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Authors: Melissa F. Miller
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if Sasha didn ’ t come down for her coffee refill? Stop it, she scolded herself.
“ What ’ ll it be, ma ’ am? ” the olive-skinned girl behind the counter asked.
“ Uh, I ’ ll have a chai latte, please. ”
“ Sure thing. Is that for here or to go? ”
“ Here. No, wait, to go. Sorry. ” Laura ’ s cheeks flamed.
“ No worries. I ’ ll give it to you in a to-go cup, but you ’ re welcome to grab a table, of course. ” The girl gave her a comforting smile.
Get a grip. Whether or not Sasha McCandless showed up, she needed to pull herself together. If the data said what Sasha claimed … She let her thoughts trail off, unwilling to follow the logic to its inevitable conclusion.
“ Here you go, ” the barista chirped, plunking the cardboard cup down on the counter.
Laura shook herself out of her musing and dug a five-dollar bill out of her wallet. As she was dropping her change into the tip jar by the cash register, she heard the sharp staccato tap of high heels against tile as someone walked into the room.
“ Hi, Vera, ” a woman ’ s voice called out.
Sasha McCandless. Laura willed her hands not to shake as she reached for her cup.
“ Hey, hey. You need a warm up? ” Vera asked rhetorically, already reaching for the carafe of dark roast.
“ Always, V. Always. ” Sasha handed her ceramic mug across the counter for her refill and turned to smile at Laura. “ A little caffeine for the road? ”
Something about the way the lawyer asked the innocuous question struck Laura. Sasha knew she ’ d come here looking for her. She felt it in her bones. She nearly rolled her eyes at herself — feeling it in her bones? She sounded like her ancient nai nai , her ridiculously superstitious paternal grandmother. “ Actually, I was hoping to run into you. ”
Sasha ’ s green eyes went wide for a moment. “ Let ’ s grab a table, ” she said.
She retrieved her coffee mug from Vera and led Laura to a tiny wrought iron table jammed into a nook by the window — far enough away from the photography buffs to afford them some privacy but tucked away from the entrance. The lawyer was no dummy.
They situated themselves. Sasha raised her mug to her lips and locked eyes with Laura. ‘ Well? ’ her expression seemed to say.
Laura tapped the fingernails of her left hand against the side of her cup and replayed Sasha ’ s claims from the deposition in her mind.
“ Is it true — what you said about the same group of individuals paying out a hundred percent of fire claims? ”
“ If the data your company provided are accurate, then yes, it ’s true. ”
“ The numbers are right. ”
“ You sound pretty sure. ”
“ I ’ ve sliced and diced all those numbers myself. I can ’ t believe … How could I have missed something that blatant? ” Laura ’ s voice quavered, but she was powerless to stop it.
“ Listen, you weren ’ t looking for evidence of a crime. I mean, you weren ’ t, were you? ”
“ Of course not. I was doing a profitability analysis. Were you looking for evidence of a crime? ”
Sasha shook her head. “ No, I sure wasn ’ t. ” She lowered her voice and leaned across the table. “ I sorted all the claims arising out of the fire every way I could think of to highlight that your decision to deny the Maravaches ’ claim was an outlier. I didn ’ t expect it to stand out as starkly as it did. But it was the only claim that was denied. And the only difference between their claim and the rest was that you were the adjuster, not James Moraine. Then when I stepped back, I saw that, historically, all the claims handled by Mr. Moraine and a consistent group of other players were paid, not just the claims stemming from the Strip District fire. Then I knew. ”
Sasha stared at Laura as if she expected Laura to try to argue with her. But she didn ’ t. She couldn ’ t.
“ There are no coincidences, ” Laura sat flatly.
“ Agreed. ”
They sat in silence and sipped
“ What ’ ll it be, ma ’ am? ” the olive-skinned girl behind the counter asked.
“ Uh, I ’ ll have a chai latte, please. ”
“ Sure thing. Is that for here or to go? ”
“ Here. No, wait, to go. Sorry. ” Laura ’ s cheeks flamed.
“ No worries. I ’ ll give it to you in a to-go cup, but you ’ re welcome to grab a table, of course. ” The girl gave her a comforting smile.
Get a grip. Whether or not Sasha McCandless showed up, she needed to pull herself together. If the data said what Sasha claimed … She let her thoughts trail off, unwilling to follow the logic to its inevitable conclusion.
“ Here you go, ” the barista chirped, plunking the cardboard cup down on the counter.
Laura shook herself out of her musing and dug a five-dollar bill out of her wallet. As she was dropping her change into the tip jar by the cash register, she heard the sharp staccato tap of high heels against tile as someone walked into the room.
“ Hi, Vera, ” a woman ’ s voice called out.
Sasha McCandless. Laura willed her hands not to shake as she reached for her cup.
“ Hey, hey. You need a warm up? ” Vera asked rhetorically, already reaching for the carafe of dark roast.
“ Always, V. Always. ” Sasha handed her ceramic mug across the counter for her refill and turned to smile at Laura. “ A little caffeine for the road? ”
Something about the way the lawyer asked the innocuous question struck Laura. Sasha knew she ’ d come here looking for her. She felt it in her bones. She nearly rolled her eyes at herself — feeling it in her bones? She sounded like her ancient nai nai , her ridiculously superstitious paternal grandmother. “ Actually, I was hoping to run into you. ”
Sasha ’ s green eyes went wide for a moment. “ Let ’ s grab a table, ” she said.
She retrieved her coffee mug from Vera and led Laura to a tiny wrought iron table jammed into a nook by the window — far enough away from the photography buffs to afford them some privacy but tucked away from the entrance. The lawyer was no dummy.
They situated themselves. Sasha raised her mug to her lips and locked eyes with Laura. ‘ Well? ’ her expression seemed to say.
Laura tapped the fingernails of her left hand against the side of her cup and replayed Sasha ’ s claims from the deposition in her mind.
“ Is it true — what you said about the same group of individuals paying out a hundred percent of fire claims? ”
“ If the data your company provided are accurate, then yes, it ’s true. ”
“ The numbers are right. ”
“ You sound pretty sure. ”
“ I ’ ve sliced and diced all those numbers myself. I can ’ t believe … How could I have missed something that blatant? ” Laura ’ s voice quavered, but she was powerless to stop it.
“ Listen, you weren ’ t looking for evidence of a crime. I mean, you weren ’ t, were you? ”
“ Of course not. I was doing a profitability analysis. Were you looking for evidence of a crime? ”
Sasha shook her head. “ No, I sure wasn ’ t. ” She lowered her voice and leaned across the table. “ I sorted all the claims arising out of the fire every way I could think of to highlight that your decision to deny the Maravaches ’ claim was an outlier. I didn ’ t expect it to stand out as starkly as it did. But it was the only claim that was denied. And the only difference between their claim and the rest was that you were the adjuster, not James Moraine. Then when I stepped back, I saw that, historically, all the claims handled by Mr. Moraine and a consistent group of other players were paid, not just the claims stemming from the Strip District fire. Then I knew. ”
Sasha stared at Laura as if she expected Laura to try to argue with her. But she didn ’ t. She couldn ’ t.
“ There are no coincidences, ” Laura sat flatly.
“ Agreed. ”
They sat in silence and sipped
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