ONE HUNDRED WORDS

1

Damon Beckett had won the genetic lottery.

He knew—he knew! —he was Hartford’s most handsome, strapping churchgoer. Moneyed attorney for Baker, Beckett, Wolfe, and Schwartz LLP. One of St. Patrick – St. Anthony’s elite donors. Age 44, 6’3”. Alan David navy blue suit (custom, of course). Beside him in his preferred pew: lovely wife Kate, 42; two prized children: Ava, nine, and Noah, six.

Damon’s charisma dazzled important men and impressionable women. But 10:00 am Sunday mass was family time, his time, until 2 p.m. His phone, always powered off now: no calls, no texts, absolute.

Especially not from Jessica.

2

“Praise be to God.”

Upon the end of the Closing Hymn, Damon and his family exited the church along with the congregation. The sudden brightness of the sunlight was blinding—like his last visit to Las Vegas: intense, bright, overpowering.

Las Vegas… why now, he thought.

Outside the church doors, Noah asked, “Dad, can we go to Friar Tuck’s Tavern for lunch?”

Ava shot back, “Again?”

Kate stopped the argument about to start. “Yes, again. It’s your brother’s turn.”

They arrived at their BMW X7. A flat front left tire. Inspecting it together, Kate turned to Damon. “Look at this gash!”

3

The gash was nearly straight, three inches wide, and deep, as if a sharp knife had been plunged and pulled rightward.

Kate was appalled. “There’s no way this happened driving here. Who’d have the gall to do this in a church parking lot?”

Ava hunched beside them, examining the damaged tire. Noah complained, “Does this mean we’re not going anywhere for lunch?”

Damon didn’t answer. He never expected something like this. This was intentional. Troubling. Compartmentalize, play dumb.

Kate snapped, “No. We’re taking an Uber home after this is towed.”

Damon turned on his phone. 46 unread messages. Play dumb.

4

Damon acted calm, refusing to look at a single text message.

Kate was frustrated, but what could they do? Either one of them could call the police about the tire, but they both knew no local officer would take this seriously. They knew, from their years together to their social standing, that changing a flat on his BMW X7 was beneath them both.

Damon secured the towing service and then arranged the Uber, while Kate focused on keeping a restless Ava and Noah behaving properly. With everything in motion, he turned to his family—his mind on 46 unread messages.

5

Though 48 minutes felt like forever, the tow truck arrived. After towing away Damon’s BMW, the Uber came six minutes later.

Their nine-minute drive home was silent—even the driver.

Noah rushed out of the car to the front door, Ava trailing behind. Damon thanked the driver as he and Kate exited. “Hold up!”, she yelled to the kids. Damon followed, then unlocked it. The Becketts were officially home.

Damon informed Kate promptly, “I’ll eat lunch later, Kate. I’ll be in my office.”

He closed his office door behind him. His phone? Now 63 unread text messages.

All from Jessica.

6

“I AM YOURS!”

Jessica’s 63rd text had come in thirty minutes ago.

Damon scrolled through the rest.

“HOW COULD YOU BE SO COLD?????”

Again.

“LEAVE HER.”

Again.

“THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT. YOUR FAULT!!!”

Again.

“You could LIVE here w ME. WE can have a family. YOU can have a new family.”

Again.

“HOW DARE YOU IGNORE ME??”

Again.

“This is ALL YOUR FAULT!”

Again.

“Did you receive my MESSAGE? How did yr “WIFE” react??? Your KIDS??”

Damon sat at his desk, his pulse rising. He felt exasperated, a needle of fear sinking deeper. Jessica was becoming a real problem.

7

Late Sunday afternoon and evening at the Beckett household was typical. For Damon, reading briefs and legal journalism those remaining daylight hours, then dinner and a movie with the family before calling it a night.

Upstairs. In bed, Kate groaned, “Another day, another problem.”

“I’ll resolve it,” Damon replied, touching her arm. “Goodnight.” He fell fast asleep while Kate continued reading Ina Garten’s memoir.

The 5 a.m. alarm vibrated. Damon awoke, got ready, and arrived by Uber at 6 a.m. at his office in Hartford’s tallest skyscraper, City Place I.

A bouquet of dead roses lay at the locked door.

8

Damon opened the florist envelope accompanying the bouquet. Jessica’s elegant handwriting was succinct: “Dear Damon.”

Locating the custodial garbage chute on his floor – more familiar to him than he liked – he opened its door, slid the unexpected bouquet, note, and envelope inside, and let the door swing shut. He wanted no trace of this “gift.”

7:59 a.m. Always this exact time, Edward Baker, the partnership’s de facto head, entered. Mentor? Yes. Friend? Edward taught Damon early on, “There are no friendships in business. Even fewer in law.”

“Good morning, Damon.”

“Morning. I’ve got a 4:23 p.m. flight to Vegas today.”

9

Edward gave a knowing, lips-pursed smile. He quietly closed Damon’s office door and sat in the classic traditional leather guest chair on the right edge of Damon’s desk.

“Not a prospective client?”

“No.”

Edward nodded slightly. “It’s not a last-minute conference.”

Damon pressed back against his Maitland Smith desk chair. “No, not that either, Edward. It’s a compromised position.”

Edward inhaled, paused, and addressed his partner. “A compromised position… well, it is a rite of passage for attorneys like us.”

“This one’s different. It’s worse. It’s… persistent.”

Edward paused longer. “So, sounds like we’re having a conversation that never happened.”

10

Before Damon left the office, he called Kate but got her voicemail. Good. She was used to his last-minute travel plans for client meetings in cities or obscure locations that required serious, face-to-face discussion. It was all part of the job.

In the Uber to the airport, Damon checked for new messages. Not one from Jessica since her 63rd text yesterday. A miracle! This Las Vegas trip could be quick enough for an early morning return home.

The usual departure check-in and boarding. Right before Damon was about to turn his phone off, a text message appeared:

“Enjoy your flight!”

11

Then a second text: “We love you, Dad!” from Ava.

Damon smiled. But for a split second, he instinctively thought Jessica had sent that first text. She was in his head, unwelcome, since her barrage of texts yesterday.

“You and Noah be good for Mom. Love you too.” Damon turned off his phone. Until his return to Hartford, his family did not exist.

At Harry Reid International, Baker, Beckett, Wolfe, and Schwartz LLP’s dedicated, uniformed chauffeur, Louis Benoit, awaited him on the escalator floor. Their first destination, as always, was standard protocol: the firm’s exclusive Waldorf Astoria Las Vegas suite.

12

Upon arrival, Louis opened the firm’s black Cadillac CT-4, with five percent-tinted windows, and held the right passenger door. “Thank you, Louis.” “You’re welcome, Mr. Beckett. At your call, sir.”

No luggage. Briefcase in hand, Damon walked through the lobby, up the elevator, straight to the 43rd-floor suite. No keys, strictly biometric.

Everything was always prepared. Suits and clothes cleaned and pressed, shoes, watches, and cuff links polished. Opened liquor bottles kept three-quarters full, a half-dozen unopened vintage wines, waters, no beer.

In the safe: suite rental certificates, a Heckler & Koch VP9, and a full box of 9mm bullets.

13

Damon showered and changed into a Tom Ford button-down shirt and dress pants, all black. Santos de Cartier cufflinks. Black Gucci loafers and belt. Patek Philippe Calatrava Hausmann Ref 5296R watch. Charcoal Bonobos Jetsetter unconstructed Italian wool blazer.

He then sat in the Henri swivel chair, the towering Las Vegas hotels and thousands of lights illuminating his curtain wall view. Damon took it all in.

This place felt like his fifth home. Maybe his sixth.

He exhaled, grabbed his phone, and made the call.

Her voice answered, elegantly composed, smoky as a Macallan 18 Year Old 1997.

“It’s about time.”

14

Damon cracked a smile. “Julia, how are you?”

“I am doing well. Hearing your voice is better. Are you here?” But oh, her voice. Julia’s voice mesmerized Damon. He admired how well she suppressed emotion or vulnerability—a powerful asset anywhere, especially in Sin City.

“I am. I know it’s last minute as usual, and Monday too. Are you available tonight?”

A slight pause. “I can be.”

“Meet you at Zen?”

“Of course. I’ll be at our table.” The benefits of true exclusivity.

Julia understood and replied, “See you in two hours.”

Damon hung up, satisfied. Confronting Jessica can wait.

15

Precisely two hours later, Waldorf Astoria’s Zen Kitchen host walked Julia to Damon’s corner table. She wore a cropped black jacket over a black mini-dress and high heels. Damon stood as she arrived. Ah, glamour and professionalism--the best.

“Hello, Julia.”

“Hello,” she replied. That enchanting voice. The host pulled her seat. She sat gracefully, then Damon.

“How’s your Client EVP role treating you?”

Julia smiled, faintly amused. “The work never stops, but at least I control my schedule. I see you had the filet again?” Her wine glass mirrored his: Ghost Horse Cabernet from his firm’s locker.

“Readying us.”

16

Wine, conversation—Damon never discussed his family or work—and an hour passed. Julia sipped the last of the cabernet bottle from her glass. With her seductive smile and espresso-rich voice, “So?”

He smiled back. “Let’s go upstairs.” No waiting on the bill—that’s what accounts were for.

Julia rose, Damon mirroring her. His left hand entwined with hers as they left Zen.

Damon and Julia rode the elevator silently to the 43rd-floor suite. Arriving, his biometrics unlocked the door, and they stepped inside, still holding her hand.

Julia leaned back against the door. Damon seized her mouth with his.

17

Damon lay awake, satisfied, relaxed… alert. He would not sleep—not yet. He tilted his head toward Julia, quietly watching as she adjusted her miniskirt and put on her left high heel.

Julia put on her right heel, briefly locking her eyes with his. “See you next time, David?”

Damon replied, “Until then.”

She smiled, opened the door, and walked out.

Ah, two exceptional hours with Julia. Well worth the money.

A minute later, Damon rolled out of bed, naked. He pulled his phone from his blazer on the floor.

Now he’d text Jessica: “Just landed. Your place, tomorrow morning.”

18

Damon’s phone vibrated less than a minute later. Jessica’s first reply lit up the screen: “You’re here? Come over now!”

He placed the phone face down on the nightstand and slid back into bed. He already knew what would happen next: fifteen more buzzes over the next eight minutes before finally going silent. Unbothered, Damon plunged into dreamless sleep.

At 6:20 a.m. PST, his phone alarm jolted him awake, Las Vegas’ autumn sunlight flooding lightly through the curtain wall. Without checking Jessica’s or anyone else’s messages, he called Louis immediately.

“Hello, Mr. Beckett. What time shall I pick you up?”

19

At 7:20 a.m. PST, Louis opened the Cadillac CT-4’s right passenger door. “Good morning, Mr. Beckett.” Breathing in the crisp, clean air, briefcase in hand, Damon replied, “Good morning to you, Louis.”

Louis shut the door behind Damon, returned to the driver’s seat, and they took off. The pick-up time, mild weather, cups of hot coffee in their holders, stereo off: this always felt like déjà vu for Damon.

“Summerlin again, but a residence, sir,” affirmed Louis. Damon’s firm strictly prohibited GPS; they hired Louis as he knew every metro Las Vegas location, street, and address sequence. Only consummate professionals.

20

Louis pulled up to Jessica’s Summerlin house, a modest one-story ranch built in 2018, and parked by the curb. Damon locked eyes with Louis. “I’ll be no more than fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Louis replied promptly.

Damon exited the CT-4, briefcase in hand, walked briskly to the front door, rang the bell and then waited patiently.

The door finally opened. There she was: five-foot-nine, slender, with long brown curls, and dark brown eyes. Jessica smiled, her voice tinged with excitement. “You’re really here! Come on in.”

Damon nodded. “Hello, Jessica.” He stepped inside, and she locked the door behind him.

21

Damon turned, and Jessica wrapped her arms around him, pressing her lips to his. He pulled back sharply. “NO. Jessica, we need to talk.”

Her smile faltered. “Aren’t you happy to be here?”

“Sit down. NOW.”

Damon now walked briskly to the kitchen table. Jessica, accustomed to leading him to more romantic rooms, followed. He pulled out chairs beside each other and laid his briefcase on the table. Jessica, perplexed, sat as he mirrored her.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Damon’s voice rose. “Your nonstop calls, your nonstop texts, and now you’ve hired someone to get my attention? This is unacceptable.”

22

Jessica smiled impishly at Damon’s complaint. “So…?”

Damon was rarely dumbstruck. He was now. “So? SO?” He paused. “You’re got my attention loud and clear. But you’ve crossed a real line, and I want answers. Who did you hire?”

“What does it matter?”

“What…?” Damon was exasperated. “I want to know who else may know about us. And if no one does, I need to know who you hired, because my wife and especially my kids don’t need to be pulled into this.”

“Oh, Damon,” Jessica said, her tone treacly. “I love you. And I’m not going to tell you.”

23

Damon recognized Jessica’s resistance from many settlement meetings he experienced throughout his career. “Fine. I have other ways of finding out.”

He paused again. She smiled briefly, as if she had outwitted a captor.   

“You can’t do this anymore, Jessica. You know this. And what we had—it was fun while we had it but that’s in the past. You have to move on.”

“I don’t have to. I won’t let you either. You said you’d leave your family.”

“I did. We were in the heat of passion. I said lots of things. You shouldn’t have taken me so seriously.”

24

Jessica grimaced at his words—"heat of passion"—then chuckled. “You’re full of crap, Damon. You really shouldn’t believe the lies you tell yourself.”

For the first time in ages, Damon felt unsteady. Jessica’s steely intelligence—undeniable since their first encounter two years ago—was more formidable than he’d expected.

He quickly regained his composure. “I don’t lie to myself. I’m focused. I’m clear on how I live my life. I have peace of mind. And I don’t want you in it anymore. Simple as that.”

He pulled his briefcase closer, the movement as firm and deliberate as his words.

25

Jessica laughed, “Look at you with your TUMI Titanium like your security blanket. So cute.”

“Hardly,” Damon said coldly. He turned his focus to that lock and began flipping the first dial. Jessica interrupted, “Okay, stop.” He tilted his eyes toward her. “Damon, don’t open your briefcase. I don’t want what’s in there.”

“You’re leaving me with no choice.”

Jessica stood from her kitchen chair. “This is all your choice. You’re the one who’s left me with none.”

Damon stopped. Jessica walked to where a previously opened bottle of red wine stood on the countertop and swiftly pulled the cork.

26

She opened the cabinet, pulled out one crystal-clear, classically designed red wine glass, poured the wine briskly into it, and took a robust sip. Damon kept quiet. This was certainly not coffee. This was unexpected, even disconcerting.

“Do you have an alcohol problem I suddenly don’t know about?” he asked as Jessica walked back to the table, sat down, and sipped deeply again.

“I don’t. But if this is it, I’m savoring this for the last time.”

“Can you clarify?”

“I don’t want to live my life without you in it.”

Damon was taken aback. He inferred three terrible implications...

27

“Jessica, I’m heading home to live my life, we’re not seeing each other again, and whatever you want to do with your own life, that’s on you.”

She took another sip, swallowed the remaining red wine, then placed her empty glass on the table. A tear escaped her right eye, sliding down her cheek. Two minutes of total silence passed as Damon observed Jessica staring blankly at her glass.

Jessica took a deep breath. Leaving the wine glass, she stood up and walked to the knife block on the countertop. With another deep breath, she pulled out a chef’s knife.

28

Jessica turned toward Damon and stared at it in her hand, slightly rotating it back and forth to examine its blade. Suspicious and concerned, Damon asked, “Jessica, what are you doing?”

She did not reply. The chef’s knife now held her full attention.

Damon stood up from his seat at the table. He cautiously stepped toward Jessica; she stood still. His uncertainty unnerved him more than her behavior.

“Put it down, Jessica.”

A tear streamed from her left eye, then yielded to sobbing. “This is not what I wanted…”

Her sobbing intensified. She slowly pointed the knife toward the floor.

29

Damon stood still, focusing less on Jessica’s crying than on that knife. After briefly pausing to measure up her danger to him, He finally stepped forward and pulled her close with his right arm. As Jessica cried against Damon, his left hand reached for her knife-holding forearm and clutched it. “Let it go.”

She cried for a few seconds more, then slowly lifted the knife, “Here.” Damon took the knife at its hilt from her hand while still holding Jessica and placed it on the countertop in back of her.

Jessica’s crying turned to whimpering. “I am not sorry, Damon.”

30

Her words blunted Damon’s comforting. He withdrew his right arm from holding Jessica and took two steps back. “Why?”

Jessica, teary-eyed, took a breath. “I love you. You should love me.”

Even seeing and hearing this, Damon was unmoved. “Bitterness is not a good look on you, Jess.” He gestured toward the living room. “Let’s sit down and resolve this with dignity.” Expecting her to follow, he started towards it.

“DAMON!”

Damon pivoted instantly to face Jessica.

She was holding the chef’s knife again. “YOU did this.” In one clean, fluid motion, she sliced—decisively, deeply, fully—across her throat.

31

Blood spattered the meter from Jessica’s slit throat onto Damon’s suit. He flinched, taking two defensive steps backward as she collapsed lifelessly, the back of her head smacking hard against the counter edge, onto the kitchen floor.

Damon stood still, horrified yet alert, his mind racing to comprehend. He hurriedly looked down at his torso, then his left arm, and then his right. He grimaced. Another Alan David custom suit, ruined.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, immediately dialing Louis. In one ring, “Yes, sir?”

“Louis, back the car to the garage door. I’ll open it. Walk in. Now.”

32

Damon opened the interior garage door slightly with his left sleeve. He immediately found the garage door button and pressed his suited right forearm against it when he heard the Cadillac CT-4’s engine stop. Upon Louis’ first footstep inside the opening garage, Damon pressed against the button again to close it, then pulled his arm back, the interior door entrance ajar.

Damon stepped backward into the kitchen, his suit bloodied, eyeing Louis upon entrance. “We have a problem.” He watched as Louis spotted Jessica’s shapely legs, drizzled and speckled in her blood.

“This is what you pay me for, sir.”

33

Damon stared at Louis as he arced over Jessica’s body on the floor, blood rushing from the gaping cut through her throat. “I didn’t kill her. She killed herself.”

Louis calmly inquired, “Touch anything in here?”

Damon recounted, “Only the kitchen chair, the table. Her, of course… and the knife.”

“That’s the bigger problem.”

“Yes, it is.”

Louis pulled from beneath his uniform blazer a pair of black leather gloves and urgently put them on. “I’ll prep her for the trunk.” Damon kept still as Louis walked out of the kitchen past the living room and into the master bedroom.

34

Two towels. One king-size bedsheet set. Duct tape. Damon helped Louis wrap and tape Jessica’s body, then watched him execute a precise, thorough kitchen cleanup in a blur of minutes: blood, hair, and detritus cleared from the cabinet and floor; fingerprints wiped from the table and chair; wine bottle emptied and discarded; wine glass washed, knife scrubbed, both put away.

Two minutes later, they lowered her body into the CT-4’s trunk. Suit sleeves fully pulled over hands, Damon closed the garage door, retraced his steps—briefcase in hand—and, with his key, locked the front door, leaving nothing but silence.

35

Damon walked with his typically assertive pace to the CT-4, its engine running, and Louis, keeping to protocol—holding the passenger door open. He entered, the door closed, Louis re-entered the driver’s side, and they exited the short driveway—as if nothing had happened behind them, business as usual.

There was no need for direction; Damon intuitively knew where Louis would drive him next. The first truly desolate stretch of the Mojave Desert was just an hour south on I-15—past Jean, past Primm. Damon stayed silent until they crossed the Summerlin border. “Thank you for helping back there, Louis.”

36

“You’re welcome, sir. Thinking ahead, Mr. Beckett: your suit?”

Damn it, one more obvious problem. Louis was right—Damon’s suit was doomed. What a waste. “I’ll tell my concierge to have suite service retrieve a color-coordinated blazer, button-down long sleeve, chinos, and another pair of dress shoes. No tie. If staff saw me in a suit earlier… take no chances.”

“Makes good sense. Change on the way to the airport?”

“Exactly.” A few minutes passed; the scenery sparser. Another problem occurred to Damon. “Louis, how are we going to bury Jessica?”

“Peterman Lumber in Primm has shovels.”

“That will do.”

37

Parked outside Peterman Lumber, Damon watched Louis from the passenger-side mirror as he deposited two pointed-digger shovels in the trunk where Jessica’s corpse lay. Louis re-entered the CT-4 and started the ignition. Damon remarked, “That was quick.”

“Professionals.”

They resumed their sunlit drive south from Primm, deep into the Mojave until all signs of human life on and off I-15 disappeared.

Louis carefully eased their car rightward 80 degrees, exiting the highway. Off-road 75 degrees over ten seconds, he then maneuvered 90 degrees from the road, driving miles beyond where Damon and Louis could no longer see it behind them.

38

In the middle of this vast, cloudless dry nowhere—only sand, earth, and sparse vegetation—they began digging. Harder, deeper. Harder, deeper. In just over a long, sweaty hour, Jessica’s grave was ready.

Damon and Louis lifted Jessica’s bedsheet-wrapped corpse and dropped her inside. They paused. Damon somberly pronounced one brief, final rite: “When Jessica Abaddon was happy, she was remarkable.” Another pause. “What a sad, needy waste.”

Louis replied empathetically, “My sincere condolences, Mr. Beckett.”

They picked up their shovels again and, in faster time, returned the earth over her, completing her burial—leaving her desert grave unmarked, invisible.

39

Damon called Waldorf Astoria’s VIP concierge, Tony Greco, two minutes after Louis drove them past Primm northbound back to Las Vegas. The whole conversation upon answer.

“Mr. Beckett.”

“Hi Tony. Have suite service bring a navy blazer and socks, white dress shirt, chinos, black oxfords, and a belt to your desk. Louis will pick them up right away.”

“Right away, sir.”

He then sent two texts, the first to Edward Baker: “Issue resolved. See you in the morning.”

The second text was to Kate: “Typical red eye tonight. See you, kids tomorrow evening.”

Kate immediately replied with a concerning photo.

40

The photo was… of a Polaroid, Kate’s recognizable fingers holding it in front of their open mailbox. The Polaroid, clearly snapped during church, flaunted a long, jagged knife lodged in the gash of their BMW X7’s tire.

Her first text: “Who has a problem with you, me, or our family?”

The second followed instantly: “Who would do this?”

Damon’s mind raced through every possibility, then committed to his definitive conclusion: the person Jessica had recruited — likely paid — the tire, the dead roses, all of it.

He responded: “Culprit confirmed. Former client. I handled it. Can’t discuss. Won’t happen again. Ever.”

41

A brief pause, then Kate replied: “Better not.”

All other texts could wait. For the rest of the drive back to Waldorf Astoria, Damon and Louis kept silent, emotionless, rationalizing their actions, suppressing that November morning’s secrets into nonexistence.

After a quick automated car wash—not ideal—and a uniform change for Louis in that facility’s rundown restroom, he parked the CT-4 in the Aria Las Vegas garage and left to retrieve Damon’s casual wear. Damon stayed put. Twelve minutes later, Louis reappeared, request fulfilled.

“Excellent job as always, Louis.”

“I know a good place where you can clean up.”

42

Damon had removed his tie, bloodied suit jacket, and dress shirt before they arrived at a peaceful outlet mall. He hopped out at the curb, carrying his professionally bagged casual wear, and beelined to the men’s room while Louis parked. Not a soul walked by.

The restroom was clean, empty—perfect. Damon stripped off his dirt-caked shoes, sweat-dried T-shirt and socks, and ruined dress pants. He scrubbed his face, his hair, and the rest of his body with sink water, then changed clothes and shoes.

Damon felt revived.

Back inside the CT-4, he ordered, “Burn these.”

Louis chuckled. “Yes, sir.”

43

With that, Damon and Louis lightened up and chatted—their respective home cities, a proper Las Vegas baseball team, and holiday plans—on the way to the Harry Reid International Airport drop-off.

Arrival was remarkably easy. Louis pulled the CT-4 up to the check-in entrance. Damon grabbed his briefcase with his left hand, opened his passenger door, and stepped out. He turned around and placed his right hand on the top of the door, focusing on Louis.

“Thanks again for taking care of the cleanup, Louis. Enjoy your holidays and be safe.”

“See you in the new year, Mr. Beckett!”

44

Damon secured the red-eye connecting flight to Hartford; work made the long wait tolerable. Upon boarding that evening, he slept as much and as well as unforgiving coach seats would allow.

Upon landing, Damon took an Uber back to City Place I, where the comfort of his Baker, Beckett, Wolfe, and Schwartz LLP office awaited. He walked off the elevator into the men’s restroom, splashed his face to revitalize himself, walked back out, and entered the firm’s doors.

“Good morning, Mr. Beckett,” greeted Ansley, the executive assistant. “Rough trip?”

“Good morning, and yes,” he responded, then shut his office door.

45

Two pleasant, family-oriented months passed into the new year. Two days in, Damon’s January was off to an intense start with post-holiday filings from two major client acquisitions.

Edward Baker arrived at 7:59 a.m., Damon already at his desk an hour, office door open.

“Morning, Damon. It’s going to be a good year.”

“Yes, indeed. Our end-of-January billings alone will be generous.”

“I like hearing that. By the way, did you see this envelope outside the entrance addressed to you?”

Damon wasn’t one to miss items like that. “No. Bring it here.”

Edward handed it to him. “Here you go.”

46

“Dear Mr. Damon Beckett, Esq.,

My client, Jessica Abaddon of Summerlin, Las Vegas, Nevada, was also your client. As you know, she disappeared after the second Tuesday in November of last year. Ms. Abaddon has not yet been found.

Many would consider the payment she owed me for professional services rendered a considerable sum. To you, probably not.

I expect that you consider the services rendered to you as rendered for her. Consequently, I expect that you will pay me—with interest—what she owed.

I promise you will meet me soon… when you least expect to meet me.

Sincerely.”

47

The blank stationery with its printed threat tempted the angered Damon to shred it all. But he resisted.

He pressed his pointing and middle fingers against the biometric lock for the file cabinet installed in his bespoke Milanese executive desk, handcrafted from walnut and oak. That action briefly reminded him—repeatedly—of the yearlong design, construction, and import effort leading to this exact moment.

The cabinet ejected open. He slid the note into an unmarked file. Only he knew the documents that file contained.

He closed the automatically locking cabinet—the threat no longer existing, but his alertness immediately intensifying.

48

The day passed into the early evening hours. Damon’s exhaustion started kicking in at 7 p.m. Time to go home.

He packed his laptop, plus a folder of unscanned, originating vendor contracts to review for Heinlein Industries, their highest-billed client, into his new Von Baer briefcase to start the year off right. Like clockwork, Edward stood at Damon’s office door. “Ready, Mr. Beckett?”

He grabbed his Tom Ford wool overcoat off the coat rack. “Let’s go.”

“What was in that envelope?” Edward asked upon exiting the firm’s doors.

“A dust bunny thank-you note. Very appreciative.”

The doors locked behind them.

49

Eight evenings passed. Damon and Edward joined John Martin and Christian Minsker of Kaufman, Goldberg, & Associates, renowned accounting legal friends, for glasses of Macallan 30 Year Double Cask Scotch at The Hartford Club’s discreet Pearl Street speakeasy.  Edward called it a night, then Minsker. Fourteen minutes later, Damon and John agreed to leave.

Both stepped onto the sidewalk, streetlights piercing cold darkness. “Can I ask you a question, Damon?”

“Sure.”

“Keep this quiet, but Arch is looking to expand KG&A beyond the books. He marvels at your achievements.”

Damon understood, then grinned. “We’ll talk.”

They parted. Damon walked, intrigued.

50

Making his silent way to City Place I’s parking garage, Damon instinctively started suppressing speculation. But that possibility—BKG & Associates… He never worried about money, but if this was true and he accepted, the prestige alone could make this already wealthy man a very wealthy man.

Sunday morning arrived. The Becketts took their usual pew at St. Patrick–St. Anthony’s, where the Monsignor’s sermon called for respectable discipleship—a reasonable concept.

Mass ended. The family shuffled toward the church doors, clear blue sky waiting. About to exit, from behind, within left earshot, came a man’s composed voice: “Mr. Beckett!”

51

Damon—and Kate—turned to see who greeted him in an unfamiliar voice—an approaching blond, husky man wearing a nondescript Sunday suit and tie. Damon paused, then replied, “Can I help you?”

“I’m John Bianco. I just moved here a few weeks ago to serve as a small insurance-tech CFO. Hear of Rider?”

“I haven’t. Tell me more.”

“Business is off the charts. We’re looking to grow through buys. I’m told you’re a legend. We need your expertise.”

“I don’t talk work at church. But you can schedule—”

“Want to join the CEO and me for lunch now?”

52

Kate was taken aback by John Bianco’s request to Damon. “Excuse me, I’m Mrs. Beckett.”

John appeared embarrassed. “I apologize, Mrs. Beckett. That was impolite of me.”

“Call me Kate.” She turned to Damon. This was not the first time their day was interrupted for business, but never at church. She sighed, then performed the routine. “I’ll take the kids to lunch. Save room for dinner.”

“Will do.”

Kate turned to John, “Nice meeting you.” Then she took Ava’s and Noah’s hands and exited through the doors together, leaving Damon behind.

Damon saw dollar signs. “John, let’s make this happen.”

53

“You like Carbone’s Prime?” John asked.

“Of course. They’re closed Sundays.”

“Not for us.” The certainty in John’s answer pleased Damon. Prestige mattered.

They exited St. Patrick–St. Anthony’s and walked to John’s car—the newest Mercedes-AMG S 63 E Performance sedan, pitch-black, even the windows. Damon was impressed again.

For the full 13-minute drive, John yammered about the dealership, the test drive, and the saleswoman; Damon listened with polite restraint, engaging only with brief acknowledgments.

They parked curbside directly behind the restaurant—appropriately discreet for a closed restaurant—and stepped out. John knocked sharply on the steel back door.

54

Damon and John stood at the door for nearly 30 seconds before it was unlocked and pushed open. Another husky man much like John, but bald, in another nondescript suit and tie, mumbled, “Come on in.”

Damon followed John and the man, through the unmanned kitchen, then through another door to a 12-seat chef’s table, lights dimmed.

At the head of it sat a man with receding dark hair in a far nicer suit; a three-quarters-full whiskey decanter rested within his arm’s reach, an empty old-fashioned glass placed in front of him and three adjacent seats.

“Mr. Beckett, welcome. Sit.”

55

The second man moved behind the host’s right seat, John behind the left. Damon took the next left seat, then both sat in unison.

The host poured clockwise from Damon’s glass, then stopped the decanter. “We have a serious matter to discuss.”

“Mr. Bianco mentioned that your company is interested in my firm’s services,” Damon remarked.

“No, Mr. Beckett. I am interested in your services.”

Something wasn’t right. Damon remained poised, reactionless. “Before we talk business, your name…?”

“We have a client in common who has become impossible to reach. You know her well. Actually, very well: Miss Jessica Abaddon.”

56

“Do we? Again, your name, sir…?” Damon asked.

“Don’t be dishonest, Mr. Beckett. Miss Abaddon paid a deposit for which she is clearly unable to pay the balance. That means you are responsible for what she owes.”

“Excuse me. For what? Miss Abaddon never mentioned her involvement with insurance tech. Your name??”

The host glanced at John, lightly chuckled, then refocused on Damon. “My name is irrelevant; my problem is not. She hired us to send you a message.”

Damon was confused but refused to show it. “Is this her message?”

“The message of tearing your tire a new one.”

57

The shock registered in Damon’s brain but not on his face. He replied, words drenched in cold sarcasm, “It’s nice she put her message in the hands of professionals.”

“You owe us two million dollars by Friday at midnight.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You don’t get to decide.”

“How much did she pay you? She surely didn’t have that kind of money.”

“That’s not my problem. She’s disappeared. You’re paying her tab.”

“What happens if I don’t?”

The host grinned. “Two million, cash, in unmarked bills in one steel briefcase. Great River Park. Friday. Midnight. Now we must drink.”

58

The host raised his glass. Damon instinctively recalled this ritual after difficult meetings and negotiations—the immediacy, the importance of raising his glass before the host’s companions could—and did the same. John—was his name really John?—and his colleague casually raised theirs. The host nodded toward each, then to Damon.

“Salute.”

Damon calmly, John and his colleague mannerly, repeated the toast, then followed the host’s lead, savoring that first mouthful of stunningly robust, remarkably smooth, surely expensive whiskey.

“Mr. Beckett… I drink Masseto here. Not today,” he sighed. “No more business. Only stories of living.” So they did.

59

The host regaled Damon about dangerous street life then and now in an unnamed western Russian city of his youth. Perhaps Kaliningrad? Damon couldn’t be sure, not by the host’s accent or narrative. He wouldn’t ask either.

John interspersed with witty chatter about sports, gambling and petty delinquency.

His colleague was all mumbles, even his chuckles, befitting his husky appearance.

Damon navigated the three-way conversation carefully: listening with intention, reserved when speaking, inscrutable yet honest in reply.

More than an hour passed, an eighth of the decanter remaining. The host stood. “We are done. We meet before Friday, Mr. Beckett.”

60

Damon, John, and John’s colleague rose from their seats. John nudged Damon with his fingertips. Both made their way, John’s colleague several steps behind them, to the back door. Damon opened it, with John pushing it back, and both exited. He could hear it lock forcefully behind them.

John unlocked his Mercedes-AMG passenger door for Damon, both getting in, and started the engine.

“I’ll drive you back to your house, Mr. Beckett.”

“No thanks. Please take me back to the church. I’ll get myself home from there.”

“I insist. I know where your house is. It’s better than the alternative.”

61

Damon kept quiet and blank from the moment they left Carbone’s Prime. John yapped about New York City’s Little Italy, his first nightclub bouncer job and its lurid incidents in nearby Manhattan.

Tuning John out, Damon’s mind exploded with exasperation, resentment, fury, and unyielding determination to obliterate John’s gangster boss’s shakedown. Seeing him drive confidently to the Beckett house without even an address or GPS, Damon’s concealed emotions intensified. And when the house appeared into view, Damon suddenly felt a rare, unwelcome infusing sensation: fear.

John pulled into the Becketts’ driveway. “Ah, nice home. See you before Friday, Mr. Beckett!”

62

Damon immediately exited the car, no verbal farewell, slamming the passenger door shut. He walked toward the front door while John idled in the driveway. Once inside, Damon turned around, glaring through the door crack as John reversed onto the road and drove off.

Hyperactive TV noises blared. Damon closed and locked the door. Unnerved, he inhaled deeply, then exhaled. He stepped into the living room — little Ava’s feet on Kate’s thighs with both reading on the sofa, Noah sitting on the floor watching a cartoon.

“I’m back.”

Kate did not look up. “You’re on your own for dinner again.”

63

Damon’s mind only heard Kate’s first phrase, something he had understood all his life: “You’re on your own.”

He turned around and walked into his home office, closing the door behind him, then fired up his laptop.

About to log on to his investment brokerage account, Damon paused, then closed his eyes. He reflected on what had transpired. He recalled every shakedown he had ever experienced, down to every detail. No dire threat mattered; each one amounted to no payout, no harm. Scare tactics.

Damon exhaled, then opened his eyes. What am I doing? I’m not giving them a dollar.

64

The sunset hours of Sunday afternoon and into the evening were relaxed with Kate and the kids. Monday morning arrived with Damon’s routine of readying for the day and arriving and commanding his skyline view at City Place I.

In those gaps of time among focused conversation, paperwork and research — hold times, bathroom breaks — yesterday’s unexpected extortion attempt nagged like fruit flies. Edward need not know about it, not now, perhaps never. Yet by evening, there were no surprise messages, no followed-up threats. A workday.

Damon returned home to his family, still cautious, but relieved. This was a good Monday.