Chapter Four-and-Twenty #2
“Shortly after that, Pedersen asked IT to give Winkworth administrator access to the database,” he continues. “The same level as yours.”
I suck in a breath, recalling the sign outside the workroom door and Geoff’s apparent promotion.
“I happened to get the request when it came through, and I … well, I did the digital equivalent of shoving it to the bottom of a very long to-do list. And I didn’t mention it to you, didn’t warn you, because I didn’t want to upset you.
I thought I had it handled.” There’s an incredulous note in his voice, like he still can’t believe his tech genius failed him.
“When Pedersen followed up after I left town, before you went to New York, I’m sure whoever processed it thought the previous request had simply been overlooked.
That’s how Winkworth got access to the database to take credit for your work. ”
Fisher may blame himself, but all I can think is, no wonder Professor Pedersen looked so guilty this afternoon when he told me his version of what had happened.
“And the worst of it is, I had a rationale for denying him that would’ve been a lot stronger than a computer virus and bad vibes.” He pauses to draw a deep breath, as if whatever is about to come requires fortification. “Did he ever tell you that before he came here, he lived in California?”
I sift through my memories of our conversations. “Um, yeah, actually. He said he was at Stanford.”
I can’t be sure, but I think Fisher rolls his eyes at that.
“Anyway, about a year ago, he managed to cross paths with my sister. He … charmed her.” Something about the way he says the word charmed makes me think it’s euphemism for seduced.
Or maybe something worse yet. “And he very nearly scammed her out of a great deal of money.”
I stifle a gasp. I can only imagine what constitutes a great deal of money to the Davis family.
“Her business relies a lot on reputation and word of mouth. If anyone finds out what happened, what almost happened, it will ruin her. I’m the only person she told, but she never knew I’d actually met the guy … until she spotted him a few weeks ago in a hotel lobby in New York.”
Oh my God. I shiver, remembering that day, the day we all went to Rockefeller Center. The day I rescued Geoff at the coffee shop. The real significance of that stack of declined credit cards.
“It shook her up to see him again, of course, and especially to think that you had any connection to him. She’s determined to keep everyone, particularly our father, from finding out what happened, and she got it into her head that his turning up in Grantham, where I was, couldn’t be a coincidence, that you and Winkworth might be working together to—”
He makes a gesture, rather than finish the sentence, and I’m left to imagine what she suspected: Blackmail?
Extortion? Did she think that my relationship with her brother was a ruse to get to her father and bring down the whole Davis family?
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. When Fisher saw us together that night, did he wonder—even for a moment—whether she was right?
“Why didn’t you say something? Or if you couldn’t right then, why didn’t you call me later to explain?” It’s no longer a matter of not trusting me with Geoff; it’s the idea he felt he couldn’t trust me with his family, with the truth.
I can see he’s gnawing on the inside of his cheek, which makes me a little afraid of his answer. “Gaby swore me to secrecy. And anyway, her experience made it obvious that Winkworth was primarily interested in money—”
“And I don’t have any.” It’s true, after all.
Fisher’s voice is softer when he adds, “I should have considered the value of what you’d found.
To say nothing of your value to me. But you made it pretty clear, at the end, that you didn’t want to hear from me,” he reminds me.
“Still, I must have started a hundred messages.” When greeted with my dubious expression, he grabs his phone from the ottoman, swipes it open, and turns it toward me.
On the screen is his drafts folder. All I can see is the first line of a dozen unsent texts:
I know I shouldn’t be writing you
Would you want to know if my
I was thinking about the last time
And to drive the point home, he nudges the screen with his thumb, scrolling to a second page, and a third, all the way to the oldest of them, the time stamp of which suggests he must have composed it in the elevator right after leaving my hotel room. I wish I could tell you— it begins.
To think, I once believed he was a lousy communicator.
“I thought,” he says, “by not sending them, I was honoring your wishes. I was trying, for once, to do the right thing.”
A wave of something like panic rises into my throat, stealing my breath. “What would have happened if we hadn’t run into each other at the Grind?”
“I don’t believe in luck,” he says, in what I suspect he thinks of as a reassuring tone and not, say, borderline egotism. “The universe makes sure everything is right where it’s supposed to be, just when it needs to be there.”
I’m not sure I buy that. Lately, I’m much more familiar with the universe’s power to take things away. “If that’s true,” I demand, “then why, when the universe flung me into your path again, did you just walk away?”
He winces. “Several reasons—hopefully not all equally bad,” he says, and starts to tick them off on his fingers.
“Caught off guard. Totally dumbstruck by the reminder of how beautiful you are. Sneaking suspicion that your friend Cassie possesses the ability to kill people with a look.” He laughs at his little joke—though I’m not sure he’s wrong about Cass—and the sound coaxes the tiniest smile from me, the sight of which seems to fortify him.
“Mostly though, once I knew what had happened, it was like a switch flipped in my brain and, uh, the IT side took over. I realized I finally had a way to destroy Winkworth without exposing my sister, and all I could focus on was getting to a computer and confirming my hypothesis about the database login.”
The story is awkward-tech-nerd Fisher at its finest, and so ridiculous, I can’t help but believe him.
“So, what you did—turning him in, getting him kicked out—was all to avenge your sister?”
“No,” he insists. “Or at least, not entirely. And I–I’m sorry if this makes me a philistine, but you should know that I didn’t do it for the sake of this novel everyone is so worked up about, either.”
My breath is so tight in my lungs it’s an effort to squeeze out the words “Then why?”
His dark eyes search my face. “I did it for you, Elle. Because I–I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy. Because I still … care for you. I never stopped. I thought if I fixed things, then maybe someday you’d forgive me. And if you couldn’t—can’t—well, I understand. I brought that on myself.”
That’s not entirely true, and I know it. He was exhausted, worried about his father—and also, I now know, his sister—and that awful, fateful night in the hotel, I told Geoff to stay and all but pushed Fisher out the door.
“At least this way,” he says, dropping his gaze, “you’ll get credit for your work.”
His palm has been resting on his thigh just above the almost-rip in his jeans, and when he finishes speaking, his hand slides off his leg onto the couch cushion, like he wants to reach for me but doesn’t know whether he should.
At that tiny, uncertain gesture, something in me begins to soften. The ice around my heart, which has only gotten thicker since New York, starts to thaw.
I have to swallow to get words past the lump in my throat. “You know, for a pretty smart guy, you’re kind of an idiot.”
His chin pops up and his eyes scan my face, as if he can’t quite believe what he heard. I see a flicker in their dark depths—amusement, maybe, but mostly hope. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I am. No kind of about it.”
I slide my palm across the smooth leather of the couch and interlock his fingers with mine.
He leans toward me, coming in for a kiss I think, then pauses.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he says. “I don’t think I realized how …
necessary you’d become, until you weren’t there.
Until I had to try to fall asleep without hearing your voice.
Until I couldn’t reach out and—” Trembling fingers brush a loose strand of hair away from my eyes, tuck it behind my ear.
“I’m here now,” I murmur.
“Yes.” A breath shivers from him and he squeezes shut his eyes. “Unfortunately, I’m scheduled to leave Grantham for good in the morning.”