“Maybe.” Hardwin matches Terrence’s tone and then speaks softer. “Maybe she didn’t question it because she’s going to look into it herself.”
My mouth drops open. He’s giving me more credit than I deserve. I haven’t considered verifying their declaration, but now they better believe I’m digging in.
“I don’t see it. She’s too busy anyway. You know that—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Donovan.” Peter’s voice interrupts. “We’ve arrived at the hotel.”
“Thank you, Peter... Hey!” Hardwin’s voice booms. “Are we still—”
The line goes dead.
24
MY FINGER AUTOMATICALLY LANDSon the disconnect button, although the men are gone. They’ve left my phone, my office, and my swirling head. My ears ring with the silence, like the faint high-pitched screeching of a bird of prey circling with its talons out, ready to strike.
The data is real.
My boss’s legal advisor doesn’t trust me.
The data is real.
Hardwin was right. I was so desperate to believe Betsey wasn’t a threat, I didn’t ask a single question about how they’d gone about debunking the file.
The data is real.
I pull up a blank document on my laptop. My fingers fly over my keyboard. I started in this firm as an analyst until I earned my spot as portfolio manager. I’m good at breaking it down and then building it back up into something that matters.
What else do I know?
Betsey wants the securities lending agreement.
I log in to the share drive and see how far I can get. I start with documentation on the funds themselves. There are folders for prospectus, marketing, sales, performance, and so many others. I open up the Foundations folder and read a document I wrote in the early days to fire up the troops. The funds have evolved, but the fundamentals are consistent. We’d use the exchange-traded structure to house a thematic investment opportunity fueled by active management with an option overlay on a negatively correlated index. It was like preparing the perfect farm-to-table meal tuned to the anticipated tastes of your guests but also spending a bit of the budget on a few jars of tomato sauce and dried pasta in case of a kitchen disaster. Both Hardwin and Dave had thought it a fringe concept. I even remember the exact wording Dave used to dismiss the idea. “No one is arguing our need to enter the ETF space. Our mutual fund strategies have given this firm a long, successful legacy. Exchange-traded funds may support our future. But this...” Dave had raised my pitch portfolio at the conference table. “This is a novelty. We need a Tesla, and this is a... a dune buggy.”
It had taken me a month to walk back his impact. Being late to the ETF game, we’d never break in with basic portfolios that were in their own race to no fees, only making a profit based on their huge scale. While everyone was content to be chum in shark-infested bloody waters, we needed a blue ocean of investors. We had to solve a problem we could articulate, and we had to be first.
Even after the green light, I barely allowed myself to believe it. I threw everything and every hour at ensuring our success. Looking back now, not everyone could keep up, and I didn’t slow down to make sure they stayed on board. I left a few bodies in that channel as we motored into open water.
But Betsey was not one of them. She was in the boat with me, from almost day one.
I open another folder and flip through. At the bottom, I find what looks like a template for the lending of securities. The agreement is straightforward. If our ETFs hold a security that a financial institution wants to borrow, our lending agent will manage the loan. There’s a lot of detailed policy but nothing about investors or advisors. They’re at the entirely opposite end of our food chain. How can the contract be related to Betsey’s investment data?
Maybe it’s not. I navigate back out to the root drive and look for one of the partners’ working folders. Maybe Betsey is simply testing me to give her leverage. And maybe the securities lending agreement is only the beginning.
I let my back fall against my chair’s cushion. I should have given Terrence the note and washed my hands of this whole mess from the beginning. They’re going to find out.
Betsey picked a perfect time to blow this all up. I’d been so wrapped up in our celebration. If I’d handed the whole thing over, I could have gone home immediately. Clint deserves to hear it from his wife. A fat tear squeezes out from the corner of my eye and careens down my cheek.
There’s a quick double knock on my door and then a woman in a dark-blue polo and chinos walks into my office with her head down.
I scrape my shoulder against my cheek and then silently berate myself. I have a box of tissues an arm’s length away. Old makeup likely streaks my gray suit.
“Good evening. How’s the night going?” I smile with what I hope is friendliness and not despondency.
The middle-aged woman replaces the corner bin, which is likely empty, and turns toward me. Her eyes round for a moment before she speaks. “Fine, miss. Are you going to be much longer? On TuesdaysI usually... but I can come back.” The woman’s eyes scan the office. Must be a deep-cleaning night.
“No need for anything tonight. I had a... an incident with... Never mind. You can skip my office this week. I probably have a lot of late nights ahead of me. Anyway, all set in here.” Why am I stumbling so hard to ask the woman to go?
“I understand.” She returns her blue window cleaner to her cart. “I will note for the morning crew to do a quick pass.”
