Chapter 9
I PULL MY SPINE AWAY from the hotel chair as the telltale sounds of the laptop booting up fill the space around me.
I probably should have asked the neck tattoo guy to turn on the computer and prove the technology actually worked.
Ridiculous to buy something without any indication it was functional. Does it even have an operating system?
I glance over at the embossed card on the desk explaining the hotel’s Wi-Fi. I may need to download a Microsoft package to get started. I scrub my face with my hands. I’m getting way too embedded in this seriously flawed plan.
A deep-purple background appears on the laptop’s display and a dozen different application icons line the bottom toolbar.
The laptop has Microsoft Office installed as well as a few different browsers.
Labels pop up and disappear as I run the mouse pointer over all of them.
I’m in awe as I open File Explorer. An empty Documents folder displays on the screen.
Small mercies, as I certainly don’t want to inherit anyone else’s junk.
I poke at the small gray thumb drive and then turn it over. DatCore. Data at the core of your business. Betsey must have picked it up at a conference, one of the plentiful tchotchkes available at the booths. I probably have one just like it tucked in my desk.
Do I really want to do this?
A much wiser course of action is to wait until tomorrow and get Compliance involved. It’s their job to assess and mitigate corporate risk. Risk that I should not be assuming.
I slide the small device toward the lamp and study Betsey’s note again, quickly skipping over her revelation about Lucas and focusing on the next line.
I’m “calling safety.” Lending you research.
Perhaps those words in quotes will appear somewhere on the drive, but then anyone who sees it will have the same information.
No. It must be meant only for me. I say the words out loud and then again.
I google calling safety and see references to the game of pool as well as football, neither of which has any relevance to me or my relationship with Betsey.
I say it again and something nicks at me.
But the phrasing is wrong. When we were pulling long hours getting the funds up and running, we’d sometimes shout, “Calling Security” when someone had a wicked good idea.
It was a joke that made us both laugh like the nerds we were.
I poke at the sentence again, swapping safety for security and then frowning at the next awkward three-word sentence. My breath catches. When I modify the punctuation, I now see Security lending. You research.
I rub the note flat against the desk as if the paper itself might confirm if I’ve solved the puzzle.
Security lending has been a fundamental but prosaic element of operations, mirroring what we do for the mutual funds.
Although it’s one of the thinnest revenue lines, we have made a point to lend out assets that are in demand.
Kind of like Airbnbing your unique beach bungalow before you sell it to buy a place in Vail.
Is Betsey telling me to examine our lending practices as a firm?
Why? We’ve had the same guys with the same goals since before I joined.
I fist the small drive, closing my fingers completely over the device.
The metal is cool against my warm, damp palm.
There’s a good reason our work laptops are locked down.
All those training videos on regulations and firm protection swim through my adrenaline-soaked mind.
I can see myself being filmed right now, sitting in this very hotel room holding this unknown device with bold text hanging over my head.
Should Meredith insert the thumb drive she received from an ex-employee into a laptop she bought at a sketchy technology shop in Manhattan? Yes or no?
In order to pass the required training session, the answer is clear.
I insert the silver end of the drive into a USB port.
Wrong move. Restart this training module.
On the desk beside me, my phone shimmies. I startle. The sense of cameras trained on me feels real, like I’m actually being filmed.
On my phone, Erika’s name and sweet picture from her fourteenth birthday appear. I slap closed the laptop screen and shoot up from my chair.
“Hey, sweetheart. Thanks for calling me back.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Feeling any better?” I ask.
“Sure.” Her voice is so small. She sounds eight instead of her usual twenty-five.
Clint used to ride me about Erika’s dated contact picture.
I’d shrug as if I had no idea why I kept it, but I knew.
That was the last day I remember feeling like I had a grasp on what I was doing as Erika’s mom.
It was a beautiful April day and we took Erika and three of her besties to an extravagant ropes course.
Erika cheered as I was the first to throw my body from the top of the pole to the spider net across a three-story drop.
Even snug in our harnesses, it was exhilarating to transverse the obstacles, moving higher and higher, as we laughed and applauded each other.
Over two years ago, I had no idea my pedestal was so precarious.
“Tell me what’s wrong. I want to help.” A tinge of orange begins to frame the glass and steel building outside my window.
“You can’t,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the line.
“I’m pretty good at solving problems, you know,” I say, injecting some levity into my voice. “I was quite a nerd in high school.”
“Seen the pictures.” A tiny laugh knits her words, and for a moment it feels like we’re back to our old banter.
“See, not all bad. Having friend trouble?” Those girls must create drama to give themselves something to do.
“Maybe. I gotta go.”
“Not yet. Honey, it will feel better to talk about it. I promise.”
Erika’s sobs fill the silence, and my own heart aches in response.
“Oh, sweetheart. I wish I was there.” Nothing truer, and at the very heart of what Clint and I can’t resolve.
The crying continues over the phone but at least she hasn’t hung up.
“One word,” I whisper, trying the same tactic as before. I wish I could be more creative, but I instead double down on my only past success. “Just one.”
I wait through the whimpers. My heart squeezes in my chest. I should be there.
The sounds change and the phone goes silent for a moment before a tiny voice says, “Text.”
“You want to text, sweetheart?” I take a deep breath, hoping she will too. “Or did someone send you a bad text?”
The soft crying returns and then the call ends.
I close my eyes and picture my sweet girl huddled on her bed, her silky blonde hair fanning over her face and pillow.
I long to hold her close, to shield her from the pain of growing up in a world that seems intent on breaking her spirit.
Wishing I could transfer all my available strength and confidence into her battle to make it through high school, I imagine crawling in next to her and hugging her stiff body to mine. This junior year has been rough.
I call her back, but my call goes immediately to her default voicemail. I send Clint a text that Erika needs him. As the sun sets the sky and the buildings ablaze, the weight of my inadequacy burns me from the inside.
I pace back to my desk.
The thumb drive glares green.