Adrift

the data, trusted my gut, and decided in seconds. My fund’s performance suffered. It ended 4Q barely above the S&P. Hedging had been my secret sauce, but now I found myself over-hedging—on everything.
Cyr Martin eloped on his one-hundred-fifty-million-dollar yacht to avoid being brought in for prosecution. I didn’t plan on literally escaping. Becoming a fugitive held no appeal. Not to mention, I didn’t do anything wrong.
I hadn’t heard from Cyr in over six months, and if he ever did call, I planned to let it go to voicemail. But he wouldn’t call. To my knowledge, the FBI wasn’t listening in on my conversations, but he’d suspect it.
My blood pressure rose at the thought of this whirlwind of a guy ensconced on a boat on some aquamarine sea somewhere in the world. Basking on a lounge chair, with a staff to bring him drinks, without a thought to those he left behind to deal with the fallout of his recklessness. I could see it.
In my life, at the end of the day, he’d been an inconvenience. But in Malaysia, families lost their entire savings. Companies lost money set aside for pension funds. Futures were destroyed. Here in the U.S., many a family took a hit. A billion dollars didn’t go up in smoke without a lot of someones getting burned.
Meanwhile, Nigel, my trusty old boss, camped out in an extravagant Singapore hotel, gradually blowing any money he’d earned from what I was more frequently thinking of as the con. And me, the unlucky bastard who sold before the scandal exploded, sat here in meeting after meeting, attempting to prove my innocence by helping the Justice Department, all the while carefully walking the lines mapped out by Belman’s lawyers.
The snow flurries outside my office window intensified. The blur of white slowly drowned out the cityscape. The scene struck me as beautiful and peaceful, with a layer of irony. By tomorrow, that beautiful white would turn a dingy gray, and the snowplows would leave behind enough remnant snow to ensure standing, soot-filled water remained at the corner of every single intersection.
I wouldn’t be able to fly out tomorrow, but maybe I could on Sunday. The place wouldn’t be mine yet; no way could I close that quickly. But soon…
It had been months since I’d visited. Thinking of that visit and my movie night, I picked up my phone and tapped out a quick text.
Just made an offer on a place on your island.
She responded instantly from Las Vegas, the site of her in-person component of the restaurant management training. She told me she’d been spending all her time in the hotel, but I knew Vegas. I found that hard to believe.
Might not be my island for much longer. Might move.
???
Tell you later. Lease up February 28.
The island didn’t hold as much appeal without Poppy. Sure, I could hang with Tate, but being a third wheel all the time…no, thank you.
Where? Las Vegas?
Lol. Southport? Idk. TL8
I probably would have pushed for more information, except on that snowy day, in an office that felt like a ghost town, the human resources director tapped on my doorframe. She wore snow boots, jeans, and a fluffy sweater, a reminder that not only was it Friday, but there was about a foot of snow outside and more on the way.
“I didn’t expect you’d be here. But then I saw you were one of the employees who arrived today.” ID cards were required for entry. I hadn’t realized she got a report of access times until that moment. She reached over my desk, delivering me a manila envelope. “Since you’re here, I thought I’d take advantage of it. We would like for you to take a leave of absence. Before you say anything, it will be paid. But we expect the criminal investigation to be intense, and it would be best if you can focus on the case before you.”
The thin envelope didn’t weigh much. Whatever documents it held weren’t lengthy.
“I did nothing wrong.”
“This is not a declaration of wrongdoing. We believe this is the best course of action for you.”
We both knew that was bullshit. The firm took action to protect itself. And I was being left out in the wind.

Chapter 12
Poppy
We’re narrowing down weekend dates for the bachelor party. How is the weekend of March 12 for you?
I deleted the text, exactly as I’d done for his however many prior texts. He’d get the message eventually. Back in high school, saying no to Ben ranked right up there with impossible events like me hauling it up Mount Everest. Now, I might not be strong enough to stand up to him and tell him exactly what I thought, but I could press delete with the unshakeable finesse of an eye liner pro.
Fresh from my Vegas extravaganza, I plotted out my to-do list for the day. Finance management earned top spot. Well, that and laundry. Las Vegas had been fun, if fun equaled sitting in a convention room that might as well have been in Wilmington.
A couple of nights, I ventured out with classmates. But for someone who didn’t gamble, Vegas didn’t offer much. If I’d had money to blow, I would’ve hit a few shows. Or a spa. The guide in my hotel showed photos of several stunning spas tucked away in ritzy hotels.
But, as Mr. Kraken liked to point out, we were getting a degree for our efforts, and therefore he expected effort. And no, Kraken wasn’t his real name, but that was the name I assigned the grim, middle-aged taskmaster. Other than two nights out roaming casinos with my classmate Jolene, my wild time in Vegas consisted of traveling within the floors of the Courtyard by Marriott Las Vegas. All our classes were taught by Mr. Kraken in the same basement floor conference. Maroon tablecloths covered the round tops set about as if we were there for a conference