Chapter 26
26
“We really do need to finish your performance review, so Carly can add it to your file,” Peter says the second he pops his head into my office on Monday morning.
I spin in my desk chair to face him. “We were together all weekend. Why didn’t you bring this up then?”
He glances behind him toward the empty hallway before stepping fully into my office. A smirk brightens his face as he leans against the closed door. “We were busy doing other things.”
We were indeed. A wave of heat washes over my suddenly sensitive skin as the memories of all the new things we taught each other play in my mind. A vivid highlight reel of pleasure.
I narrow my eyes at him, suddenly suspicious that I’m not nearly as sore today as I was last week. “You are conditioning me, Dr. Carrington.”
His mouth widens to a full-blown smile. “Yep.”
I chuckle at his lack of denial. I also cross my arms and legs in a way that shows off all the assets I’m not covering today.
A thrill of power shoots through me as Peter’s gaze sweeps from my stilettos, up my bare legs, up further to plumped breasts before settling on my lips. If we can’t be anything more than bed partners, then I’ll enjoy this to the fullest at least.
His voice comes out as a husky growl. “And you’re torturing me, Dr. Fowler.”
I smile. “Yes.”
At the sound of voices in the hallway, all traces of arousal evaporate from his expression. As if he has the ability to control his emotions with the snap of his talented fingers. “Just be safe if you have to go in the lab for any reason, okay? I don’t want a single drop of acid leaving marks on your skin. That’s my job.”
I’m tempted to scoff at his assumption that I would not take all necessary precautions in the lab. Instead, I lick my lips. Indicating I know better than to waste a single drop of anything he gives me.
He raises a single finger in my direction. “Behave yourself. We’re at work.”
“I am your humble employee, Dr. Carrington,” I say in my best seductive voice.
He grimaces as he covertly adjusts himself in his dress pants. “It’s not ethical for me to do your review, but I can’t think of a good enough reason to ask anyone else to conduct it. Not without giving us away.”
“It’s also not ethical that I haven’t been much of an asset to the team since I’ve spent the majority of my time on Chet’s little mole hunt,” I add. Petulantly. “I wish this would be over with, so I can do some real work.”
So I won’t feel used as a pleasure provider again.
He nods, his eyes sympathetic. “I’ll let you get back to it then. The sooner you clear everyone in the building, the sooner Chet can find some other game to keep himself busy.”
Long after Peter lets himself out of my office, I stare at the space he vacated. I’ve been increasingly aware that I need to clear everyone in the building rather than focus solely on the engineering team, but I haven’t acted on those suspicions yet.
With a huff of frustration—mostly at myself—I turn back to my computer to expand my security log searches to all employees at Paramus.
Hours upon hours of analyzing badge swipes, after-hours activity, and lab logs yields no new trail to follow.
I rub my forehead where a stress headache pounds.
“You’re thinking of this the wrong way,” I mutter to myself.
I have to take someone else’s perspective. See what they see in the world. Hear what they hear. Feel what they feel.
I have to use my heart and my gut.
A bionic interface has the power to heal humanity. It can never replace actual humans.
If I wanted to save proprietary information, how would I do it? This is a secure building, a locked-down system. I can’t simply upload files to an external flash drive. There has to be another way.
I jerk out of my focus when my computer chimes with an incoming email.
From Oscar.
I don’t care that it’s not Wednesday. I need a cure for the Monday blues. Happy Hour, Ladies & Gents. Happy. Hour.
The usual spot. 6pm.
PS—Carrington and Fowler, be there. No excuses.
We’re onto you.
With my heart in my throat, I click on the attachment. It’s a photo of Peter holding my hand at the restaurant last week. Before we knew our coworkers were there. He’s smiling at me. Goofily.
I slap my own forehead as punishment for my stupidity.
“That’s it!” I yell to myself.
By the time I reach the large table where my coworkers are all laughing and drinking together, I’m so out of breath that I can’t speak.
One by one they notice me standing here, gasping for air as though I’ve just run a marathon.
Sadly, my test of endurance isn’t nearly over.
Even more sadly, I must look like my death is imminent.
Peter leaps from his seat so quickly that his chair falls over, hitting another bar patron in the back. He ignores the screech of protest and wraps his hands around my upper arms, his eyes as wild as I feel. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, lick my lips. Attempt to swallow moisture into my mouth at the same time as gasping for oxygen. Choke a little.
Peter pats my back.
In lieu of words forming, I hold out my hand.
He grabs it then puts his free hand on my forehead. “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
“Your phone,” I rasp. “Give me your phone.”
“Oh, shit!” Oscar laughs then slaps the table, jolting me out of my focus. “She’s already checking his DMs!”
I do not have time to address their suspicions.
Peter, however, does not share my sense of urgency. He withdraws his hands from my person then whispers, “Elise. What is going on? ”
“Give me your fucking phone!” I shout in his face, my panic escalating.
There must be an explanation. A rational one. Not one fraught with emotions such as disappointment, embarrassment, self-loathing, rage.
Then again, emotions are all I’m running on. I refuse to believe what the data is telling me.
Reluctantly, Peter hands over his cell. Whether it’s to silence my obscenities or to appease the curious onlookers doesn’t matter.
I scroll furiously through contacts, call logs, text messages, his multiple email browsers.
Of course, there’s nothing here. Nothing incriminating but also nothing exonerating.
Because this isn’t a secure server. A cell phone is easily searchable, even after deleting data.
Grasping at straws, I stare up at him. “Were you ever in a romantic relationship with Maeve?”
“What?” Peter rears his head back as if my words have physically assaulted him. “Why would you even ask me that?”
Joel rises from his seat, his concerned gaze bouncing between us like he’s navigating a field of land mines. “We’ve all witnessed him turn her down. Repeatedly.”
“Did you treat her one way publicly while engaging in any type of relationship with her privately?” I press.
Peter places his hands on his hips, his nostrils flaring. “Are we really doing this again? I thought we were past this. You promised me, Elise. You fucking promised me.”
“I’m keeping my promise,” I insist. “This is me—talking to you directly instead of running. I’m putting everything on the line to trust my instincts instead of my logical reasoning!”
He swipes a hand down his face then stretches his neck to address his muttered words to the ceiling. “You’re talking at me without saying anything at all. I can’t keep doing this to myself. There’s no possible way for me to work hard enough to achieve this goal.” He levels me with a resigned expression. “You are never going to love me the way I love you.”
I grab onto the unbuttoned collar of his dress shirt and shake the fabric. It’s better than wrapping my hands around his neck. “I do love you, you idiot! I’m trying to protect you!”
“No.” He shakes his head then uncurls my fingers from his shirt, one by one. “You’re still trying to protect yourself. I haven’t given you any reasons to run this time, so you’re searching for a reason that isn’t there.”
“You’re right,” I whisper as I become acutely aware of our coworkers staring at us with various expressions of shock and concern. “I have plenty of reasons not to trust you.” I lift my chin in defiance of their judgment of me. “I’m doing it anyway.”
I walk out of the bar, maintaining a posture of confidence. The old fake it ‘til I make it tactic. It mostly works until I’m sitting in the freezing interior of my car, contemplating my next move.
The evidence is damning. There’s no question about that.
Months’ worth of emails from Peter to Maeve, all containing attachments of design blueprints, notes on errors and potential fixes, lab procedures, ideas for future projects.
All sent via secure work email addresses. The AI security protocols never flagged anything because all the information stayed in-house. Not a single attempt to save anything to an external device. Nothing printed out, even at the office.
Maeve must have copied all the designs by hand. That doesn’t explain why Peter emailed the attachments to her in the first place. These designs weren’t at levels of marketability yet. They hadn’t even been proven. If I look at the facts objectively, then they’re at least partners in these crimes .
That’s how it will look to an outside investigator who doesn’t know Peter the way I do.
They’ll look at just the facts, ma’am. Nothing else.
Okay, okay. How does it look from an unbiased perspective?
Peter already has access to all the files. If he wanted to sell them, he didn’t need to involve a second party. That inherent risk makes no sense.
What’s the missing connection?
Could she be blackmailing him somehow?
If so, what’s her leverage?
There’s no proof that she’s the ringleader of their little operation. Even if there was, it wouldn’t matter. Peter is still culpable at this point, regardless of his reasons.
Tears of frustration leave hot streaks against my cold cheeks.
Another epiphany rolls over my anxiety-ridden shoulders. I can’t ignore the bad emotions this time. I can’t suppress them and pretend they don’t exist to avoid the pain.
I have to feel it. I have to go all the way to the bottom of this well of poison if I’m going to solve this unsolvable problem.
The only way out is through.
That little voice inside my head grows in insistence. Because I’m letting it this time. I’m falling down the rabbit hole of agony willingly.
He lied to our coworkers so easily when confronted about their building suspicions of our relationship. Where I stumbled, he ran.
Was it me who insisted we keep our romance out of the office? Or did he expertly maneuver me into suggesting it, so he wouldn’t have to?
I succumb to the deeper, darker pull of the beliefs I clung to as a means of self-preservation the last time Peter cut me so deeply.
He did move on quickly and easily after me. With Maeve .
He only engaged me again to distract me from his partnership with her.
That’s why she’s always been frosty toward me. Not only did he step out on her with me, but I’m a threat to their financial gains.
Peter’s always loved money more than me.
I barely register someone climbing into the passenger seat of my car.
“Elise?” Finley asks softly. “What’s going on?”
I laugh through my tears. “I can’t tell you. You should be grateful, too. Ignorance is bliss. Just know that your job is safe, and this will all be over soon.”
I choke out the last few words. It was over before it ever began.
Peter will go to jail for his crimes. Because I can’t fix this for him. No matter how much my heart insists he’s innocent. My mind can’t find anything to exonerate him with.
“Hey.” Finley reaches across the console to pry one of my hands off the steering wheel.
I didn’t even realize I was gripping it so tightly.
“I’m not asking about work. I’m asking about my friend,” he insists as he rubs my fingers in a soothing motion. “Do you really believe Peter’s cheating on you with Maeve?”
I cough out a watery laugh. It’s almost a slap in the face that someone cares about my personal problems now. “Why would you think there’s anything between me and Peter?”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Why would you think a bunch of high-level engineers are stupid enough not to recognize there’s something between you and Pete?”
“What gave us away?” I pry my hand from his grasp to swipe my coat sleeve against my damp face.
It was probably Peter’s stupid whistling before that damning photo was ever taken .
“Aside from the way Pete damn near lost his shit when Goulding announced you as our newest hire?” he asks with a rhetorical tone.
With painstaking effort—literally—I pull myself from wallowing to focus on the task at hand. There’s nothing like starting from the beginning to figure out how everything unraveled so quickly. “How did that go down, exactly? Did Chet announce my hire to everyone, or to Peter privately? How did Peter lose his shit? Be specific.”
Finley chuckles as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Goulding must have told him privately because it was Pete who called the all-staff meeting to announce your impending arrival. The guy has always been methodical about the way he runs the department, but this was next level. He insisted that everything be perfect.”
I scoff. “I distinctly remember the recycling bin overflowing onto the floor when I arrived. He lied and said he was at a conference all week instead of meeting with me. Nothing was perfect.”
I’m a liar. I know it was Peter who installed those bookshelves for me. And found me a new little heart that he left on the shelf.
“Yeah, well.” Finley shakes his head with a rueful smile. “In his defense, managing us is like herding cats.”
“He compares it to managing a frat house actually,” I admit.
I’m not trying to sow bad blood between Peter and his employees. I’m simply telling the truth. The truth is the only thing that can set Peter free. If I can just uncover it.
Finley laughs. “Yeah. I can see that.”
We sit in awkward silence for several minutes before he says, “Turn the car on. You’re freezing.”
I ignore his demand and press on with my investigation. “Am I the first new, outside hire since the R&D division started? ”
Finley nods, studying me with a furrowed brow.
“So, you have no basis for comparison. Peter—Dr. Carrington—may have acted similarly if anyone else was brought into the department.”
Finley tips his head. “Do you think we’re all stupid frat boys, too?”
“Are you?”
My words are harsh, but my silent plea cloaked in derision borders on embarrassing.
Give me something. Something I can use.
Finley smiles softly as he maintains a direct gaze. “Maybe, but we’re not blind.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He’s not acting like my friend. He’s not even giving me any good intel.
Finley just continues to stare at me evenly then suddenly points at his eyes. “It doesn’t take a PhD to notice the way that man looks at you. We might be geeks who don’t have the strongest social skills, but we’ve honed our observation skills for decades. We’re scientists. We recognize facts when we see them with our own two eyes.”
A lightning bolt shocks my brain into functioning at its highest levels again.
“What did you just say?”
“Eyes, Dr. Fowler,” Finley says slowly like my comprehension skills are lacking. “We have eyes. We’ve all seen the way he looks at you like you’re the center of his universe.”
“My eyes!” I shriek into the freezing air. “I have eyes!”
Finley nods slowly. “Suuuuuure…”
This is no time to concern myself with what he obviously thinks of me. I’ll salvage my reputation later.
“Get out,” I tell him.
“Maybe I should drive you home. ”
“Get out!” I yell at him. “I have work to do!”
“It couldn’t have been him! All of the emails were sent on Wednesday nights!” My laughter sounds unhinged as it echoes back to me through the phone. “He isn’t even there on Wednesdays! Our entire team goes to happy hour at a local bar!”
Crickets.
I’m not remotely joking, but Chet isn’t laughing anyway.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty. The middle of the night might not have been the best time to lodge my request. The man has a young child. He likely doesn’t sleep much on a regular enough basis to maintain stable emotional regulation.
“Wait a fucking minute,” Chet says, the tone of his voice seething even over the phone. “That wasn’t a brilliant spy move! You actually fell in love with that asshole!”
I wince at his accurate accusation. “If you’ll recall, I vehemently denied playing Dr. Carrington at any sort of game. I never lied to you, Chet.”
“The hell you didn’t,” he roars. “You told me you stayed with him when you were sick. You admitted you knew each other during grad school. You never said you were fucking him because your heart got involved!”
I resist the urge to remind him that he was the one who insisted sex was a tradeable commodity, not me.
“This has nothing to do with that,” I say calmly instead. “I’m thinking about this logically. Why would they need to work together when Peter has access to everything as the director? Why would he get involved with a marketing employee who likely can’t understand the significance of the designs? Why would he split the profits with someone else? If you’ll take a moment to calm down, you’ll see that I’m right. These are all logical conclusions to the evidence. I’m not asking you to prove my theory. All I’m asking for is the security footage to determine how she accessed his computer.”
“You want the security footage, so you can erase your boyfriend’s involvement,” he sneers.
“Chet.” I rub my aching forehead. This conversation is going nowhere fast. If I can’t make him listen to reason, then I can use his own ego against him. “Listen to yourself. You’re a brilliant and careful businessman. You do everything in triplicate. Why would I bother to erase security footage, knowing that you would never hand over the original files?”
It’s better than asking why he’s never thought to view the security footage at all. Something I’m definitely kicking myself over. No one ever assumes the obvious though. That’s why they say hindsight is twenty-twenty.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t give you the originals of anything. Just like I won’t allow you to continue this investigation now that I know the full extent of your bias.”
“Fine,” I agree even though it goes against my nature to hand over the reins to someone else when I’m so close to completion. Especially because I’d previously discussed my inherent bias with him, and he ignored me. “I’ve given you all the information you need anyway. Have one of your private investigators comb the security footage. I guarantee they’ll find Maeve in Peter’s office at the exact dates and times that the emails were sent.”
Chet scoffs. “You guarantee it? I can’t believe you—of all people—are being so blind to cold, hard facts.”
I almost was. I almost let my mind run away from me. It would have been so much easier to fall back onto old habits and not confront this problem head on.
“I didn’t have to call you with this information. I could have buried it. Your paltry software programs and all your expensive investigators didn’t find this proverbial needle in a haystack. I did. Because I know these people well enough to assign meaning to the data. I’m trusting you to finish what I started.”
“You’re finished all right,” Chet says in a clipped tone. “Clean out your office. A security guard will escort you from the building shortly.”
He hangs up before I get a chance to say anything else.
I’m surprisingly tempted to throw my phone against the wall. An adult version of a temper tantrum will not change anything. If I only have a few moments left to investigate, what’s the most efficient, productive use of my time?
I glance around at the empty walls of my office. There’s nothing to distract me, but nothing to inspire me either.
It’s the middle of the night. No one’s here to give me an idea that I wouldn’t have thought of on my own.
I can’t very well barge into the security office and demand to watch the footage. Not when Chet’s likely on the phone with them right now.
Maeve’s office isn’t an option either. I already know she emailed herself the files. She’s been careful enough to fly under the proverbial radar for months. It’s highly unlikely I’ll find any new incriminating evidence there either.
This is a Rubik’s Cube of the worst sort. I don’t even know what colors are on the puzzle, let alone how to line them up.
So, I sit here. Useless. Waiting for the inevitable.
The inevitable arrives with a clearing of his throat and a pained expression.
“Dr. Fowler. I’ll need your access badge. Follow me, please.”
No one comes to rescue me, but at least Frank the night guard is as kind as possible, given the circumstances. It might be because I paid for takeout for the both of us several times. Back when I wasn’t forbidden from sleeping at the office.