Chapter 40 Dan
DAN
“We have to talk about the fact that your STI test came from a pediatrician’s office,” Carson says from her perch on the couch, her ankle propped up on a stack of pillows with an ice pack on top.
I set the tray of snacks down on the coffee table beside her. “I don’t have health insurance right now, so Owen was my only option. Indiana isn’t exactly rolling in free clinics.”
“Ugh, sad but true,” she groans. She hands me the ice pack and reaches for her boot. “God, I look like such a wreck.”
“More like an adorable fender bender,” I say. “How’s it feeling?”
“It’s fine as long as I don’t move it,” she says.
“Luckily there are plenty of ways for me to make you come that don’t involve your ankle.”
“Yes, I’ll just starfish in the middle of the bed and you can go to work. Very sexy,” she laughs.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
The doorbell shatters the mood.
I have no regrets about fleeing New York and my potential prosecution.
Even if I get only twenty-four happy hours with Carson before my life turns upside down, it’ll be worth it.
But the fear of what could be coming for me is like a high-pitched noise that’s been squealing quietly beneath everything else since we woke up this morning.
I tried calling Marcel but had no luck. I googled to see if there were any press releases, but there was nothing.
So now I’m just waiting for police officers to show up on the doorstep and lead me away.
And it feels like maybe that’s about to happen now.
From the way Carson tenses, her eyes filling with worry, I can tell she’s thinking it too. I filled her in on everything last night.
“I’ve got it,” I say, crossing the floor and pulling open the door.
“Surprise!” Jameson says from the stoop, a rolling suitcase at his feet. He thrusts a paper bag into my hands. “These muffins are excellent. I don’t know why you’re always complaining about this town.”
“It’s quite charming,” Marcel says, following his husband through the door. “Though I wouldn’t last more than three days here before I required a real slice of pizza and a Broadway show.”
“To say nothing of the corn. Popular culture really undersells the sheer number of cornfields. How much corn could you people possibly be eating?” Jameson sticks out his hand to Carson, the same wide and welcoming grin on his face that he gave me way back in freshman year.
“I’m Jameson Lewis, your boyfriend’s college roommate.
Pleased to meet you. So sorry to hear about your ankle. ”
Carson shakes his hand, returning his smile. “Carson Webber. And thank you. You can express your sympathy by telling me all about this one in college.” She points at me, waggling her eyebrows. “I’m dying to hear about the lost years of Dan McBride.”
“The jeans were so skinny,” Jameson says. “I’ll start looking for pictures on my phone.”
“Please, no,” I groan. “What are you two doing here? Do you have an update?”
“Boy, do I,” Marcel says, sinking into the gingham armchair in the corner of the living room. “I took the meeting without you. I’m charging you double for that.”
“And I’m still mad you didn’t eat my chicken parm. It was excellent,” Jameson adds.
“Someday I hope to be able to actually pay you,” I say to Marcel. Since my savings ran out several months ago, he’s been working basically pro bono.
“That day might come sooner than you think.” He pulls a thick file out of his bag. “Anders was indicted this morning. The court saw him as a considerable flight risk, so they confiscated his passport. His bail is eye-wateringly high.”
I blink, trying to make sense of the words. “Wait, Anders was indicted?”
Marcel nods. “Remember how I said the meeting invite was strange? That it was unusual to be called to surrender before a grand jury was even impaneled?”
“Michigan Law is so proud that he figured that out,” Jameson says, stroking his husband’s cheek as he grins.
Marcel brushes him off with an eye roll.
“Apparently the feds have been focusing on Anders for months, but in an effort to keep him from fleeing the jurisdiction, they kept up the fiction that it was you they were interested in. Anders has had private investigators keeping tabs on you, so the feds figured calling you in would be a clever ruse to keep him from hopping on a private plane on Monday before they could arrest him.”
My mouth drops open. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not. They actually did want to meet with you, though,” he says, shaking the file. “Turns out your evidence led directly to Anders’s arrest. Which makes you, my friend, a whistleblower.”
My mouth drops open.
“Oh shit, does this mean you have to go into witness protection?” Carson asks from the couch.
I shake my head. “Is this real?”
“It is. The Securities and Exchange Commission has determined that your information is worth twelve percent,” he says, a smile spreading across his face.
“Twelve percent of what?” Carson asks.
Marcel turns to her. “According to SEC whistleblower laws, anyone who provides information that leads to a conviction receives a percentage of the money that’s recovered by the investigation.
The percentage is based on level of information.
How useful it is in the investigation.” Marcel looks at me, a brow raised.
“You, sir, were docked for not going to the authorities the moment you discovered the discrepancy. Instead, you tipped off Anders by bringing it to him. So they’re offering you twelve percent instead of the maximum thirty. ”
“Twelve percent of what?” Carson asks again.
“Fourteen million dollars,” Marcel says, and my heart does several somersaults in my chest.
Carson gasps. “So that’s—”
“More than one point six million dollars,” I finish, doing the math faster. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“I’m not,” Marcel says. “You will, of course, be paying a percentage of that to me.”
“Are you kidding? Take as much as you want,” I say, pulling him in for a hug. “You saved my life.”
“Did you hear that, honey? He said it in front of witnesses. As much as you want!” Jameson laughs, throwing me a wink.
“So it’s really over?”
“Well, you won’t get the money until after the conviction, but from what I hear, Anders’s high-powered lawyers are already trying to cut a deal that would involve a guilty plea.
So it’s only a matter of time,” Marcel says.
He sits, crossing his leg over his knee and leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “So yes, it’s over.”
“Dan, I just want you to know that if I didn’t have this broken ankle, I would be leaping into your arms right now,” Carson says.
“I’ve got it,” I say, crossing the floor. I pick her up, and as her arms go around my neck and her thighs hook over my hips, I kiss her. I kiss her like it’s the first time, not like it’s going to be the last. The first of so many more to come.
“Can’t believe I bagged me a millionaire,” she giggles against my lips.
“How would you feel about letting me buy us a house?” I ask.