Free A Dangerous Fiction by Barbara Rogan Page B

opposite wall. If he were alive, none of this would have happened. I’d been safe with him, for the first and only time in my life. “Does Molly know?” I asked; I don’t know why.
    â€œWe haven’t told anyone. Jean-Paul wanted to call Max, but I said to wait for you.”
    My lips felt numb and my fingers were icy. I wanted another drink, but I knew that would be a mistake. After Hugo died, I’d tried drinking myself to sleep every night. Whatever worked, I’d thought. In India, they give widows opium. I got pretty good at solitary drinking, but I quit when Molly took me into the agency and I had to get up mornings. Hadn’t missed it, till now.
    The phone rang and Lorna picked up. “Hamish Donovan Literary Agency.” She listened for a moment. “No, sorry, still out. She’s got meetings all morning. I’ll tell her you called. . . . No, I don’t know anything about it. . . . I will.” She hung up and looked at me. “Gordon Hayes. Wants to talk to you about the Animal Planet deal.”
    â€œWhat Animal Planet—oh God. This is a nightmare.” Slowly, so slowly, it was starting to sink in. I’d known from the first how devastating this disappointment was going to be to my writers. Now I began to realize what it could do to the agency. The victimized clients would blame me. I could lose them all. I could lose Harriet, too. Ever since Molly retired, that tie had been fraying; this could sever it entirely.
    I felt assaulted, violated, too shocked even for anger, though that would surely come. But Lorna was looking at me anxiously, and I felt the weight of the silence outside my door. Later, safe in my empty apartment, I would howl and curse and lick my wounds, but right now someone had to deal with this mess, and there was nobody else.
    I braced myself. “How many?”
    â€œBased on the gifts, the voice mail, and this morning’s calls, twelve.” Lorna hesitated. “Twelve we know of.”
    Of course; there could be others who hadn’t checked in yet. Part of me wanted to curl up in a ball under my desk. Another part of me smacked that part in the face and told it to buck up. Step by step, I told myself. That’s how I got through Hugo’s funeral, and if I could get through that, I could get through anything.
    â€œI need a list of the twelve clients, with phone numbers. Then a full client list, also with phone numbers.”
    â€œI thought you might.” She pointed to a file on my desk.
    â€œYou’re a godsend. Ask the others to stay in the office and say nothing to anybody. I’ll see everyone in a little while, including Harriet. Max may want to talk to them, too.” A thought struck me. “Were any of Harriet’s clients involved?”
    â€œNot that we know of.” Lorna edged toward the door, relieved, I suppose, that I hadn’t actually dissolved into a puddle.
    â€œAnd get rid of those flowers,” I called after her.

Chapter 7
    I Skyped Max. It was early morning in L.A. and he was at his desk, dressed for work in jeans and a graphic tee with a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge on it. Behind him I could just make out a large picture window with a view of Benedict Canyon. His and Barry’s house was a graceful concoction of iron, cement, and glass, cantilevered over the cliff at an angle that defied God and gravity.
    I’d set up my computer at the head of the conference table, where I usually sat. Harriet, Chloe, Jean-Paul, and Lorna sat in a semicircle around me, close together so Max could see us all.
    I filled him in. When I finished, there was a long silence. Max looked like he’d broken a tooth.
    â€œWe need those e-mails,” he said at last.
    â€œI know,” I said. “As soon as we get off I’m going to start making those calls.”
    â€œForward me the one you got right away.”
    â€œThat’s it?” Jean-Paul burst out.