Chapter 28
After the YouTube video, Emmett doubled his efforts to get through to Monstera. Why hadn’t they called him back? What the hell kind of experiment were they running?
When neither his calls nor his follow-up emails received a reply, he took to the company website.
The landing page was hazy and bright, as if hidden behind a cloud.
An emerald monstera leaf unfurled at the center of the page, revealing a cutout letter M.
It rotated, then fell away, clearing the fog to reveal a spare but tasteful homepage.
Monstera BioSciences
Innovative Solutions to the Nation’s “Biggest” Problems
Emmett navigated to a page titled “Who We Are.”
Beneath a couple of short paragraphs on the company’s history and ethos were the smiling faces of the leadership, their matching headshots displayed hierarchically. He stared, in thrall to Dr. Saito’s beauty: the little tilt to her blond head, her approachable smile, her dark, withholding eyes.
Her bio contained no contact information. He backed out and scanned the executive titles for one that sounded like her boss. If working in retail had taught him anything, it was how far one could get by speaking to a manager.
Cecil H. Smith, PhD—Founder & Chief Science Officer. The only name without a photo.
Emmett clicked through to a short bio:
Prior to founding Monstera BioSciences in 2011, Dr. Smith served on the faculty of the Torrey Pines Medical Discovery Institute and later Allegiant University Health Sciences, including as director of the university’s Center for Obesity Research and Innovation, which he founded.
He oversees the departments of Discovery and Translational Development, Drug Discovery, Cell and Gene Therapy, and Product Development.
He is the immediate past chair of the Leadership Council of the California Childhood Obesity Coalition (CCOC).
This was the guy. But again no contact info, and Emmett doubted he’d get far calling the main line.
On a whim he googled cecil smith monstera phone email and clicked on the first result.
It took him to a PDF uploaded to the CCOC website, what seemed to be a list of members of a planning committee for a community fun fair, years old.
There it was, under his name: smith@. A phone number followed.
Emmett took a breath and dialed.
Not expecting an answer, he was running through the voicemail he planned to leave in his head when after a couple of rings the call connected.
“Uh—hi,” Emmett said, caught off guard. He waited for an answer, but no one spoke. “My name’s Emmett Truesdale, and I’m a participant in your clinical trial.” Still no answer. “Hello? Is anyone the—?”
Beep-beep.
He pulled the phone away, the call disconnected.
What the fuck just happened?
The device chimed with notifications. More likes and comments on the previous day’s Instagram post. It gave him an idea.
In the search bar he typed Monstera BioSciences and found their profile. It was sleek and spare like the website, 153 followers. Emmett gloated.
The content was friendly, anodyne. Photos from a recent biotech conference, another of a scientist in a lab coat for International Day of Women and Girls in Science, a group shot of a dozen college-age kids in business casual.
It’s #NationalInternDay, and we’re celebrating our amazing crop of summer interns!
Our competitive internship program provides a world-class educational experience to students from a wide range of disciplines and backgrounds, preparing them for careers in #biotech and other STEM fields.
From clinical operations to product development, we offer a variety of career paths to unlock our interns’ potential and help them flourish.
On second glance, Emmett recognized one of the interns: the nerdy cute kid who’d introduced Dr. Saito at the informational session. His account was tagged. Blake Whitmore.
His grid was plastered with photos of him on the job, and even more of him jogging, working out, flexing in the bathroom mirror at the university gym.
Emmett followed him, hoping Blake would recognize a fellow fitfluencer and return the gesture.
If he did, Emmett would be able to message him without getting stuck in Message Requests.
Almost at once, a notification chimed. Blake had followed back.
Seizing his opportunity, Emmett opened a chat and fired off a string of messages.
Hey, thanks for the follow!
We’ve actually met. I was at the Obexity info session back in April.
You probably don’t remember me
I looked a bit different then haha
A trio of bubbles danced on-screen.
Cool, looking good man. Nice to know I’m at least doing something worthwhile here.
Emmett got the impression that Blake wasn’t totally satisfied in his work.
Must be a cool place to work though, he tried.
Would be cooler if they paid me.
You work for Jenni Saito, right?
Yeah
Nice
Not really
Oh dang, sorry
Emmett hesitated, afraid of jumping the gun.
I’ve actually been trying to reach her. It’s semi-urgent but I haven’t heard back.
I’m sure she’s just busy.
You wouldn’t be able to give me her direct phone number, would you?
Sorry, she’d murder me.
Emmett huffed.
No worries. You’re not in the office now, by any chance? If she’s around, maybe you could pass along a message?
He could sense Blake’s waning interest in the increasing amount of time between replies.
I am but she just left for an off-site
Dang. I really need to talk to her and no one at the participant hotline is getting back to me. Any advice?
A long pause. He was almost surprised when Blake wrote back.
Honestly she doesn’t get back to me either, about pretty much anything, at least until she misses a deadline and then screams at me that I “didn’t push hard enough” and made her look bad
Jeez, she sounds like a lot of fun
Fucking hate her
The only way to get through to her is to show up in her office and stand there until she answers your question. That’s what I usually do when I can be bothered.
Nice haha
Honestly at this point I would do it
If only I knew where her off-site was
Or her trusty assistant let slip the location haha…
Emmett tensed in the absence of Blake’s reply.
The green bubble at the top of the screen went dark, and the status indicator changed to Active 1 minute ago.
“Fuck.” Emmett tossed the phone aside. What now?
Maybe he should just take his injection. He didn’t want to quit the trial or be tossed out. But how could he be sure it was safe?
He snatched the phone back up and typed, halfway through a backpedaling “only joking, wouldn’t want to get you into trouble” kind of message when the bubbles returned. Blake was typing.
You know what, fuck it, he finally replied. I’m probably gonna quit soon anyway. They’re meeting with their lawyers at 11 a.m.
He followed up with an address.
Tell her she’s a bitch from me.