Chapter 49 #2
Clint walks in and sets the lock before turning toward me. The tension has melted from his shoulders, signaling we’re safe for now. And yet I still feel the deadly squeeze. Should I make some excuse to scoop up the puzzle pieces? But Clint was the one to bring it.
Clint joins me in the kids’ room and whispers in my ear, “They’re good. We should talk.”
I nod my head and allow him to tug me away from the view of all I could lose.
“How was your time with Erika? Anything I need to know?” The pained expression on his face juxtaposes itself against the lingering image of his ruined face that Christmas two years ago as his daughter, leaning over the puzzle, interrogated him about his age and mine.
Was the puzzle the beginning of Clint’s insecurity with his age? How had I never seen the connection?
I look away and give him the basic outline of what she shared with me. “She’s hurting, Clint. But the best we can do for her is to try to figure out who is terrorizing our family and why, because I’m convinced it’s all related.”
“I agree. Thoughts on how to start?”
We settle at the island with files and both computers at the ready. “As an analyst, I’d start by asking and answering as many questions as I could and see where it led us.”
“Solid plan. That guy at the SEC said he doesn’t know where Betsey is. Is it time to unblock her and give her a call?”
“Probably, if I had my phone.”
“Right.” Clint sighs. “An email maybe?”
Not a bad idea, but I still don’t trust her. “Not sure I love the paper trail. I think we should figure out more first. I’m not sure who she knows. The SEC could be a setup.”
“Maybe.” Clint shrugs.
“Probably not, but they’ve got to have people looking for her if she’s truly missing. Perhaps she’s just off the grid like us.” I never imagined anyone at work sending us into hiding like this. Inconceivable.
Clint squints at me like he wants to believe the best about Betsey’s safety but needs to ready himself for the worst. His lifesaving skills are showing themselves.
“Let’s look at what she gave me.” I open the Excel spreadsheet I’d started at the office. “A thumb drive of data that I copied before handing it over.”
“Why is it significant? Why would she give it to you?”
“Good questions. It’s data we shouldn’t have. We’ve elected not to pay for any data, and even if we did, we’d never be supplied with all this. So much of this is confidential.”
“Are you sure it’s authentic?”
“No, but I also don’t necessarily think it’s fake, as I’ve been told to believe.
” Dave theorized Betsey created it just to spook me.
Had he seen the hard evidence that the data was bogus?
Hardwin was right: I hadn’t asked one question.
Certainly a sign of my own self-delusion or, worse, incompetence.
“Don’t do it.” Clint takes my hands and holds them in both of his.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are. You’re second-guessing. I see it all over your beautiful face.
” He brushes my unruly hair from my forehead.
“I love every brain cell. And stick with me. I’m going to continue to say dumb things like Use your phone when you’ve left it behind.
We’re going to stumble through this, but together we’re going to figure it out. ”
“Yes. We will.” I love this man.
“Let’s move on to what Betsey wants.”
“She said she wants the securities lending agreement for the funds.” I pick through a folder containing a printout of the documents Phil had sent to me as well as the stand-alone agreement Alyssa and Temor found.
“Do we need to get into the nitty-gritty? Would that help?”
“No. Basically there’s a standard agreement that all the funds should share.
What’s crazy is that my name is on the master agreement and in the board minutes when it was discussed, but the ETFs are missing.
” I hand him the printouts I haven’t had time yet to scrutinize.
“I think Betsey knew, or suspected, and wanted me to find it.”
“Your name? Because you presented this agreement to the board?” He looks down briefly at the papers and then up at me.
“No. I never saw this version. Total idiocy. I never knew my name was inside any legal document.” I bite the inside of my lip and mutter, “Especially one from two years ago.”
“Someone has been at this for two years?” He flips through more of the pages.
“Someone anticipated it might be a problem. Or I might be a problem.” How could someone I know and work alongside make me a scapegoat?
Underneath all my anger and confusion is a deep well of hurt.
I stare up at the open roof trusses above me.
The rough-sawn boards are stained a dark brown, almost black.
I imagine coming back here during Christmas, wrapping the rafters with twinkling lights.
“Don’t we lose a lot of heat without any insulation up there? ”
“Yeah. Do we care right now?” He gently pinches my chin.
“No, sorry.” I close my eyes. My mind is spinning and not about the right things.
“I think someone—or multiple someones—set me up because they figured out a quick way to get what they wanted—money, information . . . I don’t know, something.
Could the ETFs not being included in the securities lending contract with our custodian be one of many ways our ETFs have been excluded from better arrangements?
” Dave and his reluctance to help us with sales should have tipped me off.
“I put my money on money.”
“Probably, but there’s not a lot of it to be made.
Payments based on actual securities being lent out from the ETFs have still been received.
Alyssa thinks we have falsified reports that indicate we are making deals outside of our custodian.
The rates may not be optimal, but we’re getting some revenue.
So, there’s got to be more than just money, some other advantages.
I think they got greedy. I just don’t know for what.
I also don’t think they expected this to go on so long. ”
“Why would you think that? Are there other proposed agreements?” He picks up the draft agreement Alyssa and Temor analyzed.
“Not that I’ve found. It’s just a sense, I guess. When I was an advisor, I’d see clients hang on to positions way past when they should have sold. The risk far outweighed the reward, but they’d get greedy or unwilling to drop a loser.” I make a few notes in my spreadsheet.
Clint puts all the papers back down on the polished concrete. “Doesn’t the board hold some responsibility in not following up with you on any of what you were supposedly doing with the securities you were lending?”
“Yes, they should have asked. I wonder if whoever set this up is counting on them being focused on our success. But when Betsey got close . . . they started tracking me and Erika as insurance. Then they fired Betsey and used me to keep her away. Maybe they didn’t count on her determination to get to me. ”
“Ready to contact her? She might know who’s behind this. Who Candy is really working for.”
“Maybe.”
“Mom, I’m hungry,” Reid whines as he stalks into the main room.
I open my arms, and he slides in. I kiss the top of his head.
“At camp, we had a good-night snack before bed.” He starts to pull away.
“Hmm. Yes, I can see how you could get used to that.”
Clint walks to the farthest cupboard. “I think I have some of that fun popcorn that you can heat right over the stove, and it puffs up.”
“Cool. And I want to know who won. Can I check?”
“Sure, honey.” I slide off my stool. “I’ll help you make the popcorn, and Dad can see if he can get us some Wi-Fi. But first”—I give Reid another squeeze—“I’m going to change into my pajamas. Seriously, Ella is my hero for giving us her car and grabbing our bags.”
Erika walks into the room. “Enjoy the perks. My status will be dirt by next week.” She grabs a novel from the corner bookcase and curls up in the nook.
My heart thuds. Even if, or when, we figure this all out, Erika is still going to have to account for those tests.
Accountable. I press my hand against my chest and my finger automatically seeks the chain at my neck.
Although none of us deserve to be targeted, we all did things for which we’re accountable.
Sliding the gold fastener to the back of my neck, I fist my cross, and Oma’s warm home floods my mind.
Twice in two days. I used to think about her all the time, but now one afternoon stands out.
I’d just clicked shut her heavy oak front door when I heard her call out to me.
The smell of vanilla and cinnamon had me licking my lips as I slid open the pocket doors to her dining room.
“Liebchen, join me.” Oma patted the seat next to her as I eyed the plate of Zimtsterne between us—the icing dripping off each point. “You may have one after.”
My backpack slid from my shoulders as I ran my thumb along a deep gouge in the old walnut table.
“You won an award today?” Oma asked.
“Yes. For getting the most pledges.” I straightened in the hard-back chair, my eyes still darting to the star cookies, each as big as my hand and almost too warm to retain the icing.
“Your paper. Let me see.”
I sucked in my top lip as I dug between my brown-paper-bag-covered textbooks.
She silently read my stapled packet and then looked directly into my rounded eyes. “Tell me.”
“We’re jumping rope for—”
“Nein. Tell me.”
I lowered my head and tucked both hands in my lap. “I asked our neighbors for pledges,” I said, each word feeling as if it were being gouged out of my flesh.
She flattened the last page on the table. “Here.”
I had tried to write the last dozen pledges in different handwriting, but as I looked past her knobby knuckles, I could see how similar they all looked.
“Meredith Martina, how many?”
Martina was her name. My mother’s homage.
“Fourteen,” I mumbled.
“How many for prize?”
“Twenty-five,” I said. My shoulders slumped toward the table.
She placed two fingers under my chin and lifted. “You know word accountable?”
I shook my head. It sounded familiar, but I would not be able to define it, especially if I hoped not to pee in my pants as I struggled.
“You will look it up and then write me a paper about what it means.”
I nodded and rose from my seat.
“Wait. I explain other word. Forgiven.”
I slinked back down.
“You know you did wrong?”
I nodded.
“You not do it again?”
I nodded again.
“You will correct the form and tell your teacher, but Liebling, you are forgiven. I forgive. God forgives.” She pushed the plate of cookies toward me and waited until I chose one.
“God always forgives. People, not always. Even Oma can be stubborn. But God—no matter what. No matter how long. He waits. He forgives.” She picked up a Zimtstern, tapped one of the frosted points against mine, and took a bite.
I learned about accountability that day, but I also learned the simplicity of forgiveness.
And yet after all this time, I’ve given little thought to the trust required to admit my need for forgiveness.
Because when it comes down to all the lies, the hurts, and the selfish moments of pride, I don’t trust that I’ll always be invited back to the worn walnut table.
I walk into the primary bedroom and run my hand down the old lighthouse quilt from our early days in Kennebunk.
Like so many things, I just didn’t notice.
I didn’t notice it was missing from our downstairs linen closet.
It looks perfect in the room. The black, blue, and gold fabric is warmed by the copper light fixtures on either side of the queen bed.
I sit, slide off my boat shoes, and stare at an unframed map above the small desk.
The New York portion of the Appalachian Trail takes up most of the pine paneling opposite the bed.
I step up to the printed map laced with tidy notes in both Clint’s and Rob’s hands and notice the intertwined T logo in the lower right corner of the map. Odd. Same logo as the New York AT map in Dave’s office. But on this version, it’s bigger and the organization’s name is printed.
As I read the familiar two words, all the air leaves my lungs.