In the Red Read online

  IN THE RED

  A Novel

  LISA LIBBY

  Copyright © 2020 by Lisa Libby

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, with the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please contact the author by visiting their website addressed below.

  ISBN: 978-1-7341263-0-3 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-7341263-1-0 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020906067

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First printing edition 2020

  www.lisalibby.com

  To my husband Theard and daughter Jolie,

  the loves of my life.

  Acknowledgements

  To the unforgettable people that changed my life. They may never get the chance to read my book, but they’ve inspired every word on every page.

  I’m eternally grateful to my Aunt Caroline and Uncle Robert for providing clothes, food, shelter, and a loving family environment. While they were rich with love and care, they didn’t have the means to provide for others, but they found a way and were happy to help. Thank you for making every holiday a grand occasion for the family and for exposing me to your perfect example of unconditional love for one another and commitment to marriage. Your true love for all animals, especially horses, was beautiful to witness as a child. You have both made a tremendous impact on my life. Aunt Carol, since you left this earth, there has been a void that could never be filled. You are missed by many.

  To my most creative and highly artistic friend, Diane M. Delaney, who was my greatest teacher. She taught me how to see and feel art. She honestly and openly critiqued my drawings and laughed hysterically at the strange faces I drew. Nevertheless, she shared her knowledge for anything she was passionate about, and it was everything. From flowers, to art, food, wine, history, culture, color, and interior design: you name it and we likely had a discussion about it. Thank you for being a great friend and taking the time to share your knowledge with me and so many others. I miss our after-work drinks at the bar, laughing hysterically and talking about anything that popped in our heads. I miss you every day, my dear friend and my favorite artist.

  in the red idiom

  Definition of in the red

  : spending and owing more money than is being earned.

  Apparently the company had been in the red for some time before it went out of business.

  In the Red. (n.d). In Merriam-Webster. Retrieved from

  www.merriam-webster.com

  AVA

  CHAPTER 1

  The Job

  Boston is so goddamn cold in January. The snow caps the tops of trees, bending the branches so it looks like the tree is overcome by sorrow. Icicles hang from every gutter I walk past. Sand and salt canvas the icy sidewalks. The residents abandon their Christmas lights near the trash cans; the pine needles leaving a trail from their homes to where they drag their Christmas trees to the curb. Every year after the Holiday season, you can predict January, February, and even March will be the darkest, coldest, and most depressing months to live in this city. The holidays are over, cheer replaced with the miserable, long silence from the effects of the snow accumulating on the ground absorbing the city sounds and trapping them until the first thaw in Spring. The weather and atmosphere are the perfect fuel for my low mood. If I move to a new city with warm weather year-round, I just might be able to dig myself out from under my depression.

  My walk home from the hospital is slow, but steady. I distract myself from the cold by searching for my drops of blood along the sidewalk, from the walk to the hospital. Feeling sickly from all the blood loss, the short walk feels daunting. I didn’t meet the New Year’s resolution I set for myself: suicide. I have eleven months to try again before I completely fail to reach my resolution. Maybe next time I won’t pass out from the mere sight of my own blood.

  Once I slit my left wrist, I didn’t know I wouldn’t be able to stomach the sight of the blood. I assume I lost consciousness immediately after cutting my wrist, but I don’t recollect. When I awoke, the tub water was dark red. It scared me so much so, that in that moment I had a change of heart. I’m glad I didn’t die today; it doesn’t feel like it was meant to be.

  Of course, the doctors didn’t believe my story about cutting myself while attempting to debone a fish, and why should they; it was clear what my intentions were. They gave me a few stitches and some brochures about depression, the phone number for the suicide helplines, and sent me on my way. If I’d allowed the doctor to examine me further, he’d have diagnosed me with depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder – and to top it off, a sprinkle of schizophrenia.

  It’s 6:30 a.m. when I get home, about the time I wake up to get ready for work. I have less than an hour to leave the house if I want to be on time. Every morning it’s a struggle to get out of bed, especially on such frigid mornings. Since I’ve had no sleep, I don’t have the problem of getting out of bed. Maybe, just maybe today I’ll get to work on time.

  After completing my mandatory internship credit for graduation, Atlantic Street Financial hired me. I contemplate calling in sick to work, but I made a promise to my manager Johnny not to unless I’m really sick.

  Johnny has been a shoulder to cry on ever since he found me sobbing in Atlantic’s garage, while I sat in my ex-boyfriend Mac’s stolen car, balling my eyes out. He went with me to return Mac’s car and convinced him not to report the incident to the police. Mac’s lucky I didn’t return his car on fire, after catching him cheating on me with a younger, skinnier version of myself. It’s only been three months since the breakup, but I still feel anger from his betrayal. Catching him cheating on me is a memory that’s on replay; I can’t get it out of my mind. When you’re used to being with someone every day and they’re suddenly absent from your life, it’s tough to handle the drastic change. Since the breakup, I don’t have many friends to lean on. It’s awkward to keep friends that you share with your ex-boyfriend.

  I feel lucky that I still have my best friend, Paul. We met our freshman year of college. I found him attractive at first, which is why I introduced myself. I admired his flawless dark skin, big brown eyes, and long lashes His tall, lean build made any girl in class watch him enter the classroom. He was easily found in any crowd of students because his curly afro towered over the others. When he didn’t hit on me the first month of our friendship, I knew he was gay. He didn’t tell me at first, but he didn’t have to, I was just happy to have him as my friend.

  By the time we graduated, Paul had become a full-time criminal hacker. He’d progressed from petty hacking to bribing politicians, corporate companies, and anyone with power and riches. If he finds dirt on anyone rich, he will hang it over their heads and bribe them for his own personal financial gain. His energy and excitement for life is what gets me out of bed most days. He keeps saying time heals all wounds, but his cliché phrase doesn’t help my mind heal. Each day I care less about my appearance. I avoid mirrors, and when I must look in the mirror, I see an ugly, fat disappointment staring back at me.

  I quietly open the back door and tiptoe down the hallway to the bathroom, so my roommate Samantha d
oesn’t see the bloody bandage, but she’s already in the shower. I hurry to my bedroom before I bump into her. I won’t have time to take a shower, so a quick wash up is all I can do. I strip naked and use a makeup remover wipe to wash my face, neck, and armpits. I have no confidence that the perfume and deodorant will cover the alcohol smell seeping through my pores or the stench of weed. I honestly don’t know why I try, because I don’t care.

  As usual, traffic is terrible heading into downtown Boston. The subway is the fastest mode of transportation, but sometimes its frequent delays and many cancelled trains makes me wish I could stand the cold and walk the three miles to work. I check my work emails on my mobile, all while attempting to hold onto a nearby pole on the train, but it’s easier to reach for the roof of the train to brace myself each time it jerks and stops. I feel my stitches stretch and possibly break open. I don’t dare to even look at the bandage for fear of seeing blood. I’m missing the 9:30 a.m. meeting. Since I’m already late, I might as well stop for coffee.

  On my way to my desk, I walk quickly past the conference room, expecting the dirty looks of my co-workers, but it’s empty. The entire office is quiet, which is odd. I turn the corner to see my coworkers scrambling around the office as if there’s a surprise audit. I get to my cubicle section to find most of my co-workers standing around chatting.

  “Johnny; what’s going on? I thought we had a budget meeting today? Where’s everyone?”

  He leans in to whisper, “They arrested Susan this morning – everyone is panicking. The FBI have seized several boxes of documents. They told us we’ll be sent home soon and instructed us not to log in or touch any computer files.”

  “This company must be doing some crooked shit if the FBI is digging around,” I say.

  I’m trying to hold my composure and not freak the fuck out because I need this job.

  “What’s that, are ya bleeding?” asks Johnny, grabbing the sleeve of my blazer.

  Blood droplets are running down my hand. I yank my arm away from Johnny.

  “It’s nothing.” I avoid eye contact to hide my shame. I can feel him staring at me, judging.

  I excuse myself and duck into the nearest restroom to text Paul to ask for his advice. He reassures me that everything will be okay, to go home and wait to hear from him. Paul always knows just what to say to make me feel at ease.

  I return to Johnny and to where most of the staff have gathered.

  We continue our conversation like I never left.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe it’s just something Susan has done, not the company.”

  “Jesus Christ, Ava don’t be so damn naïve.”

  I’ve never seen Johnny snap at anyone, let alone me. I didn’t see that coming. Why’s Johnny so stressed?

  His phone rings and he disappears down the hall.

  As we turn the corner, men dressed in suits walk toward us, motioning us to leave.

  “Go home until you hear from your Human Resources Department,” says the taller man of the group. Now my stomach’s knotting. If I’ve learned anything in my financial courses, companies just don’t get raided by the FBI for small bookkeeping mistakes. This is a serious bust. The company has given me limited access to their financial documents, so I couldn’t be in any trouble. As far as I know, both Johnny and Susan have the most access, but why was only Susan arrested? Johnny could’ve been arrested; not sure why he wasn’t. Perhaps, the FBI doesn’t have enough evidence to charge him. I’ve always questioned his knowledge of accounting because I know more than him when analyzing the financial records. I’m amazed Atlantic even hired him because they hold a reputation as a prestigious financial institution. Even with my straight A’s and advanced accounting courses, Paul still had to hack their human resources email and delete the other candidates to increase my chances of even getting the internship. Without that, Atlantic wouldn’t have even read my resume.

  Atlantic is the largest investment firm in Boston, MA, a multibillion-dollar company, with investments in every avenue possible. They’re highly involved with the community; charities, non- profit organizations, and several state agencies. The media will be all over this story as soon as it’s leaked. I may have some serious difficulty getting hired at another financial firm in Boston if I put this company on my resume. If this case goes to trial, I will likely need to stand trial because I worked in the finance department. My negative thoughts are beginning to trigger my anxiety. I’m sweating, my stomach is turning, and I feel my chest getting heavier, causing a shortness of breath.

  The FBI agents force us out of the office after human resources personnel gave us a document to fill out. I want to go home to shower and sleep off the pain throbbing in my wrist, but Johnny insists we go out for a drink. I find it strange he didn’t invite the others from the office. I have a gut feeling Johnny knows more about Susan’s arrest than he’s letting on.

  We arrive outside a bar that I’ve walked by many times before, but never been inside, because if the inside is anything like the outside it’s frightening. The two identical glass cube tile windows on either side of the black metal door don’t allow light out or in. Johnny pushes the abandoned shopping cart filled with trash out of the doorway to get in the bar. There’s no greeter at the door to check photo ID’s. Just one bartender behind the bar and a few old men scattered throughout the bar drowning their sorrow in their drinks. The bar’s counter shines with filth. I predict its counter is sticky before taking a seat on the green, ripped-seat-covered stool.

  We start with beers and then move onto shots. It doesn’t take long for the effects of the alcohol to set in and soon I’m comfortable with the atmosphere.

  “What’dya think they arrested Susan for?” I ask searching his eyes. He looks through me for a moment then stares long into his empty beer glass.

  He turned to look at me and leans in whispering, “Um, gonna tell you some things, but you gotta keep your mouth shut.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “Susan’s been doing some laundry, moving large amounts of cash through the organization. I’m sort of involved, I guess.”

  “Wait, huh? Who’re you guys working for?”

  Johnny ignores my questions and waves to get the bartender’s attention for another round.

  “Johnny! Don’t ignore me.”

  “The Irish,” he finally responds.

  I’m not shocked that Atlantic is corrupt because it’s no secret Atlantic has ties to the Italians, but the Irish? I didn’t think they collaborated in the criminal world.

  “How the fuck do you know so much? Come on, you’re full of shit,” I say, raising the glass to my lips.

  “Be prepared; the FBI will come to question you. It’s no big deal, it’s small suit and tie crime, but keep ya trap shut.”

  “You mean to tell me you knew about this and still hired me? How much extra are you getting paid to help Susan cover this up?”

  He stares at the television above the bar.

  “Ava, it’s my friggin job, I work for the Irish… Mob.”

  I take a shot, slam the glass down on the bar.

  “Go fuck yourself.” I leave him sitting at the bar still staring at the television. If he’s telling the truth about his involvement with the Mob, I don’t want to be seen with him, I’m sure the FBI are watching us right now – or maybe I’m just drunk and paranoid. It’s already noon when I stumble out of the dark bar into bright light. I’m going straight home to pack up my shit. I’m leaving the city first thing in the morning. I can sublet my room – since I own the condo, the rent would even pay the utilities and taxes. “I’m outta here in the morning!” I scream, crossing the street.

  I don’t pack; that was drunk Ava making plans and not following through. Instead I fall asleep on top of my empty suitcase.

  I wake up confused – is it morning or night? My head is pounding hard. I can barely open one eye to check m
y phone. I have several missed calls and texts from Johnny. There are other missed calls and texts from numbers I don’t recognize. I flick through the news channels searching for the story about Atlantic, expecting a breaking news story, but find nothing. I check my voicemails, deleting all of Johnny’s slurred voicemails, but the last voicemail is from a Connor McClean, an FBI agent working the Atlantic case. He requests a meeting with him tomorrow morning at 10:30 a.m. at the police station. I return his call, but there’s no answer, so I leave a message confirming the meeting.

  Johnny has me paranoid. I’m afraid to call or text him from my phone. The FBI can get access to my cellphone records. I have plenty of things on my phone that may get the FBI more interested than I’d like. I roll a joint, throw on my boots and a sweatshirt, and head to the nearby liquor store, not ignoring the idling car across the street, only to discover it’s just my neighbor. I try to shake off my paranoia; all I’m doing is freaking myself out. I talk to myself. I’m a nobody, why do I think anyone would be after me? I did nothing wrong, did I? I’m fresh out of college, working my first finance job. They must know about Johnny, but how involved could he be? What if they think I’m a rat by going to the FBI? I need to know more about the investigation, so I can talk myself out of any involvement. How important is Susan?

  I grab a bottle of white rum, rolling papers, a pack of cigarettes, and a prepaid cell phone.

  As soon as I get home from the store, I search my cell phone and write down all the important contacts. Then I take the sim card out of the phone and smash both the phone and the sim card with a hammer. I flush the broken pieces down the toilet. If the FBI want my phone records, they will need to ask my cell phone carrier, but they won’t be getting them from me. I won’t contact Johnny until after speaking to the FBI in the morning.