The Last Word by Lisa Lutz Page A

answer. D always writes
     a note when he leaves any documents on my desk. I assumed it could be only one of
     my two disgruntled employees who’d left this for me. I climbed the stairs and knocked
     on the door.
    “We’re sleeping,” Mom said, not sounding sleepy at all.
    “I’m coming in,” I said, counting to five, to give them time to cover up.
    I opened the door to find the unit in bed drinking coffee and sharing the newspaper.
    “We should get a lock on the door,” Mom said to Dad.
    “I’m on it,” he said.
    “Which one of you left the complaint on my desk?”
    “That would be me,” Mom said.
    “Why do these names sound familiar?” I asked.
    “They’re two of the executives at Divine Strategies.”
    “How did D miss this in his research?”
    “Notice how the complaint isn’t stamped?” Mom said. “It was never filed.”
    “Then how did you get it?”
    “I have my ways.”
    My mother has amassed a galaxy of sources throughout the years. With an almost prescient
     understanding that a day like this might come, she has never shared these sources
     with me. In fact, some of these sources she hasn’t even shared with Dad.
    “Well, um, thanks. I appreciate it,” I said.
    “No problem.”
    “Are you guys coming into work today?”
    “I don’t know,” Dad said, shrugging his shoulders. “There’s something at the museum
     we’re thinking about seeing.”
    There was nothing at the museum they were thinking about seeing. If there were ever
     two people who cared less about art, I hadn’t met them. Still, my mother had given
     me evidence on a case that I wouldn’t otherwise have had. I considered it progress.
    “Have a nice day,” I said.
    I returned to the office and searched for anyone named Sheila Givens who lived in
     San Francisco, Contra Costa, or Marin County during the time of the complaint. I narrowed
     the search to women who would now be no older than fifty-five or younger than thirty-two.
     I had five names left and I ran a credit check on each one, hoping the employment
     history would go back far enough to reference Divine Strategies. I found the plaintiff
     SheilaGivens living in Tiburon. I phoned her home line and got her answering machine. Since
     the complaint was never filed, I had to assume it wasn’t a subject she wished to discuss,
     so I left a message claiming to be from an asset recovery firm and waited for her
     call.
    She called. They always call. And then they are profoundly disappointed when they
     realize that no assets in their name have been recovered. I apologized profusely,
     explained the situation, and solicited her help, hoping that she had that common and
     very human need to share. It’s always surprising the things that strangers will tell
     you. Any woman who has found herself in a public restroom can attest to this fact.
    “I’m sorry,” Sheila said. “I can’t help you.”
    “You filed a complaint. Something must have happened.”
    “It was a long time ago,” she said.
    “That doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten.”
    “Please don’t call me again.”
    “Has anything like this happened to anyone else?”
    “I can’t help you,” she said again. “And you’d be wise to let this thing go.”
    And I might have, if she hadn’t offered that final reproof.
    That afternoon I dropped by Slayter’s office to give him the report on Divine Strategies
     and take Charlie Black sweater shopping. Damien was in Slayter’s office doing whatever
     lawyers do.
    “Isabel, you remember Damien, right?”
    “No,” I said. “Have we met?”
    “You do look vaguely familiar,” Damien said.
    “Don’t encourage her juvenile sense of humor,” Slayter said.
    “If you’re going to insult me,” I said, “the least you can do is validate my parking.”
    “Would you please show some manners?” Edward said, nodding his head in the general
     direction of Damien.
    “Nice to see you again,” I said.
    “A pleasure,” Damien said.
    “Tonight I think