Everything about his apartment is sterile; if it’s not white, it’s gray or stainless steel. The bar of soap fits this theme as well. It smells like lemongrass and ginger.
Before I can stop myself, I begin to think of my childhood. We’d lived in rural Oregon, in a little farmhouse surrounded by tall grass where I would catch insects with my brother on summer nights. Without the light pollution of the city streetlamps, the sky was pitch black with dots of glowing white stars, and the air smelled just like this bar of soap.
I hate what it reminds me of, and that I still miss it, despite the awful way it came crashing to a halt forever. I hate that my mind still goes back to that place when everyone was still alive, everything tainted now by the tragedy that took it all away. It’s not a place I want to revisit. Even my husband doesn’t know the half of it.
I must have been taking my frustrations out on the shirt, because the stain lifts easily. I wring it out and then hold it up for Bertram’s approval. It’s a Ralph Lauren,retailing for two hundred dollars tops. It’s pennies for someone like him. He was probably just going to throw it in the trash, but he humors me.
“There, see?” he says, gently taking it from my hands and draping it over the glass shower door to dry. “It’s as good as new.” When he turns to me again, he tilts my chin with his finger, smiling in an infectious way that causes me to do the same.
Oh, his charm is dangerous. The smooth London accent doesn’t help at all.
I force myself to think of Erin Casimir, so distraught in her dumpy apartment, lamenting all this man had cost her. And poor Annie, who could be hiding out somewhere, or worse, buried in the Long Island Sound, getting feasted upon by the sea life.
The perspective helps me, and I slip back into character. We’ve been in here long enough for Elodie to have found his laptop and used the thumb drive by now.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “For being so understanding.”
“I’ve worked for my share of assholes,” he says, nodding to the closed door as though it’s Elodie herself. “Chin up. If you can take what she dishes out, you’ll go far. Just don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re only as good as how she treats you.”
Solid career advice from a man who may be a murderer and a high-end thief.
Even though our interview today is just a front to gain access to his files, I’m looking forward to picking his brain. I want to know just how much of a fraud he is, and if he knows anything about the software he stole from his sister. I want to know what he’ll do when he’s actually challengedby a reporter, as opposed to getting his ass kissed because he’s rich and powerful.
By the time he’s changed into a fresh shirt—sky blue this time, same cut and style—Elodie is waiting for us in the living room. She’s cleaned up the espresso with the meticulousness of a talented perfectionist.
She flashes me a wicked grin when our eyes meet, and she pats her pocket, where I can see the slightest outline of the thumb drive. Got him.
The rest of the interview goes smoothly. I ask the standard questions about how he got started, where his passion for tech began. I pretend not to notice the way he’s smiling at me as I twirl my hair around my pen. He remarks that most interviewers these days use tablets, and I tell him I’m old-fashioned. “I don’t know how computers really work,” I admit sheepishly. “The IT department in our office hates me. I’m always causing some kind of issue just trying to get into the company portal.”
“Ah,” he says, leaning back against the couch. The faux-leather cushions squeak against the fabric of his belt. “So, you want to learn all of my secrets.”
I let him think his charm is working, though in truth, I can see the appeal. If I were a young, naïve woman looking for Mr. Right, he would tick all the boxes.
I lean forward, covering my notebook with my arms so that he’ll forget it’s the reason I’m here. “Mr. Casimir—”
“Bertram,” he corrects me.
“Bertram,” I say, slowly, like I’m tasting the word. “Can I ask why you’d be in a place like this? It’s a beautiful apartment, I like it here myself, but isn’t all the techy stuff out in Silicon Valley?”
Elodie raises a brow at me, but she doesn’t comment. She’s already satisfied her role as the irritated boss. Too much more and it will come across like she’s bullying me.
But Bertram hasn’t forgotten my notebook, and he glances at it, wedged between my elbows and thighs. “Off the record?” he asks.
“Off the record.”
“It’s inefficient,” he says. “Unsustainable, I mean. Everyone is trying to out-innovate each other. Most of the companies, the really big behemoths, aren’t profitable. They’re just waiting for the others to fail so they can dominate the market. Then, inevitably, they’ll pepper their software with ads, use algorithms to manipulate their users, and forget that they were designed to help people, not profit off of them. Take AI, for example. It’s designed to line pockets, not improve the user experience.”
“That opinion must make you a bit of an outlier,” I say.
He taps his temple with a perfectly manicured finger. “Not if it stays in here,” he says. “Not if I ignore the noise out there, keep my head down, and focus on my goals. And, Margaux, I always achieve my goals.”
I study him the way I would reread an unclear passage in a book until I start to comprehend it. Only, with Bertram, there’s something preventing me from understanding him. Maybe this would discourage some, but it only heightens my interest. It isn’t every day you meet a self-made billionaire who could be a murderer, too.
I don’t do any of this for money. My relentless need to right wrongs is what keeps me going. I’ll never get enough. That’s why Waylen’s impatience waiting for me to burn out will only continue, because it doesn’t matter how much wesquirrel away in our savings account, or how many hours I clock. There’s something else keeping me going, and he doesn’t understand what it is because I won’t tell him. Because if I told him about the fire, I’d also have to tell him that it was my fault.
I focus on Bertram, and the past slips away. He says he always achieves his goals. So do I.
Six
