Adrift
Isabel Jolie
Copyright © 2021 by Isabel Jolie.
All rights reserved.
Editor: Lori Whitwam
Line editor: Heather Whitehead
Cover Design: Elizabeth Mackey
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Isabel Jolie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Isabel Jolie has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
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Created with Vellum
For my little brother, the pilot
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Notes & Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Isabel Jolie
Chapter 1
Gabe
“Change the channel, quick.”
Reed hovered near the monitor, located the control, and flipped to C-SPAN.
“What’s going on?”
He pressed a single index finger to his lips.
A press conference filled the screen. The U.S. Attorney General, a stout woman in a monotonous black suit, stood behind the podium. The scroll at the bottom reflected stock market fluctuations. All looked normal. Futures positive.
“Department of Justice is moving forward with a civil lawsuit.”
Any onlooker would’ve thought the Lakers were playing the way my colleague leaned forward, laser-focused on every word.
I scanned email, figuring he’d tell me what was going on in a minute.
“The civil lawsuit seeks to seize assets from Cyr Martin that were purchased using stolen money from CROW5.” The woman droned on, listing specific asset targets, such as his home, a movie he invested in, and his stake in multiple companies.
“Wait…” I paused, drawn into the unfolding scene. “Why are they zeroing in on Cyr Martin?”
Reed remained glued to the screen, arms crossed, his ass planted on the front of my desk.
Cyr invited us to mind-blowing parties. A-list bands, ice sculptures, free flowing alcohol. Gorgeous models, infamous celebrities, reality TV stars, now and then a big actor or two filled the floors. I flew out to Singapore once to attend one of his bashes, and he’d set me up in a hotel suite at the Ritz. He’d checked up on me personally, had an overflowing welcome basket for my arrival filled with champagne, scotch, chocolates, cashews. I tossed the Gucci bedroom slippers after texting Reed to ask if Cyr thought I was gay. I’d suspected the short Asian might be coming on to me and I might have to break it to him I flew on the straight and narrow, but then I discovered every single out-of-town guest received these gift baskets worth thousands of dollars. The overweight, jovial guy hardly screamed criminal. Fantastic host? Yes. Deserving of a Justice Department inquiry? Not so much.
He’d sold me on CROW5, although he didn’t have to sell me hard, because Nigel, our managing director, was hot and heavy on including it in the fund. I didn’t have to include it, of course. My fund, my decision. We got out weeks before shit became public, so I figured no harm, no foul.
The U.S. Attorney General concluded her announcement, and reporters’ hands flew up. Reed tugged on his chin then chewed on his thumbnail.
“Dude. What’s up? You pulled all your investments from CROW5 early on, right?” I asked, trying to understand his fixation on a civil suit that didn’t involve our firm. The scandal hit months ago; any fall out should’ve hit last quarter. We both knew Cyr, in a business acquaintance kind of way.
Reed worked in private equity, but we’d been friends for years. We liked the same bars, and he lived near me. He ranked as one of a handful of colleagues I’d become personal friends with while working at Belman.
He chewed on his thumb more, thoughtfully, then answered with his question. “You know pretty much every single firm lost their shirt on CROW5? But we didn’t.”
“We were paying attention. Other firms don’t watch the Asian markets as closely as we do. When the Prime Minister of Malaysia sold his shares, we did too.”
“They start out as civil. It’ll go criminal.” He flipped the channel back to CNBC and muted it. “We are the only investment firm on Wall Street that profited from CROW5. And we were an underwriter.”
“Doesn’t mean anything. You know that.”
“Mark my words. It’s coming here. That investigation.” He pointed at the screen. “It’s coming here. And Nigel is going down.”
Reed’s words landed an oxygen sucking punch. Government investigations never bode well. Our managing director, Nigel Sanford, had been one of Cyr’s closest friends. Ample evidence of the friendship existed in publicity photos, the two in group shots at charity events, and even one or two movie premieres. My assistant, Valerie, read those rags, and she’d always pointed the photos out. Nigel met his current girlfriend, a Victoria’s Secret model, through Cyr. They’d get featured every now and then.
My cell flashed the name “Mom.” I picked up the vibrating phone and answered as I motioned for Reed to leave my office.
“Hey, Mom.” She didn’t call
