Chapter 9
ELIZABETH
I haven't checked in on Arthur and Irene for a few days. Not since I had the interview at Knight Enterprises.
After the presentation I went back home and finished working on a penetration-testing report for a client. I had some things to figure out, and I used being busy to block out all thoughts about the interview.
And to block out Matteo Knight.
I haven't heard anything back from Knight Enterprises. Not that I expected to hear anything. It's only been two days, and the weekend is here.
All I've done today is bake.
It's what I do when I'm stressed.
I love to bake because it reminds me of one of my foster homes. The woman who took me in was a free spirit with a huge heart. She baked every day and I’d wake up to the warm, comforting aroma of freshly baked bread and cakes drifting through the house.
It made the place feel safe.
Now, whenever I’m stressed, I do the same. I bake muffins, cookies, brownies and bread. There’s a senior center nearby, and I often volunteer there, taking whatever I’ve baked that morning.
Arthur always knows when I’ve been baking because the smell floats over to his place, and before long he’s knocking on my door, hoping I’ve made enough to share.
I always do.
When, later, there's a knock on my door, I instinctively know that it's Arthur. I have a feeling that he's been worried about me because I haven’t popped over in a few days. I wish I had now, because the last thing he needs is someone else to worry about.
I open the door to find him staring at me. “We haven’t seen you, Lizzie.”
I smile. “I’m good, just baking. But you've left Irene all alone.” I always worry about Irene being left alone, and I glance over his shoulder, surprised to see that his door is shut. He leaves it open when he wants a quick chat, and always has one eye on his door.
“Her friend Mona is over. They’re watching an old movie.”
I open the door wider to let him in. “Besides, I won’t take up too much of your time, but it’s been a few days since your interview, Lizzie, and I wanted to check in on you.”
“I’m fine. I’ve been baking.”
“Ah.” He sniffs the air. “No wonder it smells like heaven in here.”
He knows what it means when the scent of muffins, cookies and brownies wafts out of my apartment.
It means that something is up.
I walk into my kitchen. “Sorry, it's a mess,” I tell him, preparing him for the eyesore as boxes of flour and baking utensils are scattered around the countertops.
“Why don’t you sit down, Arthur? I'll make us a cup of tea.” With Irene’s friend over, I figure this is as good a break that Arthur will get.
“That would be wonderful.”
He sits down, and I put an assortment of brownies, cupcakes and cookies on a plate and set it on the small table. Along with two small plates.
Arthur eyes them with delight. “This looks like a feast.”
“Dig in.”
“Thank you. I will, though I'll have to watch my sugar.”
“You will.”
“You spoil me Lizzie.”
“And I love every minute of it.”
He watches me while he eats. I busy myself with preparing tea while clearing away.
“How did it go?” he asks, devouring the brownie first.
“You don't have to eat them all in one go,” I remind him, setting a couple of freshly baked white chocolate and hazelnut cookies on the plate. I tend to overdo it with variety when I'm really stressed.
He reaches for a cookie. “You're a natural baker.”
“Thank you.”
“So. How did it go?” he asks again. No amount of tempting goodies is going to derail him from his mission.
What do I tell him? The job is amazing and it would be great if I got it, but I don't want it anymore?
I get out two cups, and throw in a teabag into each. “I'm not sure I really want it.”
“Why not?” he cries, in exasperation. “That's not what you said before. You told me it was the golden ticket to your problems.”
I groan, wishing I hadn't gushed so much about it. Arthur doesn't know about my hacking past either. It's not something to brag about. But it helped me to move on with my life soon after I left foster care and had to fend for myself.
I started hacking in my late teens. What began as curiosity quickly turned into a challenge when I later met my friend Vlad through an online forum. He was just an online friend at first, but now he’s one of the most important people in my life.
Just like Arthur and Irene are.
In those days, I wanted to know how things worked, how they broke, and whether I could find the cracks before someone else did.
Later, with Vlad’s guidance, I was exposing vulnerabilities in systems I had no business being inside.
I came close to being caught more than once, which is probably why I'm so determined these days to stay on the right side of the law.
“I might have said that, but sometimes something looks good, but it doesn't end up being as good as it first looked.”
“What didn't look good?”
There’s no point in hiding anything from Arthur. He's always had a knack for getting to the heart of things fast.
“Just a vibe I got from the place.”
“But this was your third interview,” he says, eyeing the plate of goodies.
“You don't miss a thing, do you?”
“Not when it comes to your life, Lizzie.”
“I was going to drop some of these at the old people's center later. Are you and Irene going?”
“Why, of course we are. We'll pop in later this afternoon. I can take them for you, if you like.”
“That would be lovely. Let me put a little box together for you and Irene.” While the tea brews, I put some of my baked goods into a small plastic container. “How's Irene doing?”
“Enjoying the film. Fred Astaire was her favorite.”
“I have no idea who he is.”
“You haven't lived.”
“Apparently not.”
“I hope you meet a good, decent, hard-working beau. Someone who'll look after you.”
I frown. “I can look after myself, Arthur.” He doesn't often bring this up. I'm assuming he knows I'm single because I've never had anyone over, and I've also never stayed away. I'm always here. Alone.
“I just don't want you to be lonely, Lizzie.”
I force a chuckle. “I'm not lonely, Arthur. I have you and Irene.” I pour hot water into the cups and give them a good stir.
“We won't be here forever, Lizzie.” His voice turns soft, and his words crack something in my heart. Tears well up in my eyes as I rush to him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Nonsense,” I manage to croak out. I can't think of Arthur and Irene being any place else other than across the hall from me.
He puts his hand over mine. “Not nonsense, Lizzie. We're old—”
“Stop, Arthur. Don't.” I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, steeling myself against the tears threatening to spill over. The thought of them not being in my life hurts more than I can bear. I found my family, and it breaks my heart that I found them so late, in their twilight years.
I don't want to think about it or talk about it.
He pats my hand reassuringly. “We haven't finished talking about your job interview,” he says, ever vigilant. “You were so excited before, Lizzie. Why are you having doubts now? Did the interview not go well?”
“I thought it went really well.”
“Then?” he pushes, but I busy myself with adding milk to the tea.
“Don't you like the people there?” His voice is muffled as he chews a muffin.
“Uh ... they were okay, I suppose.”
“You suppose?” He stops chewing and examines my face. “Who interviewed you?”
I keep stirring.
“What's going on, sweetheart?” he asks, when I've still said nothing.
I pull out the teabags, give the tea a stir and bring the cups over. “It's not even worth talking about.”
“Lizzie?” He can see right through me.
I take a sip of my tea, just the right temperature of hot and soothing. “It was nothing exciting.” I try to sound not bothered, but it doesn't quite land like that.
“Why is that?”
“Do you really want to know?” I cry. “It's boring.”
“I'm interested in your life, Lizzie. It's not boring to me.”
Bless his heart. I love that about him. I've been invisible for so much of my life that having someone genuinely want to know about my day takes getting used to.
I set down my cup, remembering that painful, rollercoaster day, but the sentiment that lingers is one of embarrassment and pain. “There were two of them.”
“Two?”
“A father and son who watched the presentation.”
“Who didn't you like? The father or the son?”
I sidestep the question. “The interview went really well.”
“Hmm.” Arthur looks pensive, his eyes burning into me like he's seeing through me. “Then why don't you want to work there? You said it was a great place. You said it would help with your own business.”
I shrug. “I just didn't feel it, this time. The father comes across as not very nice.”
“And the son?”
I reach for a muffin and slowly peel apart the paper case, but I feel my cheeks coloring. “Nothing special.”
“Is he the reason you don't want to work there?” he asks, gently.
I laugh, and it's so false, and he knows I'm lying.
“Why would you say that, Arthur?”
“Because you don't get to being seventy-eight years of age without knowing about these things, Lizzie.”
“I'm not sure I know what you're talking about.” I break off a piece of my muffin and pop it into my mouth. It's so good.
“What happened with the son?”
I almost choke on the muffin, whether in shock or surprise, I can't tell. “Nothing.” But my voice is high-pitched now, and that's a tell.
Arthur rubs his hands together. “The son,” he says, a knowing smile on his face. “Is he ‘beau’ material?”
“Stop it, Arthur!” My cheeks are red, I can feel the heat crawling along my skin. “It was an interview, not a date.”
He sits back, lifts up his cup of tea and assesses me carefully. “I'm not so sure, Lizzie. You're getting awfully worked up over someone who was just interviewing you.”
I don't answer, and we sit in silence for a while.
“I should get going,” Arthur says, getting up. “These are delicious, Lizzie.”
“Thanks for coming over.” I hand him the plastic container.
He gently rests his hand on my arm. “It'll work itself out. Don't you worry. These things often do.”
I smile, because I'm not sure I fully understand, or believe him. Still, I'm glad he popped over. I feel better for having someone to talk to instead of ruminating about these things in my head.
I clear away the mess in the kitchen, and then start boxing up the baked goods ready to take them to the senior center, when my cell phone rings.
It's a number I don't recognize.
“Elizabeth.”
I get goosebumps when I discover who it is. His voice is smooth and controlled, as always, but my heart starts hammering in my chest. “Yes?”
“It’s Paul Knight.”
I know.
“Oh. Uh … hi ... Mr. Knight.”
My stomach drops to the floor.
Why is he calling me?
On a Saturday.
On my cell phone.
Every interaction so far regarding the job has gone through HR. Paul Knight doesn’t call people like me directly. Not unless something has gone very, very wrong.
A hundred disastrous possibilities crash through my head.
He discovered my past. That’s what terrifies me.
My pulse starts racing.
“Is … uh … is everything okay?” I ask, unable to keep the anxiety out of my voice.
“I'd like to offer you the job.”