Chapter 7
BESIDES THE NOTE, the only other thing in the envelope is a bubble-wrapped thumb drive.
My laptop is in my workbag back at the hotel, but it would do me no good.
The USB ports are all blocked on our corporate devices.
A safety measure to ensure sensitive data can’t be stolen and the machine can’t be compromised.
I check the contents of the envelope again and then shove the note and the drive back inside.
It’s clear Betsey is giving me some kind of data and she has pictures of me and Lucas at the Rotterdam Room. The threat is clear too. She will tell if I don’t deliver by Friday, but deliver what? She makes no demand. Only that I verify.
What about the line about “calling safety”? Makes no sense. She must be sending me some message. Perhaps the line is for me to decipher? Nothing immediately comes to mind. My head throbs with annoyance. Criminal threats and police reports are not what this day is supposed to be about.
She is right about one thing. I won’t keep this obvious attempt at manipulation to myself. I’ll bring it to the office tomorrow, report it to our compliance department, and hand it off to our IT guys for safekeeping. They can assess the risk and determine what to do. But not today.
First, I have to speak to my husband.
I return to the party and shake a few more hearty hands. We only have the room for another twenty minutes. My ankles wobble, and I’m thankful I brought a pair of wedge sandals for the dinner tonight. My feet are surviving, but there’s a limit to their patience with my fashion choices.
But will I even be at the dinner tonight?
I can’t just call Clint. This is a conversation we need to have in person. I have to go home.
“Meredith. Was hoping to have a word.” A man with slicked black hair and kind brown eyes steps in front of me.
“Hello, Aarav.” His name only occurs to me because I studied the guest list again as I freshened up at the hotel. I reach for his hand. We’ve met a few times at conferences. I’m genuinely glad he came, but I need to make my exit.
“Thank you for the gracious invite. Your success is apparent.” He glances around the room. His face is devoid of the smile common among the attendees who are enjoying a leisurely afternoon with top-shelf cocktails.
“We’ve worked hard,” I say. Maybe I can ask Clint to meet me in the Bronx in half an hour? Or not. I forgot, I’m not in Midtown. From Lower Manhattan it could take me twenty minutes just to get to the Harlem Line at Grand Central.
“Yes. And as you know, we run a principled office.” His stillness makes me aware of my own fidgets.
My brow knits together. What are we talking about?
“A good advisor makes the best investment choices for their clients based on their specific needs, not because of aggressive sales strategies,” he says, placing emphasis on no particular word.
I try to relax my face. Aggressive sales strategies?
What is he referencing? I consider sharing a story about when I was a financial advisor to help him understand how similar we are.
I decide instead to stay focused on him.
“Aarav, my team and I have always respected offices, like yours, that take diligent care of their clients. We would never try to hard sell you.”
His lips seem to disappear inside his mouth as if he’s chewing on his next words.
I wait, harnessing the technique our counselor has used when Clint and I clam up. Although based on my failure to share anything of real substance during our sessions, I cringe when I leverage any of her techniques.
“Perhaps we can speak another time.” His eyes stay leveled on mine.
“We can certainly follow up, but if there’s something I need to know?” I keep my arms loose by my sides and resist the urge to fuss with my necklace. My kids often call me on my telltale nervous habit.
He glances over my shoulder. “You should enjoy your party.” Shifting his gaze back to mine, he lowers his voice. “Are you taking the right steps to ensure your ultimate success?”
My breath catches. Those are eerily similar words to those written in Betsey’s hand at the end of the note. The entire envelope again radiates an unnatural heat in my left hand.
I step closer to Aarav. “I’m sorry, I think I’ve missed something—”
“Meredith,” Phil’s voice booms from my right. “Can you join me at the door? A few people want to say goodbye.”
“Yes, of course. Just need one moment.” I turn back, but Aarav has stepped away.
I reach out to him, brushing my fingertips against his dark suit. “Wait. Please. Tell me what you meant.” Are you a part of this? Did Betsey get to you too?
“Meredith.” He sighs. “You will be a success, but I encourage you to not push your team too hard. Their visit last week had a tone of, well . . . urgency or worse.”
Last week? Worse than urgency? What does that even mean and how does this relate to the words on the note?
“For me, it’s always about doing right by my clients and my staff. We’ll talk soon.” He gives me a tight smile and then raises his stiff hand toward Phil as if ushering me toward him. Although I’m not looking, I can feel Phil radiating frustration from his sentry spot by the doors.
“I’ll be in touch.” I force a smile and then stride toward my CEO, whose left hand taps a blustery beat against his thigh.
Nothing Aarav said makes any sense.
My team has never visited his office. We’ve been intentional with offices that appreciate educational materials ahead of any sales meeting.
That was the reason I invited Aarav to this reception.
I wanted him to see our success and have a reason to follow up.
But if Aarav shares that our ETFs have even a whiff of desperation, stakes are much higher than growing our sales.
Mass sell-offs have been ignited by less.
Betsey, have you deliberately sabotaged our success?