“Not much. Eric bought some of their lies, and they got some concessions, but nothing to worry about. I’ll need to send them some documents in their preferred format.” She rolled her eyes. “They’ll review and find nothing suspicious, because there’s nothing to be found, and everyone’s precious time will be happily wasted.” She shrugged. “At least Harkness promised not to have an on-site presence anymore. Hey, did I see Eli Killgore and Minami Oka loitering around your office earlier?”
“I . . . wasn’t here. I wouldn’t know.”
She left with a wave of her hand and a satisfied smile, and I wondered when the last time was that I’d lied so deliberately to a friend.
Never, I thought, the shame of it sour in my throat. At least, not that I could recall.
If one good thing could be said of Harkness, it was that it kept its promise, because I didn’t see Eli during the following week. His absence from my life—and the absence of the havoc he wreaked in it—felt like a reward for being, if not a good person, someone who returned grocery items to their original places when she changed her mind mid-shopping, even if it was several aisles away.
I went over to Florence’s for Tisha’s birthday dinner, and found her mostly annoyed. “They keep asking for more and more documents, beyond anything that’s reasonable or that has been agreed upon,” Florence said, cutting a slice of cheesecake. The dark circles were back around her eyes. “I’m starting to wonder if they’re using the copies we send them for their kids’ papier-mâché projects.”
I paused with my glass midair, remembering Eli’s words at the retirement party. “Can’t we just give them access to everything? We have nothing to hide, after all.”
“We could, if we believed that they’re acting in good faith. But we know better. Plus, it’s not so simple. A lot of these documents have to be prepared by the accountants. Like I said, a huge time and money pit.”
See, Eli? I knew that Florence had an answer.
“But it doesn’t matter, because I have a plan to get out of this mess.” Her smile was suddenly broad and infectious.
“A plan—I love plans!” Tisha clapped her hands. “Do tell?”
Florence stuck a single candle in Tisha’s slice and handed her a plate. “I’ve been talking to some potential investors. Ideally, they’ll decide to back us and give us the capital to pay off our loan to Harkness.”
“Would Harkness agree to take the money and leave?” I asked, skeptical. Wasn’t their endgame the biofuel?
“They wouldn’t have a choice.”
I imagined a future in which Harkness was out of the picture. What it would do for the constant, low-level buzz of guilt I’d been dealing with, knowing that I hadn’t slept with the guy who might take Florence’s company away from her—I’d slept with the guy who’d failed at it.
I wanted that future so, so bad.
It wasn’t until later that night, while I was adding nutrients to my hydroponic garden, that the implications fully hit me: If Florence succeeded, I might never see Eli Killgore again. The relief was so strong, it felt like something else altogether.
“Do you have any idea how much one of my billable hours costs?” Nyota asked me the next time we FaceTimed. Her phone was propped on her treadmill, and she appeared to be running an easy six-minute mile with barely a puff. I’d been an athlete for half my life, but holy shit.
“Hundreds of dollars, I’d guess.”
“You’d be right. Remind me, why am I consulting for you for free?”
“Because I’ve been holding on to that picture of your goth phase for the last decade?”
She muttered a word that sounded like twitch. “For the record, this is extortion and blackmail. Both felonies. And I hate you.” A sigh. “I got the contract you emailed. The one that supposedly says that the ravioli patent is yours, no matter what.”
“It’s a microbial coating—”
“Yes, you’re a nerd first and a human being second. We’re all aware. Anyway, I haven’t gotten a chance to look at that contract yet. But I did check your brother’s letter.”
“And?”
“Honestly, I’m not a real estate lawyer, but your best bet is to buy him out. Can you afford it?”
Could I? The tech industry paid well, and I did have savings. Enough to buy Vince’s half of the cabin, though? “Probably not right now.”
“You could get a loan.”
I could. Except that my credit score was still convalescing after the abuse I’d put it through during my PhD. “With my luck, the loan would end up being owned by a pack of hyenas. Or by Harkness—same difference.”
Nyota chuckled, which made me feel oddly proud. Booger eater, I reminded myself. You don’t need to impress her.
“Tish tells me things are looking up,” she said, still breathing easily. “With Harkness, I mean.”
“Hopefully. If Florence finds a better lender. Or any lender, since I’m not sure there are worse ones.”
“Don’t be so sure. Harkness is not that bad.” She noticed my surprised eyebrow and continued, “Don’t get me wrong, there are no ethics in capitalism and all that. But these guys are on the less gross end of the spectrum of it. Guess how many companies they’ve bankrupted?”
I had no idea what a plausible number was. Three? Seventeen hundred? “Twelve.”
“That’s disturbingly specific, and no. Zero.”
“What does that mean?”
“I wouldn’t go as far as saying that they’re putting social responsibility before profit, but at least they try. Or maybe I’m just mildly fascinated because I work in finance—doesn’t exactly crawl with people with a strong moral compass. Or weak. Or any.” She shrugged mid-stride. Impressive. “At least they’re not saddling the companies they acquire with debt, or cutting jobs. They’re longterm. Their MO seems to be to invest in companies they believe in and use their capital to grow them. And they seem to be very intuitive when it comes to figuring out what tech has good market potential.”
I thought about Minami and her degree. “What about what they’re trying to do to Florence? Have they ever targeted a company to obtain control of their tech?”
“Not that I know of. But don’t worry, Rue. They’re still making money out of money and all that gross shit.” She grinned. “You are allowed to hate them, if that’s what sparks joy.”
Tisha and I hadn’t been the ones to start Kline’s monthly journal club, but Florence had forced us to take over when our predecessor moved to a cushy job at the CDC and a dearth of volunteers became apparent. And yet, while we may not have been the club’s first, we were undoubtedly the club’s best.
No one wanted to read scientific papers in their spare time, let alone have roundtable discussions about them. So, after the first monthly meeting had an attendance of three (Tisha, me, and a strong-armed Jay, who did not read the paper and threatened to call HR), we decided that some changes were overdue. Among them: moving the club to Thursday afternoons, snacks, and, most importantly, a keg budget—which Florence had agreed to, “in order to incentivize continuing education.”
Attendance had skyrocketed. “Journal club” had become a synonym for “company-wide nonmandatory party.” Even I, no social butterfly, enjoyed it for several reasons: nine times out of ten I got to choose the paper (no one else remembered to submit ideas in time); it was much easier for me to interact with people within the structure of a guided discussion; and beer was a powerful social lubricant. You give out way less of a “talk to me, and I’ll fuck up your human rights” vibe when you’re drunk, Nyota had told me years before, watching Tisha and me stumble home sloshed, mistake the bathtub for a bed, and use Mrs. Fuli’s loofahs for pillows.