Chapter 26
WEDNESDAY
I can’t move my arms. My panting resembles early labor.
Like I did then, I focus on the filling and emptying of my lungs.
My left bicep roars as I try to unpin it from my side.
I’ve overdone both arms, but an old tendon tear really punishes me.
The hotel gym has some of the best cable and rowing machines in Midtown, at least according to me, someone who hasn’t done anything athletic in ages but used to know my way around a gym.
I started working out in high school when what was known about coping with anxiety was limited to peer-reviewed articles in medical journals.
I worked out my emotions on the weight machines. The more I hurt, the less I felt.
Based on my crazy schedule and believing in the importance of strength and flexibility, I turned to early morning Pilates a couple of years ago.
I haven’t darkened the doors of any gym in ages.
Last night, moving my body against the stacks and pulleys helped work off the stress of Betsey’s latest communication.
But right now, my desperate need for sanity has created a liability against clean hair.
I tuck my chin into my neck and round my back. While whimpering, I slap shampoo through my sopping strands. The cleansing of my hair and body takes all my concentration and for that, I’m grateful.
Minutes later, I step out of the shower and into the foggy bathroom. I stand in front of the opaque mirror, unwilling to wipe it. I imagine the dark circles under my eyes, more like bruises than simply lack of sleep.
Keeping my elbows bent, I tuck the corner of the towel under my arm as I stand dripping on the white tiled floor.
My right arm is not nearly as bad as my left, but I loathe the idea of holding a hair dryer.
Instead, I bend at the waist, haphazardly wrap and shove another towel around my head, and then shuffle into the bedroom.
I settle into the smattering of pillows against the cream upholstered headboard.
The other side of the king-size bed is strewn with papers, my laptop, and notebook.
After the gym, I probably got an hour of sleep in between the research and the worry.
My mother always taught me that worry was for those who lacked the discipline to see the problem through.
It wasn’t until Clint that I gave voice to my fears and was offered the grace to sometimes worry.
Last night I let the confusion and anxiety win. I have to start fighting back.
I fight with information.
When I slide my laptop onto my crossed knees, the battery icon shines red.
I should get up and plug in the beast, but the thought of moving is too painful.
My computer has been without power all night, and I likely have another forty-five minutes before it shuts off.
I ought not wager my typing speed against the battery’s draining life, but the urgency is motivating.
It’s time to bring in some reinforcements, or better yet, go on offense.
This tangled mess with the legitimacy of the data, Betsey’s Friday deadline, and the pictures with Lucas demand I know who can be trusted.
Desperation claws at me as I open a blank email message, compose my thoughts, and begin to write.
[DRAFT]
From: Meredith Hansel (Meredith.Hansel@ )
To: Phil Langford (Phil.Langford@)
Dear Phil,
I want to thank you—not just for encouraging us to celebrate this week but for being a steady presence these past few years. You lead with conviction, and you bring out the best in your teams. I’ve never told you how close I came to never meeting you. How I almost threw away my shot.
I was waiting for our appointment when my phone rang. My mother’s thin voice carried the words I couldn’t comprehend—Dad was gone. I told her I’d come right away. Nothing else mattered.
Then I saw you, striding into the room. I didn’t want to talk about you, your company, or any job. I wanted to talk to my father—the man who carved the Thanksgiving turkey doing his best Swedish Chef impression.
But leaving meant surrendering to the truth. If I stepped out that door, my mother’s words would harden into reality. A world without my dad would begin. I wasn’t ready.
You smiled as you saw me. I don’t know what my face did in response, but instead of greeting me, you pulled out your phone and scowled—not in frustration, but something deeper. Something that nearly uncoiled the knot inside me.
Gripping your phone in one hand, you extended the other. “Good of you to come, Meredith. I just need thirty seconds to talk to my wife.” Your eyes glistened.
I nodded, swallowing hard against the burn in my throat.
To keep from unraveling, I did what I do best—I analyzed.
I searched my memory for what I knew about your family.
First, she was an ex-wife, and in an industry that trades up trophies, you’d never remarried.
Second, a grainy newspaper photo surfaced in my mind: you, your wife, and Annabelle in front of a towering Christmas tree.
Tiny Annabelle, in a frilly dress, perched on your lap—not your wife’s.
Your arm draped over the back of her chair, her hand wrapped around your knee.
A twenty-six-year-old article—part news story, part eulogy. But how do you eulogize a toddler?
You sniffed slightly, tucking your phone away. Then you turned to me and said something I’ll never forget.
Do you remember?
[DRAFT]
From: Meredith Hansel (Meredith.Hansel@ )
To: Phil Langford (Phil.Langford@)
Dear Phil,
Thank you for supporting the celebration of the funds today.
When we planned the launch of our ETFs, we were in a blue ocean of opportunity.
Now we race ahead in a very different environment.
The sharks are coming. Our water is turning bloody.
Many are coming after us for the piece of the market we represent.
We need to control our costs and ensure we have a path for fee modulation that protects us from being priced out of the market
[DRAFT]
From: Meredith Hansel (Meredith.Hansel@ )
To: Phil Langford (Phil.Langford@)
Dear Phil,
Thanks again for this week. It’s come to my attention that there are aspects of the funds I designed and launched that I’m not fully read in on. Specifically in the area of securities lending. I am starting a task force to look into all aspects of the funds. Please advise if
[DRAFT]
From: Meredith Hansel (Meredith.Hansel@ )
To: Phil Langford (Phil.Langford@)
Dear Phil,
Betsey is coming after our contracts, and I have reason to believe the investment data is real. None of this is good
[SENT]
From: Meredith Hansel (Meredith.Hansel@ )
To: Phil Langford (Phil.Langford@)
Dear Phil,
I’ve always remembered what you said the first time we met: Time is the valued currency of a wise life.
I thank you for your willingness to spend your time celebrating the success of the ETFs this week.
While pressing forward with our new pitch on Monday, we also need to watch our flank.
Please let me know if you have any issue with me assembling a task force to thoroughly examine our ETF contracts and policies.
We need to understand our structural strengths and weaknesses as we plan for the new funds.
I will ask for a few volunteers to ensure we have fresh thinking and report back to you on our progress.
Best,
Meredith
After pressing Send, I delete all the other drafted messages. The battery alert flashes in the upper left corner of my screen. Putting my laptop to sleep, I slide it off my knees and yelp as I catch my falling towel.
As I stretch my aching arms, I imagine Phil reading my email.
If he is the source of the data or the reason why they lied about it—a burn of acid reaches up into my chest—he’s likely to tell me to leave the flank-watching to him.
I walk to the closet, refusing to consider what it means if he doesn’t let me move forward.