Chapter 2 - THE DRIVE THEY SAID I STOLE
I got off at Union Square.
Not my stop.
I wanted cameras.
People.
Police.
Jonah got off too.
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.”
He stood ten feet away while I called 911.
An officer from the transit bureau arrived twenty minutes later.
I explained the sleeping.
The bag.
The flash drive.
Jonah showed the photograph.
The officer asked whether I wanted to make a report.
“Yes.”
He put the drive into an evidence bag.
That was the moment Daniel called again.
I declined it.
Then Lauren called.
My sister-in-law.
My boss.
Executive vice president of finance at Whitmore Development Group.
I answered.
“Emily?”
“What?”
“Where are you?”
“Union Square.”
“Daniel says there’s been some misunderstanding.”
I almost laughed.
“An employee followed me onto a train.”
“Owen says he was trying to return something.”
My stomach tightened.
“You spoke to him.”
“Yes.”
“Already.”
“He called security.”
I looked at the officer.
“Why?”
Lauren lowered her voice.
“Emily, the company detected an unauthorized export from the investor-reserve folder tonight.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Approximately nine hundred files.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“The export was made under your credentials.”
“No.”
“At 12:17.”
I checked the time.
At 12:17, I had been standing in Lauren’s office reviewing revised cash-flow assumptions.
With Lauren.
“You were with me.”
Silence.
“Lauren.”
“I stepped out.”
“For four minutes.”
“The system doesn’t know who physically touched the keyboard.”
“My office was locked.”
“Owen says your door was open.”
“Owen is the man who put a flash drive in my bag.”
“He says the drive is yours.”
I stared at the tiled platform wall.
“He says what?”
“He found it near your desk after you left.”
“He followed me onto the subway to return it secretly while I slept?”
“Emily.”
“That is the story?”
“Please don’t make this worse.”
I laughed.
The officer glanced over.
“Worse for who?”
Lauren exhaled.
“You’re being placed on paid administrative leave while outside counsel reviews the export.”
My face went cold.
“I reported this to police.”
“That is your right.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I sound tired.”
“So am I.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“No.”
A pause.
“What?”
“My attorney will.”
I didn’t have one yet.
I was going to.
I ended the call.
Jonah looked at me.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Do you have somewhere safe to go?”
“My home.”
I heard myself say it.
Then remembered Daniel’s no.
Come home first.
We’ll call the company.
“What?”
Jonah asked.
“Nothing.”
I called my older sister, Rachel.
She lived in Park Slope.
She answered on the third ring.
“If this is about Mom’s birthday, it’s one in the morning.”
“I need somewhere to sleep.”
Silence.
Then:
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.”
“Bring Sophie?”
My daughter was eight.
She was asleep at home.
With Daniel.
My chest tightened.
“No.”
“Emily.”
“I can’t wake her up and start a war at one-thirty.”
“What kind of war?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Rachel’s voice changed.
“Come.”
The officer gave me the report number.
Jonah gave his contact information as a witness.
I thanked him.
He shrugged.
“I’d want somebody to say something if it happened to my sister.”
That sentence followed me into the cab.
Daniel called seven times.
I answered the eighth.
“Where are you?”
“Rachel’s.”
“What the hell?”
“I need space.”
“From me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I closed my eyes.
“You knew there was an investigation into me.”
“It started yesterday.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“Lauren asked me not to.”
“You’re my husband.”
“I’m also on the board.”
There it was.
Whitmore first.
Marriage second.
“How long has the company been reviewing my access?”
“Two days.”
“Why?”
“Because reserve reports don’t tie.”
“They haven’t tied for three months. I’m the one who raised it.”
“I know.”
“Then why am I the suspect?”
“Because downloads came from your profile.”
“After midnight tonight.”
“And earlier.”
My stomach tightened.
“How much earlier?”
“Three weeks.”
I sat down on Rachel’s front steps.
“What was downloaded?”
“Investor reserve statements.”
“Project transfers.”
“Yes.”
I knew those files.
I had been reconciling them because $4.3 million in restricted investor funds had moved between three project entities without explanations that matched the board packages.
I asked Lauren.
She said intercompany timing.
I asked again.
She told me I was becoming obsessive.
Now someone wanted those same records on a drive in my bag.
“Daniel.”
“What?”
“Did you know I was reviewing the reserve transfers?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Lauren mentioned it.”
“When?”
“A while ago.”
“How long?”
He paused.
“February.”
Four months.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That you were stressed.”
I laughed.
“Of course.”
“That you were spending too much time on old entries.”
“Four-point-three million dollars isn’t an old entry.”
“I’m not arguing.”
“No. You’re doing something worse.”
“What?”
“You’re standing near the truth without choosing a side.”
He was silent.
Then he said, “Come home tomorrow morning. Sophie needs you.”
That worked.
He knew it would.
My anger softened immediately.
I hated him for knowing that.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s asleep.”
“Did she ask for me?”
“She waited until ten.”
My eyes filled.
“I told her month-end ran late.”
I pressed my lips together.
At least that part was true.
“Goodnight.”
“Emily.”
“What?”
“Don’t talk to anyone from work until we know what’s on that drive.”
“The police have it.”
Silence.
Long this time.
“You gave it to police?”
“Yes.”
Daniel whispered, “Jesus.”
I stood.
“Why does that scare you?”
“It doesn’t.”
“You’re lying.”
“No.”
I ended the call.
Rachel opened her door before I knocked.
She wore pajama pants covered in tiny avocados.
Her first question was not about the flash drive.
It was:
“Did Daniel do something?”
I started crying.
Rachel pulled me inside.
At seven the next morning, an email arrived from Whitmore outside counsel.
NOTICE OF PRESERVATION AND ADMINISTRATIVE LEAVE.
Below it was a list of devices I could not access.
Company laptop.
Email.
Cloud storage.
Office.
Then one paragraph:
The company is investigating suspected removal of confidential investor information and potential unauthorized disclosure.
I stared at the words.
Removal.
Disclosure.
Not reconciliation.
Not accounting questions.
They were building a story.
At 7:14, Sophie called from Daniel’s phone.
“Mom?”
“Hi, baby.”
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Daddy said you’re staying with Aunt Rachel.”
“For one night.”
“Grandma said you might not work at Whitmore anymore.”
I stopped.
Margaret Whitmore.
Daniel’s mother.
Chairwoman.
“What?”
Sophie lowered her voice.
“She said maybe it’s better because you’ve been tired.”
“When did Grandma say that?”
“Yesterday.”
My skin turned cold.
Yesterday.
Before the train.
Before the flash drive.
Before the alleged 12:17 export.
“Was Daddy there?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Sophie thought.
“He said, ‘Not in front of her.’”
May you like
I closed my eyes.
The decision to push me out had been discussed before there was anything in my bag.
