36. Accidentally Activated
accidentally activated
Mirren
“How’s your case?” she asks over the wind and Wilson Phillips’ “Hold On.”
“About that—”
Her head whips my way in shrewd assessment. “What did you do?”
There it is. Assumption. Judgment. Reduced expectations. Why is it only me? Some moms live vicariously through their daughters cheerleading, dancing, or pageants. Why must mine live vicariously through my job? It’s not glamorous. It’s a job.
But I know the answer. She got pregnant with Charlie earlier than she planned.
She was going to be a career spy something like James Bond—only American, female, with less sex appeal and more sarcasm.
She doesn’t blame Charlie. Or any of us, but getting her fix through me is her jonesing for a rewind.
“How about you don’t assume the worst?” That sounds too small when I mean it to be more defensive. “Also, for this moment can you be my mom first and not some spokesperson for your former agency?”
She yanks the car into a parking lot of a western wear store and throws it into park. If she could’ve fishtailed it into the spot and walked out with the tires still smoking, she would have. Just for the effect. Hell, she had Dad write that scene into a movie about her life.
“Talk to me, Mirren.”
“I’m trying, Mom. And to be clear, I need someone to talk with, so I’m asking you to leave your credentials and accomplishments outside.”
She twists sideways in her seat and puts her back to the door. “I can do that. Tell me.”
I do. I tell her about Charlie knowing Strider, her throwing me into his chest, and him renting my house. That part she knew—it’s the only way I could convince her not to come up to my apartment that day. She’d have blown her cover and mine if he’d seen her and met her.
I tell her about Price O’Neill or Sal Smith, whatever his name is, and him losing his shit on Strider, and the jailbreak.
“I know Sal’s family, actually. I know stories about him. Yeah, he has a temper, but nothing like that. I bet he’s on administrative leave over that stunt.”
That stunt? I sigh, because I haven’t even gotten to that part.
“I’m dating him.”
“Mirren! He’s married. And the Smiths? No!”
I extend a palm her way. “Stop. No. Strider Anderson.”
Her eyes pop wide, her brows lifting, and her mouth pops into a little ‘O.’ Surprising Mom, aside from pranks and tomfoolery is hard to do. Cartoon me slashes a one in the air. Real me resists with every bit of discipline in my body.
“Charlie’s friend? That the agency is actively investigating? Mirren, I—”
I cut her off. “Do you trust your gut?”
“Unequivocally.”
“As I trust mine.”
“Oh. So…”
“So, they’re investigating the wrong man—”
“Or they’re framing him,” Mom slides into the sentence, going where I never wanted to.
“Or they’re framing him,” I repeat quietly. “And since I had to recuse myself from the assignment…”
“Do nothing, Mirren. This is your career you’re messing with.”
She says nothing of my life they’re messing with.
Or Strider’s.
After several long moments of watching cars fly by on the highway, I say quietly, “You, of all people, shouldn’t make such a suggestion. You know I can’t do that.”
“Well then…” Her eyes laser in on mine and her face turns mischievous. “You’re going to need help.”
Oh, fuck! I accidentally activated June Jones.
Strider
Monday rolls into Tuesday. Tuesday becomes Wednesday, but Wednesday brings an audit from state authorities on how we’re servicing our customers. They want to investigate our books, deep-dive the business, and interview employees.
The one-two punch of O’Neill and losing his crew was enough.
The three-four of an audit this invasive is exhausting.
I scrambled all day Wednesday and Thursday with authorities demanding this piece of documentation and that.
On Friday morning, at my wits’ end, I arrive to find my desk commandeered by some badged official who has logged into my computer and has a flash drive attached.
And my patience is at an end.
I step out to call our company attorney since this is well beyond any policies or procedures the State of Illinois requires for contractors, even during set up.
A thought hits me. I text my brother-in-law-to-be.
I hate to ask, but I know you have skills.
I need intel. The company is being forcibly raided right now by state authorities, but something isn’t sitting right in my gut.
They’re way too invasive with the requirements based on what we have to account for.
Those reports are filed as required by law with the state.
(Not to mention the IRS and all the other BS hoops we jump through.)
I need an internal audit that will show me what I don’t know I’m missing. Let me know what you need to dig in and how much I owe you. If you need to farm it out, I trust your judgment.
Liam
The fuck? Let me start. I’ll ask Cian’s wife, Sariah, to do the same. She’s sneaky, and we worm in different ways. No money, brother. I’ll get back to you quickly.
That’s it. One ask and he’s on it and his sister-in-law is too.
Finally, I call Dad.
“Hello?”
“Dad, hey. Can you come to the office?” I pace and speak in hushed tones.
“What’s going on?”
I give him the run down. It isn’t because he runs the company or has any real stake, but because I need someone to remind me to stay calm. “I could use someone friendly at my back.”
“You make it sound like you’re under attack.”
It’s starting to feel that way.
“Just when you can. I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can.” He clicks off, and I slide my phone in my pocket and wander to Kathy’s office.
Closing the door on our human resources manager’s office, I scrape a hand down my face and ask something that haunts me, “What happens if we accidentally compromise everyone’s social security numbers?”
Her mouth goes slack, and her spine shoots ramrod straight. “Besides being sued into extinction?
A knock behind me surprises us both.
The man who’d decided my desk was his own and my business was his to rifle through stands on the other side of the glass door.
“We’re done.” He hands an envelope my way, turns on a loafered heel, and walks away.
Sliding a finger under the seal, I get a paper cut that somehow feels more ominous than it should.
I’m right.
The seal on the letterhead is that of the Illinois Bureau of Investigation.
Dear Mr. Anderson,
As per the statutes of the state of Illinois, we officially inform you that you and Electric Peoria are under investigation for fraud. Please do not leave the state. Be prepared for our agents to be on site, at random and at will, for the foreseeable future. Your cooperation is expected.
I don’t read any further. I’m not slow, but I’m certainly not legally-minded. But what in the hell could the IBI be investigating us for? And why would that state contractor’s board be serving this letter on their behalf.
I wasn’t wrong when I told Liam something in my gut is unsettled. How can I even begin to settle this mess?
But more importantly, why am I in it? And why has Electric Peoria gone from fine to hell on wheels since I returned from Alabama?
Only two things have changed—resigning my place on the board and Mirren Jones.