Chapter 3 #2
She squinted at me. “But didn’t you inherit fifty percent of the Genetix shares? Who is the next highest shareholder?”
“Each of the Kristiansen children inherited approximately one third of their father’s shares, or what was left of those shares after the public offering thirteen years ago.” I found myself weirdly energized by the conversation and the thought that Dr. Hauser might agree.
She raised a hand, as if signaling a time-out. “Hold on. I thought—please correct me if I’m in error—that the youngest, Andreas, was the one who inherited the estate of his father? That’s what I read in the news.”
“Yes, the personal estate did pass to, uh, the youngest. But the shares were not part of the personal estate. They were part of Oskar’s business holdings, which were always going to be split among the three children equally.”
Hauser picked up a pen and tapped the desktop with it, the motion rhythmic. “But the shares in trust, those are the ones that passed to you? Sorry for all the questions.”
“I don’t mind explaining. It’s all very twisted.
” I tried to parse through only the necessary details, eventually explaining, “Oskar Kristiansen wrote an addendum to his will before he died. Apparently, it stipulated that the shares held in trust would pass to the oldest and first grandchild of Oskar Kristiansen.”
I said “apparently” because I’d received the full text of the real will and its real addendum the week after Paris, and that’s when I realized Andreas had never shown me the actual addendum.
The version he’d let me see in that café so many months ago was a carefully drafted printout that left out several important details: that the personal estate—meaning all his mother’s music, her home in Italy, Oskar’s personal accounts and property—would go to the parent of the first grandchild.
Which, through legal Tetris, meant Andreas alone.
But what became of the business holdings owned by Oskar outright—his remaining shares after using twenty-three percent of his original half for the IPO filing thirteen years ago—was all spelled out in the main will.
Hauser asked, “Can I have some time to think about this?”
“Of course.” I exhaled my relief that she hadn’t flat out turned me down. My only other option was Kaitlyn’s husband. “In the meantime, may I send you some materials my lawyer drafted on what you can expect as the proxy?”
She nodded. “Please do. The more information the better. I promise I will give the matter serious thought. In any case, thank you for thinking of me, Sam.”
We exchanged a friendly goodbye, but just as I stood to leave, Hauser called to me. “Oh, and the department manager will show you where your new solo office is. Please see her on your way out.”
I nodded and headed for the door, grateful to have that conversation done and over with.
In the corridor, the air felt lighter, like the pressure had dropped twenty millibars. I walked past the small faculty efficiency kitchen and almost made it to the elevator before I heard the quick, staccato footfalls of someone in a hurry.
Turning, I spotted James Nieminen. His hair was especially shiny, as if he’d used a liter of conditioner and windshield water repellant. He did a double take when he saw me, then switched directions mid-stride to intercept me.
I braced myself. More or less, he’d kept his distance since the run-in with Andreas way back at the beginning of December. I had no earthly idea why he’d go out of his way to talk to me now.
He greeted me with effusive warmth, the type usually applied to billionaires and infants. “Ah, Sam! A pleasure to see you. I was just on my way to check in with Dr. Hauser. I hope your meeting went well?”
I pasted on a smile. “It did, thanks.” I had no idea why he would know I’d just met with Dr. Hauser.
James exhaled, as though sagging with relief. “Well, that’s great. So exciting that your dissertation will be fast-tracked. Congratulations!”
Before I could respond, he redirected his game-show-host energy to someplace beyond me and waved. “Pardon me, I’m late for a meeting. See you later.” As he jogged past, he added, “Let’s grab coffee and catch up!”
Perplexed, I walked down the hall, half laughing at the memory of how James had popped out from behind a column and snidely called me “Miss Jarlston” on the front steps of the biology building back in December, as though he were some sort of villain in a Jane Austen novel.
Now, after months of avoidance, his familiarity and friendliness were as strange as they were off-putting.
All things considered, I wished he’d go back to avoiding me.
* * *
I decided to leave work early. Kaitlyn’s text from after lunch still flickered in my mental status bar.
Kaitlyn: Another random fever last night. Please, if you can come over tonight and babysit for a bit, I’d appreciate it.
The word please in Kaitlynese was basically code for “please for the love of God, help.”
I texted her back right away.
Sam: Have you been to the doctor? Is it mastitis again?
Kaitlyn: I think it’s a UTI this time. My back and sides hurt. But maybe it’s just a cold?
I noticed she hadn’t responded to my question regarding whether or not she’d gone to the doctor. Thus, I texted Tara shortly after, alerting her that I planned to be outside and ready for pickup by 4:30 PM.
Quickly changing into gym clothes in the locker room—because babysitting my godson was like going to the gym—I entered the stairwell at 4:27 PM. For sure, I’d end up dirty, wet, and red-faced tonight. But I loved Joey, the little stinker.
As I clattered down the linoleum stairs, a list of what to grab from the corner bodega began forming in my mind.
I wanted to make her dinner, something hearty and warm, give Kaitlyn a break.
But I also wanted to get to her place as soon as possible, just in case she was waiting to go to the doctor until I arrived.
Martin was off on a business trip to the West Coast and I knew Kaitlyn didn’t want to take Joey with her to the doctor.
I mean, who—while feeling awful—would want to take a baby with them to a doctor’s appointment? That sounded hellish.
Withdrawing my phone, I thumb typed the shopping list into Notes even as my eyes tracked the landings ahead. Movement caught my attention, and I spotted Dmitry three flights below, descending the last flight of stairs in his signature trench coat and fingerless gloves.
He had an uncanny ability to spot me or sense my presence, so I was surprised when he didn’t look up, didn’t so much as pause on his way to the door.
Maybe he was sleep-deprived? He’d texted me last night around 3:00 AM about some disaster in the new yeast stock and his desperate plan to fake results “so the postdoc wouldn’t cry.
” I knew he would never fake results, he just needed to vent.
But he didn’t respond to my answering text asking if he’d finished reviewing my methods outline yet. And he’d clearly been avoiding me all day. If I wanted his feedback before tomorrow, I would need to corner him now.
Speed walking down the last few flights, I attempted to catch him, my shoes slapping the steps.
At the bottom, I pushed out the stairwell door, rounded the corner, and was surprised by how many people crowded in the lobby.
There must have been a lecture letting out; students clustered by the coffee cart, everyone talking loud enough to bounce their voices off the tile and into my skull.
In the crowd, I could just see Dmitry’s dark hair in the sea of winter hats, heading for the glass double doors.
I thought about calling out, but didn’t.
I’d learned early on that yelling “Dmitry!” at him in public always drew a full 180-degree pivot from the man himself, followed by an annoyed squint, as if he was deeply disappointed that you’d forced him to acknowledge his own name.
And if I yelled now, half the lobby would look, too.
These days, I would rather eat glass than have that many eyes on me at once.
So, I angled for the door, hoping to catch up to him before he left completely.
When I reached the heavy glass double doors, Dmitry was already twenty feet ahead, melting into the sunset haze of the stairs and concrete beyond.
The heat lamps from the building’s overhang haloed the sidewalk in sodium light, and the rest was February gloom and approaching darkness.
Torn, I checked the curb for Tara’s car.
The Mercedes idled just where it always did, hazard lights strobing, but Tara wasn’t outside yet.
That meant it wasn’t technically safe to leave the building, which was one of the many personal safety rules I now followed.
You do not leave the building until you see Tara standing outside the car, at the curb.
If the car isn’t there at all yet, you call.
If she doesn’t pick up, you call the backup number.
I pressed my palm to the cold door, peering through to scan for the other security guys, spotting them walking along the sidewalk.
They always wore subtle suits and stood just close enough to be inconspicuous but not so close as to look like bodyguards.
I watched as they made a slow walk past the benches, then nodded to each other.
I hesitated.
Two times since Christmas, both on Tuesdays, Henrik had shown up outside the biology building.
The first was six weeks ago—the first week back from winter break—when I’d been reckless enough to walk to the curb alone.
Henrik had been leaning against the lamppost, arms crossed, a thin white envelope in hand.
He’d tried to talk to me, but I’d gone straight for the car, and security had intercepted.
The second time was two weeks ago. Same spot, different weather.
He’d been waiting behind the newspaper box, and again, the security guys had gotten there first. I didn’t know if he was doing it to intimidate me, or if he actually wanted to talk, or if it was just another way to remind me that I was always being watched.
My eyes sought out Dmitry. He’d stopped walking and was standing near the bike rack, turning left, then right.
I still had time to corner him if I hurried.
The security guards were both in sight and seemed to be at ease.
Thus, I made the executive decision to break protocol and leave the building before Tara emerged from the Mercedes.
My guards were in sight, and I felt much more capable these days of defending myself since I’d started going to Tara’s kickboxing class three times a week.
Not only that, but Tara had also taken me to a gun range a few times, telling me that I should at least know how to use a gun—and where the safety was located, and how to aim and handle it—if I ever needed to disarm someone.
Leaving the building, the cold hit my face like a slap while I scanned the stairs, sidewalk, and street for anything out of place. Finding nothing, I kept my head down, fingers curled around my phone in my coat pocket.
Dmitry still loitered by the bike rack and I jogged toward him. I was maybe fifteen feet away, his name on the tip of my tongue, when someone else called out, “Dmitry!”
My steps faltered and my entire nervous system seized up at the voice, extremely familiar and not at all expected. I watched, frozen, as Dmitry pivoted. Instinctively, I followed his line of sight. There, not twenty feet away, looking just as brutally handsome and aloof as ever.
Andreas.