Page 20 of The Deals We Make

“Oh, Cal,” she says. Her voice ripe with sympathy. “It’s that bad?”

I don’t like the sympathy. It never sits well with me. I don’t ever want to be poor Calista Moray.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“How’s your mom?”

“Listen, I gotta go, Becs. Mom needs something. But let me know the details for the cleaning company. Oh, and ask Freddie if he finished the diagnostic for the water pollution control start-up. And get Heather to send me?—”

“—the Peterson file. I know. Go, do what you need to do.”

“You know me so well. And I will. Bye.”

I go to switch off my phone, but I see the message fromhim.

Hiding from me won’t work, Calista.I’ll find you wherever you run.

There’s usually a longer gap between messages, and the band around my chest tightens.

So, I make another call. I tug the sleeves of my sweater down to fight off the cold.

“What can I do for you, Calista?” Victor Orson’s gruff voice carries over the line. He sounds exactly how you’dexpect the stereotype of a private investigator to sound. Gruff, temperamental, borderline annoyed by the intrusion.

“I wondered if you’d had a chance to look into the list I sent you.” At his request, I’d gone through the list of former employees with Andrew, my head of human resources. We’d sorted them into those who’d left on good terms, which was nearly everyone. And three people who had not.

“Working on it.”

“I’m going to need a little more than that,” I say.

“Fine. I found addresses for all three. Ruled out the woman. She’s moved on. Got a better job. Getting paid more. Got a new boyfriend and a new haircut. She’s got no reason to still be pissed at you.”

I bite down on my lower lip. “Those feel like superficial reasons to rule her out.”

“Happy people are too busy being happy to ruin other people’s lives,” Orson says.

He makes a good point.

“The two guys are possibles. Neither has found work, and one of them posted about going for multiple job interviews and losing out to female candidates, which he thinks is some kind of affirmative action. The other has had to move back home after being unable to make rent. I’m digging into both of them. I’ve also sent a guy to Tahoe to get the scoop on Walt Timberlake.”

I roll my eyes. “Walt has more money than God. He’s too busy with all the women who climb into his hot tub looking for a rich husband to worry about me.”

“Still,” Orson says. “He continually tries to take credit for your success. Might be pissed he isn’t getting recognized for it.”

This is true.

I met him at a networking event. Was introduced to him by the head of operations I’d hired. We talked about my business. He even went so far as to offer me money. He also offered todouble that amount if I’d slip upstairs with him to his bedroom for an hour. An indecent proposal, he called it.

Asshole.

I turned him down flat and immediately stayed as far away from him as I could. But he continued to perpetuate the myth that he’d been influential in helping me establish the strategy and direction of my business after a “chance meeting” and regretted being so philanthropic with his advice instead of asking for a cut.

“Fine. But it’s imperative he doesn’t find out you’re sniffing around. I don’t want to do a single thing that will bring him back into my orbit. And for the record, it’s been a long time since that one meeting.” I was transparent with Orson about what had transpired. “He’s had plenty of time to try this kind of shit if he wanted to.”

“Understood.”

We say our goodbyes, and then I hang up the phone.

I should make some other calls. I need to make sure the team I put in place for the Wilder’s Bank work is ready to hit the ground running on Monday, given I now have the CEO on board.