The guys look at each other and then down at the papers in front of them.
“Good question, Meredith.” His steady gaze slips back to the table. “The team will get back to you.”
^^^
I’ve chosen a new hotel, and after struggling only twice with my key card, I push open the spring-loaded room door with my shoulder andstep inside. The air is cool with a faint scent of fresh linen. Sunlight streams in through the sheer curtains, casting geometric tiles of gold across the paisley carpet. My tricep hollers at me as I toss my suit jacket on the white-sheeted king-size bed. Massaging my upper arms, I check the time, twenty-two minutes after six. My stomach gurgles. I’ve sat in front of two delicious plates of food today and barely eaten anything.
As I was ordering food for the team earlier, I cancelled the reservation for tonight. Clint is right: I need to resolve this madness at work, and then I must focus on him and the kids. But right this moment, I’m ready for a bed picnic. I call down for a Caesar salad with blackened salmon and a bowl of berries with fresh cream.
While I wait for room service, I change into a pair of worn-out leggings and a sweatshirt. Laying out a large towel on the bed, I then arrange a few of the dozen pillows against the headboard. As I bend over to reach into my bag, my eyes snap to the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. I stop. My breath sticks in my throat. I march back to the bathroom and grab another towel to shove across the sill. I’ll have to replace it after my dinner is delivered but better than eyeing the opening, or it eyeing me.
Betsey will have to find another way to dispatch her missives.
An hour later, all the succulent fish is gone as well as most of the salad. I was much hungrier than I expected. As I tear into my linen-wrapped yeast roll, I once again scowl at Betsey’s investor data. How can I verify its authenticity? Before we launched, the team from fund accounting provided a way for employees to get approval to purchase shares of the ETFs through a trade reporting portal. Due to some issues with tech as the funds went live, I got a number of complaints from employees who wanted to purchase. All those trades were run through the same advisor code.
Details about those trades could be on the list—if it goes back that far.
I run my bread through the pat of creamy butter, in similar eagerness to Temor and his plate of hummus.
Perhaps the people who complained never ended up buying, because I don’t find any entries that resemble my notes. I also don’t see any advisor codes that even have the same pattern as the one we used at launch.
I don’t see anything resembling my trading record either. The last time I purchased shares was over six months ago. Perhaps this data is fake after all? But then a zip code catches my eye. I know that number. Aarav’s deep-brown eyes come into focus. I haven’t heard back from him since I left my voicemail yesterday.
I sort and find more than a dozen entries, then look up the zip code. Yes, Westport, Connecticut. His town.
Aarav’s Meymack office is called the The Fides Group. He has great Google reviews. The fourth name, who gave him five stars, has me tossing the heel of my roll back on my plate. Charles Boldir talks about the personal service, portfolio management, and conversations about the latest investment opportunity that is both less expensive and more tax efficient.
The headboard quakes as I sit back hard against the pillows. I know Charles. My Kennebunkport office managed his late father’s assets. We’d tried to woo him to Garman Straub, but he was happy where he was. I read his comment again. Perhaps the latest investment opportunity is our funds.
I find his address and date of birth in the investor spreadsheet. My stomach twists. The personal information looks legit; he’s around sixty, and something about Greens Farms Road sounds familiar, but I don’t know if he actually purchased the shares that are listed next to his information.
Remembering the words in Betsey’s note and Aarav’s comment about steps to success, I wonder,Was Betsey trying to point me towardhis office?I flip back to the Meymack web pages that highlight The Fides Group. There it is.We take the right steps to ensure your future.Can’t be a coincidence. Was this her way of telling me the data is legitimate?
I decide to go about this another way. I copy and paste the entire column of zip codes, nothing else, and create a quick pivot table to determine those locales that have more than one investor on the list. Tiny dots of perspiration bleed from my hairline as I start to match the zip codes to known Meymack offices.
There are too many to be a coincidence.
This is not just sales data; this is highly sensitive personal data by investor, provided by or stolen from Meymack. I sit back and stare at the screen, my heart pounding in my chest. The realization hits me like the gavel coming down again and again at the closing bell, sending shivers down my spine. Someone within Meymack is leaking confidential information, and it’s not just a few isolated cases—it’s systematic. And someone at Garman Straub is receiving it. But why?
I glance around my dimly lit hotel room; the air feels thick, each breath I take labored. With surprisingly steady hands, I reach for my phone. My fingers hover over the screen. This discovery is too volatile, too dangerous to ignore. I need to confront this truth head-on. But as I contemplate who to call, a sense of dread wells up inside me. Whoever is behind this is playing a dangerous game, and I’m about to step right into the trap. If I admit I know, someone else will have everything they need to snare me.
I place my phone aside and settle back into my pillows. Everyone has a reason to see me flounder. Perhaps Phil has gotten greedy and is willing to risk an assortment of side deals to line his own pockets. Hardwin could be using his contracts team to create any number of ways to defraud investors. Terrence could be so focused on legacy that he’s not keeping his eyes on what’s going on right in front of him. AndDave, he’s got the most to gain in all this. If he gets rid of me, he has dominion over all the funds Garman Straub produces. Because if you are going to defraud investors and line your pockets, lending out a few select securities is not the straightforward way to go about it, but it does set me up quite effectively to take the fall.
Side glances and snippets of conversations over the past year crowd my mind. Evidently, I’ve missed something fundamental in the management of my ETFs to allow anyone to steal revenue from our funds by compromising the securities lending. I didn’t list Betsey among those with reason. Maybe I’m unwilling to admit such a breach of discernment. How could someone so close to me play me for a fool? Trying to be objective, I press into the memories of working, laughing, and sharing my stash of breath mints with Betsey. Not until those moments before her interview with the friendlies did she ever make me question her. Was she so effectively careful? But I’ve come to realize, every dirty little secret is a prison to the one who keeps it.
I lay my head back and begin to catalogue where I might have missed evidence of fraud, with so much time spent in meetings and looking at data over the past months to years. Whispers and furtive glances crowd my mind.
Shrill ringing jolts me awake. Disoriented, I flail my arm about my head before soreness pins my elbow back to my side. Scooting up into my pillows, I tentatively grope around me. In the dim light, my fingers fumble across the nightstand. Clutching my phone, I sweep a stack of papers and send my laptop teetering to the edge of the bed. I drag it to the other side of me, gritting against the tightness in my body. It lands on an open folder. What a mess.
I glance at the screen as my finger swipes to answer the call. I bite down on a groan as I read my neighbor’s name a moment too late. “Good morning, Mrs. Varnella.”
“Oh, Meredith, dear, I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Her voice, as always, is tinged with urgency.
I sit straighter in bed, kicking a pillow onto the floor. How could I possibly have fallen asleep in such disarray last night? “No, not at all. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, you sweet one. A bit of pain in my hip, you know how hard—now shush, Napoleon.” A yappy bark continues as Mrs. Varnella both yells at and soothes her dog. “What was I saying? Oh right, my silly hip. They’re talking about replacement again. I don’t know why they think this time I’ll agree to getting gutted like a fish. And you know the trouble I’ve been having with my weeping eye. Such a nuisance, but yes, I’m fine. That’s not why I’m calling.”
As I gather the strewn papers around me, I scratch my left cheek and come away with a soggy bit of lettuce. Gross. I tumble out of bed, suddenly desperate for a hot shower.
