She clicked on the email and, sure enough, a bank statement was displayed. How was this possible? She read through the displayed text and columns of numbers carefully. It appeared as though a fake checking account had been created in her name. Not only that, but out of that account a series of checks had been written to various companies and individuals—the amounts subtracted from a starting balance of zero.

Which, according to the statement, meant that she was currently in debt to the tune of $3,249.

This was not only a major mistake on someone’s part, but it had the potential to completely screw up her credit rating. And she didn’t like the fact that the statement was sent to her work email. Such lax cybersecurity could lead to identity theft and God knew what else.

Only maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe all of it was intentional.

This penis isn’t going to suck itself.

Was the bank, or, more specifically, Mr. Worthington, making a purposeful effort to sabotage her? Anita couldn’t rule it out, and she picked up the phone next to the computer and dialed the 800 number listed on the statement. She didn’t get through to a person but had to listen to the options on a recorded menu before requesting to talk to “a customer service representative.”

Worthington came on the line.

Neither of them mentioned their last exchange, and the banker was polite and solicitous after she’d explained her problem, cancelling the fake account, removing all charges associated with her name and apologizing to her for the “misunderstanding.” She was left with no place to go, the situation having ostensibly been resolved. She was still angry, but there was no longer anything for her to be angry about, and she hung up before she said something that made things worse. She had the distinct feeling that this was merely the first skirmish in a much longer war, and for the rest of the morning she was out of sorts, using each spare moment to check her email and make sure the bank had not involved her in anything else.

“Hey,” Jen said when Dr. Wilson closed the office for an hour shortly before twelve. “Do you have any plans for lunch?”

“Not really.”

“Want to go out? My treat.”

“Sure. But I’m paying my own way. You’re not exactly swimming in money right now.”

Jen smiled. “You’re right. And thanks.”

“Do you want to go to Juan Wang’s?”

“I was thinking B.B.’s. I’m in need of some comfort food.”

“Sounds good. I’ll drive,” Anita offered.