Chapter 41
Chapter
When we emerge into the sunlight, I take as many photos for Mom as I can—selfies of our reflections in the Gucci window, in the Prada window, multiple views of the street.
Mark Winterson humors me and snaps a tourist picture of me flashing a peace sign in front of Saint Laurent.
When he hands my phone back, chuckling, he says, “One day you’ll get used to this,” and goosebumps rise on the back of my neck.
He laces his fingers between mine and tugs me into one of the boutiques, the kind I always felt too nervous to enter.
It makes me think of watching Pretty Woman on the couch with Mom while she folded laundry, bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of us.
She loved that movie, watched it again and again.
And now Mark Winterson is leading me around a fancy clothing store, and a saleswoman wearing a matching black knit skirt and top with white piping approaches us.
“Mr. Winterson, pleasure to see you again,” she says brightly, and I wonder how many of the girls with contracts in their inboxes—nullified except for clauses one, four, and five—he’s dressed for an event before.
“Please,” he says, chortling. “Call me Mark. Mr. Winterson is my father.”
I raise a finger. “Could I use your restroom?”
When I get inside, I realize this has to rank among the nicest bathrooms I’ve ever been in: bright tile, mood lighting, sleek wooden end table with a diffuser sitting on it. Wait, is that…a TKCORP aroma diffuser? Maybe my copy worked on someone!
My head is spinning, running back the events in the copy room. Mom can see Zoom. She got into the Xerox machine and the security cameras somehow. What else does she have access to?
I sit on the closed toilet seat and write:
ruby.ocampo:
When you said it would be better for me to date Sam from Sales because he makes more money—how did you even know that?
sampaguita72:
I can see it
ruby.ocampo:
What do you mean?
sampaguita72:
I noticed it
I was trying to tell you and Wendy! You don’t listen!
In here there are all these long hallways and doors and more and more rooms, and I get bored sometimes, go walking
And in one room—you wouldn’t believe it
Everyone’s pay information! Right there in one place!
I can just picture how her eyes would light up at gossip this juicy.
And this means…maybe, theoretically, she could be the key to finding something on Mark Winterson. Something that could help the union, if I ever work up the nerve to ask her.
It’s not like it was easy to ask her for help in life, to begin with—and how could I explain what I’m doing and shatter this illusion for her?
And what if a Slack admin sees?
Until this moment, I thought if someone peeked into the haunted DM, they’d think I was crazy—that I’d created a bot with my mother’s personality as an elaborate coping strategy, maybe. But now I’m tripping over into breaking some serious company data-policy rules.
I guess we can start with that problem first.
I open Signal, panic growing between my ribs, and start writing to Greg.
Ruby:
i just realized my mom has access to all the company systems
what else should we be looking for? if we can get into anything
He’s typing for a while, and I feel my stomach swoop, wondering what he must be feeling.
Greg:
holy shit, okay
i think the books we’re getting in accounting aren’t accurate anymore but a real ledger probably exists somewhere. if they don’t want to run things totally into the ground, they have to be keeping track. you could try searching for spreadsheets on mark winterson’s work drive?
Ruby:
can the slack admins see my messages with my mom?
I need to know before we try this. And I’ll deal with how impossible it feels to ask her for help when I get there.
Greg:
i’ll have ahmed from IT message you
he’s with the union and he set the company up on slack way back—they left the admin rights with him
I stuff my phone in my bag and flush the toilet, washing my hands for good measure and resetting my shoulders before walking outside.
Mark Winterson is sitting in a cushioned chair, legs crossed, reading a print copy of The Wall Street Journal. “You good?” he asks.
“Yeah! Must have eaten something weird.” I come up beside him and he stands and slips an arm around my waist. He leads me around the room, asking me what I think of the dresses on display, but my head’s not in the game. I end up mumbling, “Wow, that’s pretty,” over and over again.
“I don’t think I can afford this,” I say, examining one of the price tags.
He gives me a withering look. “You think I’d take you here and make you pay for it?”
My head has been in a million places, and somehow I hadn’t quite put together that he’s about to drop thousands of dollars on my wardrobe for this wedding.
“I’d like to see you in this one,” Mark Winterson says, plucking a beige dress off the rack.
The woman who works here takes it from him and leads me into the fitting room. And after I’ve carefully slipped into the beige gown with gossamer fabric and delicate beading, paranoid I’m going to rip it if I breathe the wrong way, I check my phone again.
There’s a group DM on Signal where Greg has already explained the entire situation, and Ahmed says he’s going to check it out and report back.
I let out a long, very careful breath and come outside, doing a full turn in front of Mark Winterson’s chair.
The saleswoman hovers next to me, pointing to the detailing on the dress. “Each bead has been carefully affixed by an artisan in rural Tuscany.”
He purses his lips, index finger resting on them, giving me a once- and twice-over. “Mm, it’s a bit plain,” he says finally. “Think we can do better.”
“If you want to make more of a statement, I have just the thing.” She bustles away and brings out an iridescent green dress with an elaborate cutout back.
“Could be fun,” he says.
“Sure! Fun!” I chirp.
Back into the fitting room I go, holding my breath as I slip out of this artisanal dress and rehang it, terrified of accidentally popping off a bead or two.
And standing there in my underwear, I open the chat.
Ahmed:
so I checked out your Slack DM
it’s the strangest thing, but all the messages are a blur when I try to access them
take a look for yourself
He sends me several screenshots, and sure enough, all the text in the DM between ruby.ocampo and ruby.ocampo is obscured behind a gray haze.
Ahmed:
i checked several other people’s DMs with themselves for comparison—yours is the only one like this
same thing across multiple devices
how did you do that? Pretty genius hack
Ruby:
oh gosh, it’s a long story
I’m sweating even though it’s frigid in this dressing room. The little hairs on my exposed back stand on end. We’re actually safe from being seen in there. Something about this haunting must obscure our conversations from the admins.
I could ask Mom for help. I should ask. People are counting on me to figure this out.
“Ruby?” Mark Winterson calls from outside the dressing room. “You good?”
“Do you need help?” the saleswoman’s voice chimes.
“Just a minute!”
I struggle braless into the dress, and it squeezes me like a tube of toothpaste.
“Stunning!” the saleswoman exclaims. “A vision in green.”
“Mm.” Mark Winterson squints. “Of course, you’re stunning in everything. But not quite right for this occasion.”
“All right, something more classic but not too plain,” the saleswoman says. “And it’s a wedding, so no white or black. How about…”
She disappears into the back and returns with a navy floor-length gown with a plunging back.
In the dressing room, I’m halfway out of the green dress, but it’s so skintight, I feel like a molting snake. I could use a breather, so I sit for a second and open Slack on my phone.
I’m being selfish and messy for a good cause! Does that count as an affirmation?
I hold my breath like I’m about to dive into a pool and start to type.
ruby.ocampo:
Mom, I’m trying to find something. Could you help me?
Can you see Mark Winterson’s work drive on there? Do you have access to that?
Just to rule something out, for my peace of mind.
I’m walking a narrow tightrope here, trying to ask for help and not ruin this for her at the same time.
sampaguita72:
Hmm let me see
She doesn’t write back right away, and Mark Winterson is waiting—I can practically see him tapping his foot, sitting in that chair—so I shimmy out of the green dress and into the navy one.
He’s chatting with the saleswoman when I emerge, making her laugh, and a weird knee-jerk jealousy sparks through me.
What is wrong with me? I shouldn’t care who he flirts with now.
“Wow.” Mark Winterson holds a hand out and tugs me closer, beaming in a way that makes my heart hurt. “That’s the one.”
Alone in the dressing room again, I let all the air out of my lungs. But when I check my phone, Mom still hasn’t written back.
ruby.ocampo:
Mom? Are you okay?
sampaguita72:
Be patient, all right! It’s a long walk down this hall
I get changed and check my phone again. Still nothing, but I don’t want to rush her.
So I join Mark Winterson in the front and ignore my spiking anxiety when I see the four-figure price come up at the register. But he hands over his AmEx black card like it’s nothing.
We go to a wine bar afterward, and I say my stomach is bothering me and excuse myself to the bathroom again so I can check my phone.
sampaguita72:
Ah yes I think this is it! I see it! I’m in!
But what are you looking for?
I chew my bottom lip, gaming out how much I can tell her.
ruby.ocampo:
Do you see any spreadsheets?
sampaguita72:
Ruby, what are you doing? Why are you poking around in this man’s drive for spreadsheets?
Going through his emails, his texts, I could understand, but this is strange even for you
Even for me. Well, she’s not wrong.
ruby.ocampo:
You know how people used to have little black books? I think maybe he’s doing that, but in a spreadsheet
sampaguita72:
In a spreadsheet! I don’t understand you kids these days
Is this it? It’s the only spreadsheet in here.
My eyes bug out at the file that’s appeared in my private Slack channel. File name: gerbo.xlsx. But when I try to open it, nothing happens.
ruby.ocampo:
Were you able to see inside?
sampaguita72:
No, it asked me for a password
But look! I also found this
Another document pops up in the channel: password_reminders.docx.
This fool!
I open it, and it’s not a list of plaintext passwords—it’s a series of cryptic hints to jog his memory, little riddles only Mark Winterson would understand.
GERBO doc: Dad motto first two + first deal Erickson told you about + heartbreak year four digits
Man, this guy is more sentimental than you’d think.
I can’t exactly just come out and ask him any of this—I’m going to have to back into it somehow. And how am I going to figure out the first deal Erickson ever told him about? There’s not exactly a casual way to go fishing for that.
For a second, I think wistfully about breaking up with him. But then I’d never be able to live with myself when he lays everyone off.
Amid all my failures and all the ways I feel helpless in my own life, here, finally, is a problem I have a chance of fixing.
And as things spiral more out of control around me, I need to cling to the things I can actually change.
Didn’t I see an inspirational Instagram post once that said something like that?
I come back out, and Mark Winterson slips a bottle of Tums out of his leather briefcase.
“You’re suffering, huh?” he says, depositing a few chalky tablets in my palm.
“Oh, I’ll live.” I pop them in my mouth and chew dutifully. “Always had a weak stomach.”
He wraps his arms around me, hugging me from behind, and whispers in my ear: “Hope you’re feeling better by this weekend.”