She hesitates briefly before speaking.
“Yes, actually, I did.”
“I never suggested you call anyone there for the podcast. I—”
“It actually wasn’t for the podcast.”
“Then what was it for?”
“I’m exploring an idea for a piece on Greenbacks, and if it pans out, I’ll pitch it to a major website.”
“But you used my name. That’s not kosher, Sasha. Not when it doesn’t involve me.”
“Sorry, but I was hoping you’d understand because the piece is going to be important.”
“Important how?”
“To be perfectly blunt, there may be something sketchy going on at Greenbacks—on the business side. I’ve gotten to know someone who works there and he tipped me off.”
My stomach tightens.
“Something sketchy how?”
“Are we speaking confidentially? I know you used to work there.”
“Yes, you have my word I’ll keep it to myself.”
“I hear they might have really inflated the number of accounts they have on the advisory side. Meaning they misled their investors.”
I’m stunned by this. It can’t be true. I was involved only on the content side, but I worked extensively with employees on the business team at Greenbacks, and I never heard so much as a hint of anything unethical.
But then again, that was five years ago.
“You’re basing this on the word of one person?” I ask.
“Yes, but he’s very reliable.”
“Sasha, I know you want to do more writing, but it seems it would be smarter to focus on pitching solid personal finance pieces,” I say, unable to resist giving her some unsolicited advice. “And save the muckraking until you have more experience as a reporter. But whatever you decide, please don’t use my name again.”
“Fine,” she says curtly.
I sign off feeling flustered by her revelation. Damien’s a rule bender, sometimes a rule breaker, but he’s got scruples. Or at least I always thought he did.
I bite my lip, staring out the window. I’d toyed earlier with going down to the East Village later this afternoon, but I need to put that on hold for now. I have to do what Erling suggested—relax, pause my search for answers, and sit in a café with a hot cup of tea. This also means skippinga promised trip to WorkSpace to discuss book research with Nicole. I shoot her an email apologizing for not making it in today. I add that I spoke to Sasha about not tossing my name around in the future. Before I can change my mind, I ask her if she’s heard any buzz about Greenbacks lately.
We reach my building and as I dash into the lobby, I notice it’s begun to drizzle. It hasn’t rained, I realized, since the day I resurfaced at Greenbacks. Autumn’s rushing by and I’ve barely had a moment to savor it.
I can tell something’s off the moment I step into the foyer of my apartment. There’s a light coming from deep inside, seeping into the dimness of the great room. It means a lamp’s on in the bedroom or den, but I’m positive I turned all the lights off before I left.
Then I hear movement, and the click of a closet door closing. Footsteps. Is a maintenance person here? We haven’t put in a request, as far as I know.
I lurch backward and grab the front door handle, ready to bolt. But before I can spin around and flee, I see Hugh saunter into the great room, cell phone in one hand and a water glass in the other. He’s headed toward the island but stops short in surprise when he sees me.
“Oh god, you scared me,” he says, setting his stuff on the island top. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“And I thoughtyouwere a burglar,” I say, after exhaling in relief. “Why are you home so early?”
I slip out of my sweater coat, hang it in the closet, and stride into the great room.
