“There she is.” Only a moderate amount of annoyance tinges his words. “Meredith, can I introduce you to the head of research at UBS?”
I shake hands and greet the next dozen people as the envelope grows warm in my left hand. At one point I actually feel the package with my other fingers to ensure it isn’t heating up.
I finally excuse myself for the restroom, my curiosity eating away my desire to be the perfect hostess.
I rip open the seal and pull out a handwritten note.
A chill runs up my spine. I know this loopy writing. I quickly glance under each of the stall doors. No feet, but it’s like I can feelBetsey’s presence in the white granite room with me. I secure myself behind the last door and think of Erika locked away and feeling trapped.
I stare down at the single sheet of paper.
On the drive is the data. Verify it.
No innuendo. Only facts.
I scrubbed the names, but the rest is as I found it. I recommend you keep this to yourself, as what you hold will threaten others. But I’ve lost my voice with you, so I at least encourage you to be careful with whom you trust.
I hope you agree this has all gotten a bit ridiculous, but based on the stakes, we probably shouldn’t be surprised. I will always cherish our meetings at the Rotterdam Room. The confidences we shared over sips of oaky Chardonnays for you and two olive martinis for me—the stories are like snapshots in my mind. You can continue to trust me to keep your confidences.
I’m “calling safety.” Lending you research. After all, success is the result of the right steps taken day after day.
You have until Friday. I’ll be in touch.
The page quivers in my shaking hand. I read it three times before shoving the note back into the envelope.
Betsey and I’ve never been to the Rotterdam Room.
But Lucas and I have.
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 attemptat 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?
