Beneath the Scars

My stomach rolled as I thought about Jared. How could I have not seen what a terrible person he was behind his handsome face? I stared into my lap, my hands curled into tight balls of anger and embarrassment.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Megan.” Bill’s voice was kind. “You had no idea.”

“Why is he cooperating?”

“He has no choice. His career is over. His bank accounts frozen. The public is up in arms over this. His publishers are furious and out for blood. He had no time to prepare for what happened; with his huge ego he never thought ahead, assuming he wouldn’t get caught. He’s facing penalties, legal fees, and criminal charges—many of them. Probably jail time.” Bill sat back with a satisfied smile. “Basically, he’s fucked.”

“Will he, ah, be there today?”

“No. His lawyer will be, as well as a rep from the publishing house and their lawyer. Probably his agent, too.”

Relief flooded my chest, easing the knot of fear in my stomach. I never wanted to lay eyes on him again. “Good.”

“We’re going to get your property back today, Megan. That’s why I asked you for a list of what was in the satchel, as best as you could remember. I’m sure they also want to know if you plan on pressing any charges against Jared.”

“No. I want my work back. I want to forget he even existed.” The thought of facing him in court made me shiver. “By the time all this is through what would I get anyway?”

“Probably not much but satisfaction.”

“I only want my book back.”

He glanced at his watch. “Then let’s go to the boardroom and do just that, all right?”* * *I sat across the table with Bill, staring at my leather satchel. I’d know it anywhere. The handle was bent and thin from years of use. The leather was dull, the edges frayed. I knew when the flap was lifted my grandfather’s faded initials would be inside, the ink barely visible after all these years. I knew exactly where to find them. To anyone looking at it they would only see an old beaten-up bag. For me it was a sentimental link to a man who read to me, who taught me how to spell my name with his large hand wrapped around my smaller one, as together, we traced the letters over and again. My fingers itched to reach out and touch the leather, but I wasn’t allowed to—not yet.

Voices had been droning on, with me partially listening. I heard the words fraud, charges, and a lot of legal terms I didn’t understand. Mr. Chalmers, the lawyer for the publishing house, explained they were now working with the grandson of the real author, trying to work out legalities and settlements. As Bill had told me, book sales were suspended and the PR side of the business was trying to handle the maelstrom of negative press Jared’s deception had caused. Jared himself had lost his career, his house, his entire lifestyle, and with every indication, his freedom. There was a very large part of me that felt a grim satisfaction knowing he would finally be punished for his actions.

Beside me, Bill spoke up, bringing my attention back to the people at the table. “Ms. Greene would like her property returned to her…immediately.” He slid my list across the table. “There’s a full description of the satchel and where you can locate the initials inside. There’s also a list of the notes and drawings the satchel contained, proving that she’s the rightful owner.”

I watched anxiously, my chest tight and fighting queasiness again. My stomach had been in knots since I came back to Boston. I had hardly kept a thing down and Karen was beside herself in worry. I needed this done and over.

After more discussion, tears filled my eyes as my satchel was handed to Bill, who placed it in my hands. I ran my fingers over the worn leather, remembering all the times I had watched my grandfather do the same thing. The faint scent of smoke came off the leather from the fire. The thought the satchel and all it contained could have been consumed in flames stilled my fingers for a moment. If that happened, I would never again have held this small piece of my past in my hands. Somehow, it was even more important than the documents it held. I sent a small prayer of thanks out to the firefighter who had noticed the books and thought to remove them from harm, as well as to the neighbor who had contacted Jared’s agent to hold them in safekeeping until Jared returned. It was because of his agent’s honest, horrified reaction to the discovery of what the books actually represented, we were now fully aware of the depth of Jared’s deceit.