In her upcoming novel, “The Deepfake” (She Writes Press, April 2, 2024), lauded author Joan Cohen “succeeds in building tantalizing tension that keeps the pages turning,” according to BookLife. The book has also received high praise from Kirkus with a coveted starred review saying that “readers will easily relate to and root for a woman breaking free of the good-girl mold to find new and genuine purpose.”
Sylvie considers herself a team player at her artificial intelligence (AI) company, but when she uncovers her colleagues’ illegal activities, pleasing everyone becomes impossible. Torn about what to do, she confides in her personal trainer, who’s dismayed not only by the choices she faces but also by her advocacy of AI, a technology he considers dangerous. Despite the barbs the two trade at the gym, they are drawn to each other. If only Sylvie weren’t continually summoned to the Miami estate of her mother and stepfather, where illness, death, a disputed will, and the rekindled ashes of an old flame swirl into a disaster that follows Sylvie back to Boston, bringing harm to her and those she cares about.
Excerpt
I should have known something was wrong as soon as I pulled into the lot at Oak Tree Office Park. Sam never arrived at work before me, yet there was his black BMW in the row closest to the building. It was easy to spot with its glittering hubcaps, like a woman in a black satin gown wearing too much jewelry. As soon as I stepped from my car, I heard my cell phone trilling its heart out in my purse. At that hour, it was unlikely the MacArthur Foundation was calling to award me its genius prize, so I let the message go to voicemail.
Slave to ritual that I was, I never started my workday at AIfuture without stopping first for coffee at Rebecca’s Café, the cafeteria in the lobby of my building. I cared little for the Zen of technology creation and experienced no euphoria from the latest Lilliputian wonders etched on a chip of silicon. What I loved was selling artificial intelligence software, which I really believed in, although no matter what the product was, persuading people to buy was the fun part.
The café was stocked with fresh pastries each morning, so I followed the scent of cinnamon, stopping just long enough to fill a large cup with French roast coffee. The cafeteria was nearly empty except for two young temps stuffing envelopes at a front table, the motion of their hands interrupted only by the tossing of their long locks, as though gravity could be intimidated by sheer repetition. Their position afforded them a view of the new BodySculpt gym entrance across the lobby. “Wow, he’s hot,” I heard one of them comment, and my gaze followed theirs.
Two broad-shouldered physical trainers were greeting clients in the gym’s reception area. Sam, a fellow sales rep from AIfuture, appeared at my side. “What’s the attraction?” he asked, his eyes following my gaze to the BodySculpt entrance. “Nice to see you noticing, Sylvie. I thought you’d taken a vow of abstinence after your divorce.”
“Not abstinence, selectivity.”
“Right.” He turned toward the pastry case and stopped. “Can we grab a few minutes together when you come upstairs? I tried to get you on your cell, but you didn’t answer.” I was not in the frame of mind yet to deal with Sam’s problem, for with Sam there was usually a problem. I had learned not to discount his concerns, though, since he sometimes saw trouble coming before I did. I assured him I’d meet with him as soon as I came upstairs.
I paid for my coffee and crossed the lobby slowly enough to allow my eyes to linger on the gym entrance. Maybe I was a candidate for some weight work or cardio. If I felt old at thirty-four, what would I feel like in a decade? In two decades, I’d be a fossil.
I wasn’t a total neophyte. I had tried jogging years before when Ashton had decreed I should be fit. His motivation was an insufficient replacement for my own, however, so I gave up on exercise, gave up on the whole marriage while I was at it. Wouldn’t he love to think I was falling apart without him to push me?
“Are you here for an appointment?”
“Just some information. I’ve been considering joining a gym.” I hadn’t planned to start my day talking to people in tracksuits, but a little bit of spontaneity couldn’t be bad.
The young man behind the counter extracted a brochure and rate card from a display rack and proffered them ceremoniously, like a Japanese businessman offering his card. “We assign personal trainers to all our clients. Do you have specific physical concerns you’d like to share?”
“Not physical.” I hesitated, while he fixed quizzical blue eyes on my face. “To be honest, the only question I have is whether I can stick to an exercise program. I have so little time and such a poor track record with gym memberships. My ex-husband used to say I was the best thing that ever happened to the fitness industry. I’d pay for a year and stop after three months.”
“You’re hardly unusual.” He laughed. “People never think they can make time for exercise. When they have appointments scheduled, though, exercise becomes part of their routine.”
“Good pitch,” I said. I always had my eye out for clever sales techniques.
“Thanks, but my wife tells me I’m not allowed to pitch anything ever again, at least not to her. She had seven-pound twins last month.” When he grinned, I realized he was younger than his red beard and mustache made him appear and wondered if that was the purpose they served. His jawline was rounded, and he seemed too pleasant to hound anyone into a state of fitness. He extended his hand across the desk and introduced himself as Rob Linde.
The gym did look inviting, not like the industrial-strength facilities Ashton had found for me with their rubber floors, heavy metal music, and muscle-bound clientele. The floor was carpeted, the music pleasant, and in the brightly lit room full of weights and equipment, a woman and a man were working out with trainers. The clients wore shorts and T-shirts, not thongs and spandex.
As a dark-haired trainer in a navy tracksuit approached the desk, I noticed his gait, surprisingly graceful for his stocky, powerful frame. His eyes were hazel beneath unruly brows and curly hair, and his square jaw was covered by a fashionable stubble. Rob made introductions, and I shook a meaty hand, which seemed a strange accompaniment to a preppy name like “Fielding Harris” that would have fit one of Ashton’s friends from the country club. “Fielding,” Rob said, “tell Sylvie how we make sure our clients don’t give up on their exercise programs.”
“Can’t commit to a relationship with a gym? We have ways to change that.”
“Try a single session on the house,” Rob suggested. “We’re running a promotion for ninety days, but I have to tell you, we expect to reach capacity quickly.”
“And you don’t want to be on our waiting list,” Fielding added. “We make people run laps around the parking lot until there’s an opening.” He had a good deadpan delivery. The two of them looked at me expectantly.
“Do you double-team all your prospective clients?”
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