Page 43 of Boss with Benefits

"That case always stuck in my craw. It should've been a simple case, but inept police work and blatant racism turned it into a cold case. In the end, it was DNA and dedicated detective work that got it solved. And"—he turned to me—"it became a cultural phenomenon, hitting at the right time when the Me Too movement and true crime obsession was at its peak. We had every large network, publisher, and media company knocking at our door trying to find a way to make money off of it."

"It's amazing what you did," I said, my heart warming to him. It was the most Derrick had ever shared with me. "How you helped that family. I've always admired you for it. I'm not a huge true crime fan…too depressing…but it's obvious you didn't do it for ratings or to exploit the case. You wanted justice for that family."

Derrick smiled, his face brightening. I liked his smile. "When the book and the podcast blew up, we rode the wave and started Dreamary Media to elevate other like-minded, socially conscious podcasts. It was exhilarating and gave me a sense of purpose again. But more than that, it brought light to so many missing women's cases that had been pushed aside or ignored because of the unbalanced injustices for women of color, especially in the later part of last century."

I stared at him in awe. Not many people would take his fame and money and do something so unselfish. He was special, but I could tell he didn't think about himself this way. His humbleness made me like him even more.

"But this was never Isaac's passion. He loves to be in the field, researching, digging up the past, getting dirty. Not pulling up a case a week, giving our off-the-cuff but expert advice. I'm not looking to solve another big case. The podcast has now become a platform to bring these unsolved cases into the light and hopefully someone out there will come forward with information that was missed, or it'll spark enough interest for the case to be reinvestigated."

"You're a unicorn, Derrick Jacques. You know that? I'm blown away. You're amazing. Not many people would do what you've done." I smiled, then ducked my head, embarrassed by my open assessment. "And my plan was never to quit Dreamary when I rushed out of here. I didn’t have a plan. Obviously."

Derrick nodded and took a deep breath. "I'm glad to hear that. And for the love of God, let's try and keep things professional. Or in the ballpark of professional."

"So no more asking you to feel me up?"

Derrick laughed. "For medical reasons or otherwise," he confirmed.

I put my hand over my heart. "I promise to behave in a purely professional manner."

Uncertainty covered his brow. "You can still talk to me. About anything."

"Got it, Boss."

I wrapped my hand around the door handle, but I didn't want to leave the car. I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to know everything. Then I remembered what he said about me on the dock, that I was childish and immature, and the words twisted in my gut like poison.

"And I'm sorry about my mom," he said, breaking into my thoughts. "You raise them the best you can, but once you move out..."

He shrugged as if to say “What can you do?”

"Fair enough." I laughed at his joke, but I didn't feel the humor. I felt depressed. "I'll take the train back tomorrow. Will you drive me to the station?"

"Of course."

I left the car and went straight to my room, glad everyone else was asleep. This trip was meant to calm me, but I was more restless now than ever.

21

RACHEL

The bustling streets of Manhattan blurred below my window as the train zipped through Harlem toward downtown on the elevated tracks. It was the next morning, but my mind was still reeling from the events at the lake house. Discomfort clung to me like I'd left something important behind.

At my squat, brick pre-war building, I heaved the heavy front door open and walked up the three flights to my floor, avoiding the packages and bikes in the narrow hallway.

I turned the key in the lock of my apartment, but it was already unlocked. My toe pressed against the bottom of the door, keeping it ajar as I rummaged through my purse until I gripped my pepper spray. I shoved it in my back pocket and rummaged more until I found my protective goggles. I shoved them on my eyes, then held the spray in front of me as I cautiously opened the door fully and entered.

Someone sat on my couch, but my goggles were smudged, and I couldn't see who it was. I raised my arm higher, ready to strike, when a strong voice stopped me.

"Rachel Meilin Arya, don't you dare."

I yanked the goggles off. "Amma?"

My mother sat on the couch,The Great British Baking Showpaused on my TV. Her forehead was folded in concern. Or was it annoyance?

"What are you doing here?" I asked, dropping my bags next to the worn leather couch.

She stood and stared down at me, her thick, black, wavy hair pulled into a low ponytail. She was a full head taller than I was. "Thali, I've been trying to reach you,” she said using the Indian term of endearment that always reminded me of my childhood. “You haven't called for days, and you skipped out on our trip this weekend. I'm concerned."

I sighed and sank into the buttery leather of my secondhand sofa. "I've been busy with work."

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