Free A Dangerous Fiction by Barbara Rogan Page A

bad.
    â€œThere’s more,” Lorna said, breaking the long silence. “Check your messages.”
    Harriet stepped out of her office as I passed; her English complexion had lost the peaches and was all cream. She regarded me without a word. I went into my room and shut the door. The light on my phone was blinking and the counter showed six messages. I hit PLAY .
    â€œJo, it’s Marty. My God, I can’t believe it. Steven Spielberg? Call me—this is unbelievable—we have to celebrate!”
    The next one was hard to make out because of the crying. “It’s Edwina. Jo, you can’t imagine what this means to me. I’d pretty much given up hope. God bless you, Jo.”
    I couldn’t listen to any more. My head was pounding and there was an ominous churning in my gut. Except for a ringing phone, quickly stilled, the silence outside my door was deafening. Now I knew the shape of this disaster, but I didn’t yet know its scope; indeed I felt unequal to knowing.
    I am a coward. I admit it. When the ER doctor came out to tell me about Hugo, he’d hesitated for a moment before speaking. That momentary pause and the look in his eyes revealed all; yet he, determined to break the news gently, listed all the steps they’d taken to save my husband before admitting they had failed. And I let him stall. That is the point: I let him. I even interrupted with a cogent-sounding question or two, because I couldn’t bear to hear the words I knew were coming.
    Now the message light blinked on and on, and I buried my face in my hands. I’m not sure how long I would have stayed like that if my secretary hadn’t come in. She stood before my desk until I was forced to look up.
    Lorna is not an expressive girl. Molly once said, unkindly but accurately, that she has as much affect as her computer. But I hardly knew her now. Her back was straight, sallow cheeks pink with indignation, bovine eyes gleaming behind their glasses.
    â€œHow are you?” she asked.
    â€œBad. But not as bad as my poor clients are going to be.”
    She came around to my side of the desk, and for one awful moment I thought she was going to embrace me. Instead, she opened the bottom drawer where I keep a bottle of Johnnie Walker and a couple of shot glasses for celebrations. She filled one glass to the rim and placed it in my hand.
    â€œLorna, it’s not even noon.”
    â€œYou’ve had a shock.”
    I downed half the shot in a gulp and felt its warmth spread through my body. That felt good, so I finished it off. Liquid courage. There’s a reason clichés become clichés.
    â€œSit,” I said to Lorna, still hovering about me. “Did you listen to the messages?”
    She took the client’s seat and glanced at the blinking light on my phone. “You didn’t?”
    â€œJust the first few. What’s happened, Lorna? Can you explain it to me?”
    â€œE-mails,” she said. “Sent over the weekend. Each with some kind of offer, apparently. Each signed by you.”
    â€œHow? Someone hacked into our e-mail?”
    â€œI don’t know. They weren’t sent from any of our e-mail accounts. I checked everyone’s sent mail.”
    â€œHave we seen any of these e-mails?”
    â€œNot the ones our clients got. I couldn’t ask them to forward them without saying more than I thought I should. But there’s one addressed to you, too. Check your personal inbox.”
    I grabbed the mouse and logged into my e-mail account. There were a dozen new messages. I scrolled down the list of senders until I came to one named “JDonovan.”
    â€œThat one,” Lorna said, startling me. She was behind me now, looking over my shoulder.
    I opened the e-mail. “Can you hear me now?” it said. No salutation, and no signature; but in my head I heard the words in Sam Spade’s voice.
    I looked longingly at the Leibovitz portrait of Hugo on the