“So,” Video Alex says on the computer screen. In this shot, we’re descending the escalator after lunch. I’m holding Fari and Don’s take-out bag in one hand, taking a swig of my drink with my other, and Alex is leaning against the side rail one step above me. “What’s your favorite Excel formula?”
That’s when I spewed Topo Chico all over his face and chest.
Look. It felt unavoidable in the moment.
The screen switches to gray static, followed by a familiar trademarked jingle and the BTH logo against a solid black background. Then Andre’s editing has the video cut back to our intros. There we are, standing on the skyscraper’s front steps, looking as fresh-faced and dorky as two kids about to be subjected to their parents’ first-day-of-school photo shoot. Honestly, we seem too young to belong in this part of the city.
“I’m Casey,” Video Casey says. I, being Real Casey, cringe a little, blinking hard against the sound of my voice.
Andre hits the space bar on his keyboard and swivels to face me in his desk chair. “That’s what I’ve got so far. All clear?”
I put my hands on my hips and exhale slow. “Clear,” I confirm.
I told the crew yesterday I needed to see that part in person before I would even consider letting Andre put it on the internet. Alex, for his part, thought it was hilarious, and said he didn’t need to see shit, the clip should go at the beginning.
Andre smiles at me, wide and toothy. “You’re not at all like how I thought someone in finance would be. When Saanvi told me about this plan, I thought she was crazy.”
“I still think she’s crazy,” I mutter, staring at the blurry still frame of me and Alex behind Andre’s head. “But thanks.”
“I guess we’ll know in two weeks, won’t we?”
“Just two?”
“Yeah. Saanvi wants this expedited.”
“Ugh.” I pull a baleful face as I back away. “Have you talked to Alex today?”
“No,” Andre says. “Should I have?”
“Nah.” I swat my hand at the air. “Never mind.”
Still, on my way back toward the elevators, navigating the maze of cubicles on his floor, I keep my eyes peeled for Alex. I’ve never been by his desk before, and I’m not brave enough to purposely seek him out.
He took the afternoon off yesterday. Canceled all his meetings so he could go home and change, claiming he might as well take a half day.
I’d felt guilty. His shirt getting wet was my fault. But even after I offered to procure a new one for him from Frame’s fashion closet, Alex just shrugged and said, “It’s no big deal. I could use the time off, anyway.”
I was confused, until I remembered the fallout with his dad. He buried it so well over the hour and a half we spent filming that I nearly forgot, but that was probably the real reason he didn’t want to go back in the building yesterday. I mean, it was just … soda water.
Here is a fact about me: I tend to be a private person. Probably, it’s a result of growing up around country music stars. My dad isn’t one of them—he’s only a songwriter and backup vocalist, and frankly, he sings a little off-key in his middle age—but my entire life, he’s worked alongside some of the biggest names in the business. I learned the importance of privacy at a young age, and living with Devon Nicholson’s daughter in college only exacerbated that tendency.
So of course, on the flip side of that coin, I’m also not interested in prying into other people’s lives.
Usually.
But, like … I can’t stop thinking about Alex and his dad.
I have concocted a million scenarios in my head and dissected every one of them, just like I do with numbers that don’t add up.
He’s from New York, he studied at Harvard, and then he moved to Seoul and spent three years working there.
His mother is not Robert Harrison’s wife. Robert Harrison’s wife is a white woman named Linda. Thanks to Google, I know they’ve been married for thirty years, and thanks to Instagram, I know Alex is only twenty-five.
But his father didn’t know he was home … because he wouldn’t take Alex’s calls. Wouldn’t even listen to Alex’s voicemails. Maybe that would make more sense if Alex hadn’t called him Dad. If Alex didn’t share his last name. But he did, and he does, and there’s something fishy going on here, and I simply cannot focus on month-end books right now because I’m desperate to find out what.
The ninety-eighth-floor break room is never without a baked good, and I head there now for some sugar fuel to get me through the rest of today. But when I arrive, someone has beaten me to the last slice of Benny’s no-nut chocolate chip banana bread.
Tracy Garcia: CFO.
Here’s the thing. If Tracy told me to commit a murder for her, I would ask in what manner she would prefer it to be done and also if she needs me to frame someone after.
Aggressive but true, and here’s why.
I was in a bad place when I interviewed for this job. My boyfriend didn’t understand why I was even bothering, since our plan was to move back to Nashville together. Frankly, I didn’t understand why I was bothering, when every other candidate was a dude from a northeastern Ivy. I passed the technical assessment with flying colors. But during the group interview—which was a mock roundtable discussion in front of a panel including the CFO—I choked. I spoke a grand total of six words the whole time.
Anyway. I wound up in the lady’s restroom crying, scolding myself for getting quiet, for ruining my chances, and that’s where Tracy found me. She breezed in, spotted me, and then froze, tilting her head.
“The girl who beat the test,” she said.
“Um. Sorry?” I mumbled.
“You beat our technical assessment. You know that thing is designed to be failed?”
I had not known that. “Sorry,” I said again.
Tracy laughed faintly. When she stepped forward, I straightened, clenching a mascara-stained paper towel in my fist. “Are you okay?” she asked, voice soft.
“Yeah,” I assured her, forcing a laugh. “I’m so sorry about this.”
“Stop apologizing. That’s three in a row.”
Another one was on the tip of my tongue. “Yes, ma’am,” I said instead.
We fell silent, Tracy studying me, me studying the floor.
“That was harsh. I just wanted you to know you have nothing to apologize for.”
I nodded, and Tracy sighed.
“Just because they’re saying words doesn’t mean they’re saying the right words. Okay?”
I nodded again.
“Why do you like finance, Casey?”
When I peeked up, she was leaning against the bathroom counter. Not in a hurry. I had no clue whether this was part of my interview. But I was sick of posturing, so I told her the truth.
“I think it’s because … math doesn’t lie. It always makes sense, always adds up. There’s a lot of stuff in life that makes me anxious. But this never has.”
“It makes you feel calm,” Tracy suggested, smiling softly. “Steady. I know that feeling. I know it well. You should tell what you just told me to Don during your one-on-one interview. He’s like us in that way, too.”