Project’s lawyer. I understood why Hal had made me come into the room, why he hadn’t let me leave when he’d made it clear that he wasn’t going to listen to my concerns about Crystal Dreams.

I was such an idiot.

Ten months ago, when I’d started interviewing with the Mercer, I’d worried about working in the same theater that employed my boyfriend. I hadn’t wanted anyone to think that I was some nepotistic little slut, dependent on my boyfriend to get me my job. But I’d let Dean convince me that the Mercer was one of the finest theaters in the country, the finest theater for me.

Eight months ago, when the Mercer offered me a job, I’d been pretty sure it was a bad idea to move in with Dean, once we were both in the city. We’d never lived together before. When he was still up in New Haven, his apartment had resembled a cleaner and neater version of the Crate and Barrel catalog. Mine had resembled Filene’s Basement. On a sale day. In the middle of the holiday shopping season. When half the staff was too hungover to come in to work. But I’d let Dean convince me again, believed him when he said that we needed to share an apartment to meet the high cost of living in New York.

Six months ago, I’d been absolutely certain that we shouldn’t share a bank account—not while Dean was still nickel-and-diming every waiter we encountered. Not while I was still awed by the generosity of my grandfather, who had written a four-figure check to congratulate me on pursuing my dreams and achieving my master’s degree. But Dean had argued that we would be functioning as one household—paying utilities, writing out checks for first and last month’s rent, settling into our lives together, forever. Dean was the one who understood money, understood finance. I’d let him convince me again.

I was such an incredibly stupid, naive, idiotic…fool.

I was going to be sick. I was going to cry. I was going to scream.

Instead, I realized that Bill Rodriguez had asked me a question, and everyone in the room was waiting for my answer. “I’m sorry,” I said, settling my palms next to the manila envelope that still sat in front of me like a placemat. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I said, ‘Do you know where we can find Dean Marcus?’”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

And I really, truly didn’t. He’d lied to me. He’d deliberately set me up, left a note so that I wouldn’t question his whereabouts until it was too late. Way too late.

Everyone stared at me. Hal was clearly angry; the tendons in his neck looked as if they’d been sculpted into his flesh. I could only hope that his rage was directed at Dean, not at me. A couple of the other board members had pity painted across their faces. Alicia Morton looked blatantly skeptical, as if she thought I could actually snap my fingers and make Dean appear, but I just wasn’t willing to try.

“There are computer chips in cell phones, aren’t there?” I asked anyone who wanted to listen. “If we call him, the police can locate the phone, can’t they?”

Bill nodded and said, “We’re already working on that.”

“I can go through his desk at home,” I said. “I might be able to find more information there. I don’t think he has any relatives; he said he doesn’t, but maybe…” There was a rustle among the directors, and no one would meet my eyes. I knew what they were thinking: if he’d lied about bank accounts, why wouldn’t he lie about family? About anything else? About everything else.

Bill spoke to me as if I were a small child. “Your apartment has been sealed off. The police are there now—they’re treating it as a crime scene. Once they’re through looking for evidence, they’ll probably let you back in.”

“Probably?” My voice broke on my incredulous question.

“It should only take a week or so for them to finish.”

“A week!” This had to be some sort of bad joke. The police never took a week to complete an investigation in the movies.

Bill shrugged, and his tone was apologetic. “If there’d been a murder, they’d move faster. As it is, they’re going to want to go through everything. Every single drawer, every last computer file. Financial crimes can be concealed in ways that murders can’t.”

“Great,” I muttered. It sounded like he was saying I’d actually be better off if someone had died.

This couldn’t be happening to me. I couldn’t be locked out of my own apartment. I couldn’t be worried about police going through every last atom of my stuff.

But with a final oomph of recognition, I realized that I wasn’t actually, completely, one hundred percent surprised.

Oh, I hadn’t known that Dean Marcus was a thief. He hadn’t told me that he intended to embezzle millions from our employer. He hadn’t dropped hints around the house like a naughty eight-year-old, hoping to be caught before he got into really big trouble.

But little things about the past couple of months suddenly crystallized, suddenly collapsed into place. Dean, logging off of computer Web sites a little too quickly when I walked into the room. Dean, pushing off my playful suggestion that we spend an entire Sunday in bed together, saying that he had to finish balancing books for the Mercer. Dean, zoning out while I talked about my pet projects, missing my words so thoroughly that he didn’t even hear when I started quoting from Shakespeare, just to test if he was paying attention.

I’d thought that he was just preoccupied. I’d thought that he was just being a guy.

But that bizarre—for Dean’s notion of bizarre—note on the fridge: “Gotta run. Don’t wait up.”

He just didn’t say where he was running to. Didn’t say how long he would be gone. And like an idiot, I’d waited up anyway.

My fingers tingled, and I realized that I hadn’t drawn a complete breath since Bill had told me what Dean had done. I forced myself to inhale, only to discover that my eyes were burning, stinging. I caught my lower lip between my teeth and made myself count to ten, but nothing got any better.

Slowly, methodically, I picked up my manila envelope. The motion reminded me that we had another problem—the rights issue for Crystal Dreams. But somehow, that matter had faded in importance, blotted out by the fact that twenty-five percent of our operating budget had evaporated at the hands of my boyfriend.

Former boyfriend.

I stood up. I sought out Hal’s eyes, only to find that he was studying a mess of papers in front of him. I looked at all the other board members, swallowed my relief that everyone had found something else to occupy their apparent attention, something other than me. Only when I knew they weren’t staring at me did I trust myself to speak. “Is there anything else you need from me now? Or may I go clean out my office?”

Hal met my eyes. “That won’t be necessary, Rebecca. You aren’t being fired.”

I steadied myself by planting a hand on the table. “I’m not?”

He shook his head. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Except trust a liar. A cheat. A thief.

Alicia Morton tapped a fingernail against the table, the acrylic tip making more noise than I would have thought possible. A quick glance confirmed that she would gladly have shown me the door. Made me empty out my office. Empty my office and my bank account, pay back to the Mercer what was rightfully theirs.

As if I’d ever seen a shadow of three and a half million dollars.

I swallowed the sudden acid that coated the back of my throat as I realized that my own bank account—the one I shared with Dean—might very well be as empty as the Mercer’s. “I—” I said, but I barely trusted myself to continue. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Hal nodded. “We will, Rebecca. We most certainly will.”

Bill Rodriguez cleared his throat and spoke before I could leave the room. “The police investigators are going to want to go through your office here, as well. I trust that you’ll help them?”

“Yes,” I said, pretty certain that I didn’t actually have a choice.

“And you’ll make yourself available to answer any questions they have as their investigation progresses?”

“Of course,” I said. I’d help the nice policemen in any way I could. That’s what good girls did, right?

And that was it. There was nothing more for me to say to the board, to their hired attorney. For them to say to me.

I could feel everyone’s eyes on me as I pushed back my chair. As I walked to the door. As I slunk out of the room where I’d learned that the past three years of my life had been a terrible, horrible lie. I barely made it to my soon-to-be-invaded office before the stinging in my eyes turned into a full flood of tears.

TWO HOURS LATER, I was still sitting in my tiny office, still staring at my computer screen, still trying to make sense out of how quickly my perfect grown-up life had come completely unraveled. It had taken almost half an hour of tears before I’d had the courage to turn to my computer. I’d offered up all sorts of prayers when I opened my Internet browser. I’d promised anyone who would listen to my silent soliloquy that I would be good, I’d work hard, I’d follow all the rules. I’d do anything, anything at all, if only….

As I pulled up the bank’s Web site, I interrupted myself. Surely, I was worrying for nothing. There had to be another explanation for what had happened. Dean was going to walk in any minute now. He was going to explain that there’d been a computer glitch at the bank, that the accounts had all been transferred into some high-yield something-or-other, that the Mercer was really better off for whatever it was that he’d done.

Gotta run. Don’t wait up.

The lump in my stomach got larger. And colder. And more absolutely certain.

When was the last time that Dean and I had actually had a conversation? He was always too busy, too wired from work.

Forget about conversation. When was the last time we’d even had sex?

Now, I was really going to be sick. I couldn’t remember a day, a night, not even a general sense of what had happened, when it had been. Dean was always too tired. He’d brush a kiss somewhere in the general direction of my cheek, tell me to sleep tight. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even bother getting up from his desk chair; he was too drawn to his spreadsheets, his graphics, whatever computer files he’d brought home from work, so that he could manage the Mercer’s funds late into the night.