Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MAIA
S leep?
Who needs sleep?
Not me. I email my lawyer to make sure that we can withdraw the offer we extended to Haux Drinks without incurring any penalties.
The item that keeps me up all night is 59PM. I spend most of the night strategizing my next move. I might not plan to give free access to nonprofit companies—which I admit is a grand gesture if Gatsby told me the truth—but I have big plans for it.
It’s almost impossible to find another software company that has developed a project management platform like theirs. The ones that are out there need a lot of work. However, if necessary, I’ll acquire the best of them. We’ll troubleshoot with my team and figure out what’s best for us.
Can I hire someone to develop an innovative idea with the same project management capabilities?
I could, and I’ll make sure that we design something better and more user-friendly than all the programs that are on the market.
That’s my last resource, and I labeled it plan D .
It’ll be time-consuming. I’ll have to add more resources to it and even create a new subdivision.
All that will delay my plans for at least a year or two, but I won’t consider it unless it’s the last resort.
Why am I going through the trouble? Because I realize that I need to avoid Gatsby and stay off his radar. I’m not ready for the final battle. There are a few loose ends I need to tighten up before taking over Gatsby’s company and leaving him crying under a bridge like a troll.
He deserves it, I repeat to myself.
At five in the morning, I go to the meditation room, put on some celestial music, and grab my white jade mala.
I need some wisdom while I navigate this treacherous path.
No one said it was going to be easy to destroy Gatsby Spearman.
Yesterday he reminded me that I can’t be sloppy while seeking revenge or I’ll fail.
I arrive at work around seven in the morning. When I park my car, I notice someone parked next to my spot.
Who’s in the office so early? Actually, I’ve never seen this particular vehicle before—a silver Aston Martin.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen this particular car around the area.
Most of us use eco-friendly vehicles. I send a quick message to the night guard asking if there’s anyone in the office building other than him.
He responds that the building is empty, and the car has been in the lot since his shift began at midnight.
The car isn’t registered to any MarkTech employee.
My chest tightness. Who could’ve left this car? I take a picture of the vehicle and the plates and send it to a friend. He has a way to find out things without breaking into the Pentagon. I help him write codes and bounce ideas for some prototypes.
Maia O: Hey, can you run this plate?
B. Langdon: I was just thinking about you.
Maia O: Me?
B. Langdon: Yep, you came up during a conversation.
Who was asking about me?
Maia O: Should I be concerned?
B. Langdon: I’ve been wondering the same. The person is harmless, but it seemed odd that he needed some information about you.
Maia O: Well, you know where your loyalties should lie…if you want free software, coding, and food deliveries…
B. Langdon: Ha, I’ll keep that in mind.
Maia O: So, the car?
B. Landon: Give me a second. I’m just starting my computer. What’s wrong with the car? You don’t like it? Ihave one like that in Seattle.
Maia O: Other than it’s terrible for the environment? It’s in the parking lot of my company.
Maia O: Someone abandoned it.
Maia O: Can you run the plate?
B. Langdon: This is interesting.
Maia O: What did you find out? Is it a bomb?
B. Langdon: Ha, I run background checks. I can see who owns a car. There’s no way to learn if there’s a bomb under it…unless I release a landbot.
I stare at the message, though I’m tempted to ask how he has access to a landbot, I focus on my current issue.
Maia O: I know that. I meant to ask if it’s owned by a terrorist.
B. Langdon: You have quite an imagination. The car is safe, but what’s going on between you and Gatsby Spearman?
Maia O: It’s a long story.
B. Langdon: He asked about you yesterday.
My blood freezes. That’s how he knew where I lived. I swear I will make sure that Byron’s next delivery has a sprinkle of cyanide instead of salt.
Maia O: Tell me you didn’t give him my information.
B. Langdon: ((shrug emoji))
Maia O: You’re dead to me. Who owns the car?
I already know the answer before he even texts it back.
B. Langdon: Gatsby.
Maia O: I guess he forgot to pick it up after he kidnapped me.
My phone rings. “What the fuck did he do?”
“Well, hello, Byron.”
“Maia?” His voice echoes in my ear.
I sigh and tell him everything that transpired between us—well, what happened yesterday.
“He’s an idiot,” he mumbles.
“Tell me something I don’t know. He’s maddening, and if I could, I’d get back at him for what he did yesterday.”
“You could. I mean, you have his car—it’s in your private parking lot. Technically, he’s trespassing. It’s fair game.”
I feel as a smile spreads my lips from ear to ear. Oh, the things I can do. “What if I hire someone to dismantle it and mail each piece to a different place?”
He laughs. “It sounds crafty, but if you’re doing something to the car, it has to be impactful.”
“Like finding your car hanging from the ceiling?”
“That’s an option,” he agrees. “But you can do something even better…I believe in your imagination.”
In seconds, I remember what happened to the neighbor’s Smart car a few weeks ago. Someone vandalized it…if that could be called vandalizing. I can do something similar after a bit of a makeover.
“I think I have an idea, but it’s going to take more than a few hours to make it happen. He might be here by the time I gather the right people to help me.”
“How long do you need?”
Hours, a day…I could do so many things if I had the right people and the time. I hadn’t taken a day off since last Christmas when Mom made me come home. This could be a great time to let my artistic juices flow. “Are you going to help?”
“Yeah, I’m bored out of my mind doing mindless shit. I’ll be happy to contribute since it was my fault that he found you. Though, I need to know the depth of this issue.”
It’s been fourteen years, and in the past couple of days, I’ve been recounting the story too many times.
It feels like I’m trying to bring the skeleton back from the underworld, but it’s way less creepy.
Can I get a break from walking down memory lane?
Since I want him to help me, I tell him everything from the beginning.
“Let’s start by getting him out of town for a day or two—now.”
“You got it. What’s next?”
“I’m sending you the list. Are you ready?”
“I don’t think I’ve had this much fun since I helped bury the car of a friend in the Sonora desert.”
I can’t help but laugh. That’s crafty. “How did he find it?”
He laughs. “He hasn’t yet.”
I don’t care about sending the car to a hidden place. I want Gatsby to see it and to witness his frustration. It’ll be delicious.