“It was,” I said, setting Maggie down when she squirmed. She toddled off toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Kowalski’s lips pursed slightly—her equivalent of calling me a bloody fool. “The youngsters were well-behaved. Mostly. Though Eoin found a filthy stray cat at the back door and decided to ‘clean it up.’”
A prickle of dread slid down my spine. “Clean it up how?”
“He gave it a bath. In the toilet,” she said flatly.
“Christ.” I ran a hand through my hair, which probably still smelled like Theresa. “Was there damage?”
“Only to the cat’s dignity.” She folded the dishtowel in quick movements.
“You have several messages on your office phone. They sounded urgent.”
My stomach dropped. “Thank you, Mrs. Kowalski. I’ll check them now.”
Before I could even reach my study, the phone rang. Mrs. Kowalski gave me a pointed look as I hurried down the hall.
I grabbed the receiver on the fourth ring. “Patrick McCrae.”
“Patrick, thank God.” Sir Malcolm Hendricks’s voice was clipped, angry. “I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.”
My stomach sank. Malcolm was one of MIRI’s founding investors—old money Edinburgh, been backing research since forever. More importantly, he controlled a consortium of Scottish investors who together held nearly thirty percent of MIRI’s funding.
“Malcolm, I apologize. I was?—”
“I don’t care where you were. What I care about is that the Glasgow facility’s grant application to the Scottish Medical Research Council was denied on Friday, and I had to hear about it from James bloody Morrison at the club instead of from you.”
I closed my study door, my mind racing. The SMRC grant was supposed to fund MIRI’s expansion into autoimmune research—a project Malcolm had personally championed. “I wasn’t aware?—”
“Of course you weren’t aware. You’re in California playing at empire-building while the flagship facility falls apart.” His voice dripped with disdain. “I vouched for you, Patrick. Convinced the consortium that MIRI could maintain its Scottish roots while expanding internationally. But you’re not in Scotland, are you? You’re too busy setting up shop in America to notice when your own backyard catches fire.”
“Malcolm, the grant application—we can appeal. I’ll have the team prepare?—”
“The team isn’t the problem. The problem is that the SMRC wants assurances that MIRI isn’t abandoning Scotland. They want to see commitment from leadership, not absence. The consortium is meeting all week, and they want you here. In person.” He took a long breath. “Your father would be disappointed, lad. MIRI was supposed to be Scotland’s answer to American research dominance, not the other way around.”
The mention of my father hit harder than it should have. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“You’d better be. And Patrick? Come prepared.”
The line went dead.
I sat staring at the phone, Malcolm’s words echoing in my head.Your father would be disappointed.Christ, maybe he would be.
The fax machine on the credenza hummed to life, spitting out page after page. I walked over to collect them—a detailed breakdown of the consortium’s concerns, the SMRC’s rejection letter, a list of questions I’d need to answer.
The phone rang again. I grabbed it on the first ring.
“Patrick?” Theresa’s voice was warm, a little breathless. “I just got home. I wanted to thank you again for last night. I can’t wait for the beach day on Saturday.”
The timing couldn’t have been worse. “I’m glad you called,” I said, though the words felt heavy. “Listen, Theresa, something’s come up.”
The warmth cooled. “Oh?”
“One of MIRI’s major investors—he’s threatening to pull funding unless I come back to Scotland immediately for meetings. I’ll be gone the entire week, I’m afraid.”
Silence. Then: “I see.”
“The beach day—we’ll have to push it. I’m sorry, I know we just?—”
