“In my defense,” Eli said, “I didn’t know you were there. Or that I’d been put on speakerphone without my permission. I could have opened with a murder confession.”

“Is that the good news?”

“Nope.” He sighed. “Kline did come through and gave me access to the documents we asked for. Financial, taxes, inventory, accounts, you name it.”

A pause. “Color me surprised,” Hark said.

“Me, too. Until—and we’re entering bad news territory—I started going through them. They’re all physical copies, approximately twelve forklifts’ worth of paper. If an intern bought a Cobb salad six years ago, I guarantee you there’s a twelve-page report on the aftertaste of the blue cheese. I asked accounting if they had digital files, and they politely implied that I could go fuck myself. Legal’s reaching out to Kline’s general counsel, but it’s likely Florence just stopped listening to them. We’ll need to get arbitrators involved.”

“Paperwork burial. A beloved classic,” Hark muttered. “Fucking grand.”

“It would take ten people weeks to go through everything and figure out if any of the contract terms have been breached and we have grounds to take over Kline. I can’t say for sure it’s obfuscation, but there’s no doubt it’s a deliberate effort to buy time. If I had to guess . . .”

“What?”

“I have no proof of it. But my hunch is that Florence is busy trying to buy time while she contacts other investors to find the capital to pay back the loan, before we can discover that she’s in breach. Because she knows that once we catch her in the act, the biofuel tech is ours.”

Hark swore softly. Sul grunted. “Do you happen to have more good news?” Minami urged. “Like a good news Oreo?”

“You know I don’t, because I told you in advance. Aren’t you happy you were adequately prepared?”

“No.”

“Well, Rue Siebert’s microbial-coating project could be considered a piece of good news. It’s at a very advanced stage and great for—”

“You simp,” Minami muttered, and he didn’t bother denying it. He liked Rue. The no-nonsense looks, the plain speaking, the way the air around her always seemed to turn a darker, more serious color, that constant sense of something simmering just beneath her still surface.

Her body.

I don’t think I like you as a person.

Eli did not have a people-pleasing complex, nor a humiliation kink. Unlike Hark, he was also not a natural-born contrarian. When people—no, when women didn’t like him, he was happy to leave well enough alone. He really didn’t know what to do with this urge to change someone’s mind.

Rue Siebert’s mind.

Maybe he’d just ignore it. Let it fester inside him. That should be healthy.

“What are the lawyers estimating, time wise?” Minami asked.

“Weeks.”

“Shit. Is there any other way to—”

“The board,” Hark interrupted. “What about Kline’s board? They might agree to force her to turn over the documents. They override the CEO.”

“But Florence handpicked the board,” Minami pointed out. “Remember I looked into that? They’re all very loyal to her.”

“Except for one.”

“Who?” Eli asked. Tiny was galloping back to him, at last content with his explorations.

“Eric Sommers. I went golfing last weekend—”

Eli winced. On the other end of the line, a deep “ew” rose.

“What?”

“Could you just . . .” Minami sighed.

“Just what?” Hark asked defensively.

“I don’t know, attempt to meet the private investment fund executive’s stereotype with slightly less open arms?”

“I fucking like golf. It’s a good sport.”

They all made gagging sounds, and there was a muffled crash, as if objects were being thrown around. Eli stared at Tiny’s happily wagging tail, pleased with his vastly superior company. Tiny would either eat or shit on the entirety of Hark’s golf equipment.

“You guys can shove your sport prejudices up your asses—”

“Eli, should we bully him a bit?”

“It’s the only way.”

“—because Sommers invited me to his retirement party.”

“Where?”

Silence. “At the country club where we play,” Hark admitted begrudgingly.

More gagging sounds. Eli rubbed his eyes, wondering if an intervention was in order.

“Listen, pricks,” Hark grunted. “We’re going to his party, where we’ll attempt to talk him into forcing Florence’s hand.”

“He’s still just one person,” Minami objected. “Would he even make a difference?”

“He has the ear of other board members. And he’s about to have lots of spare time.” A pause, in which Eli could imagine him shrugging. “I’m not saying it’s foolproof, but he was an early investor, too. He might have a stake in this.”

“Sure. Once again, nothing to lose,” Minami agreed. “Though Sul and I are leaving for Atlanta tomorrow morning. Health check on Vault. Their Q1 numbers just finalized.”

“Eli can be my date.”

“Fantastic.” Eli sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I do love country clubs and shots in the dark.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear something nice.”

Eli hung up and bent to scratch the sweet spot on the top of Tiny’s head, starting the long and tedious process of coaxing his dog back home. A night spent schmoozing some rich old man who thought plugging holes was a dignified activity was not in his Friday top twenty, but at least it’d take his mind off Rue for a while.

10

WE SETTLE THIS. ONCE AND FOR ALL.

RUE

My idea of a fun Friday night tended to include skating, or

Tisha, or sleeping, and while I wasn’t delighted to be accompanying Florence to an event that was unlikely to have any of those, the party came with one saving grace: the attire was formal, and I always welcomed a chance to dress up.

Large social gatherings full of people I wasn’t familiar with were gas giants yielding infinite supplies of nightmare fuel, but at least I got to dig into my closet and show off my cat-eye routine—trained by the incessant pipetting, my lines were straighter than a bubble level. As in awe as I was of Tish’s habit of showing up to the lab with Met Gala–like sophistication, I didn’t have it in me to make that kind of effort on a daily basis, and never before 11:00 a.m. When I met up with men from the apps, I rarely bothered with makeup or nice outfits, aware the clothes would come off soon enough, and that nobody wanted my face goop smeared on their skin. It meant that most of my fancy dresses were beloved but unworn, and they’d only get a chance to come out for Tisha’s wedding—because she was the kind of person who’d require three engagement parties and a handful of rehearsal dinners, but couldn’t be bothered to tell her maid of honor what to wear.

And for parties like tonight’s.

“You look beautiful,” Florence told me when I slid in the back of the Lyft, fingering the shimmery fabric of my green cocktail dress—which had pockets.

“So do you. It feels like there should be some chromatic reason for gingers to look bad in pink, but that’s not true at all.”

She laughed. “This is why you’re a better date than my ex.”

“Because I tell you that you defy color theory?”

“That, and you’re hopefully not sleeping with my accountant.”

When I first met Florence, she’d been married to a guy named Brock who worked some bank-related job, had been her childhood sweetheart, and, according to Tisha, was “a total silver fox thirst trap.” Privately, I’d always considered him a giant bag of dicks unworthy of scraping grime off the grout lines in a public restroom. I’d hated his brash, car-salesman humor, how he’d presumed to tell Florence how to run Kline, and the way he looked at my chest and Tisha’s legs whenever Florence would have us over, like we were pieces of meat, little more than chicken wings delivered to his doorstep for his pleasure. I’d been relieved when they’d divorced, because Florence deserved better than him.