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.
10
AS I REACH FOR THE LIDto wake the computer, I see a text from Erika.
I’m fine. I have a precalc quiz tomorrow. Have to study.
I immediately respond, but she declines my offer to come home. We make plans to connect again after my dinner.
I sit unmoving in the desk chair. I should go home anyway. Two calls from my teen in one day. Something is obviously the matter. Something more than the usual skirmish. But I know what will happen if I leave now. I’ll miss the dinner in my honor—well, in honor of our successful funds—and I’ll show up at home to mother a daughter who won’t talk. She’ll eventually open her door, remind me she has a hard quiz to study for, and say it’s no big deal. She’s just feeling emotional.And hey, stop taking things so serious all the time.
This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve left everything hanging at work to return to a normal teenage household. The last time was about a failed Snapchat streak. Thankfully, Betsey covered for me without a hitch.
Tonight, I have no backup.
And Clint certainly doesn’t want me home.
I rub the track pad to find the pointer on the screen. If my husband returns my texts with anything approaching a change of heart, I’ll be on the first train. Until then, I’ll respect his wishes. Regardless of my justifications, the clock is ticking on me telling him. There is also the matter of what he deserves to know.
I open the File application. A temporary drive appears in my list of options down the left side of the window. My highlight moves toward the labeled drive.
I again feel the cameras. I see myself in a cameo appearance on another video with a question cloud hanging over my head.
Will she or won’t she?
I open the drive and flunk the module.
Only one file appears in the navigation window. I press the touch pad.
An Excel spreadsheet with dozens of columns of numbers opens on my screen. It looks like coded sales by lots, much more detailed than I’ve ever seen. Since ETFs are traded on the open market, it’s almost impossible to attribute sales to specific investors. Mutual funds have that advantage: We know exactly where they are being bought and by whom. ETFs offer a level of privacy for investors, but it’s also much harder for us to target our sales. Our wildly successful ETFs have been growing despite our inability to know who’s buying them. This spreadsheet looks as if someone has gotten their hands on very sensitive data. But how?
Some of the wirehouses and even a few intermediaries have started selling summarized sales data but nothing this detailed, and besides, we made an early decision not to spend capital on that kind of information. We would produce high-value funds and foster relationshipswith financial advisors to explain their benefits. Thus far, this has been a successful strategy.
Impossible to argue against this kind of data being valuable. But also, very troubling to consider how it was produced. Since we haven’t purchased even the basic data, the only way to assemble this kind of detail would be to convince someone to steal it.
The hotel phone rings. I pick up the handset.
“Evening, Meredith.” Phil’s jovial tone fills the line. “We have a couple cars meeting us out front in thirty minutes. Suit your timing?”
A question that’s not a question. My CEO’s timing is always my timing. But Phil called me himself. Might be a first.
“Of course. See you in the lobby.”
I quickly copy the file onto the laptop and then slide the laptop between the mattress and box spring of my bed. I take the thumb drive to the personal safe in the closet and lock it inside.
As I step into the shower, my daughter’s delicate face comes to mind. Would it help her to know her mother feels exactly the same way as her? Trapped. And this time getting out is going to take a lot more than moving aside one massive man.
11
A SHARPLY DRESSED DINING HOSTopens the heavy door. Carved into the ebony wood, open-mouthed dragons breathe fire into the valley village below. I drag my gaze away. The smell of sizzling meat, roasted onions, and yeasty bread assails me. This is a dinner for victors, hearkening back to nomadic tribes who slaughtered wild beasts. Not a big carnivore myself, I’ll still order a steak the size of my head, but what I’ve been looking forward to is the metaphorical breaking of bread. We have a unique opportunity to sit together, brag on our families instead of ourselves, and find common interests.
Minutes after I’ve been ushered into our private wine cellar room, Dave struts through the open door. Not everyone has the same perspective. I imagine some of us anticipate the fun of instigating others to say what they normally wouldn’t. They give themselves permission to openly prod and taunt.
