Page 22 of The Five Year Lie

I don’t remember ever feeling as innocent as he looks right now. Before I learned how dangerous it is to love someone.

7

FIVE YEARS AGO, JUNE

Two or three times each day, when he walks onto the second floor of Chime Co., Drew passes a photo of Edward and Ray Cafferty installing the very first doorbell camera on Edward’s front door, while their late father—a retired cop—looks on.

Company lore—and a dozen business magazine profiles—chart Edward’s journey from law enforcement to technology CEO. He didn’t start as a beat cop like his dad, though. He got dual degrees in criminal justice and management, with an emphasis on crime stats.

Meanwhile Ray—the family tinkerer—had gone to MIT to become an engineer. He had a work-study job in campus security, though, and he wanted to do his homework on shift. So he rigged up a camera that would alert him whenever someone passed by.

Eventually Ray showed the camera to his older brother, who saw the potential right away. “Hey, can you put a doorbell on it?” Edward famously asked. “I heard that’s going to be big.”

That’s how Chime Co. was born, a marriage of Ray’s fine engineering and Edward’s ruthless business acumen. Ten years later, they’ve already sold millions of cameras on five continents. And they have hundreds of contractors and employees.

And Drew is one of them. Although he hates himself a little every time he meets a deadline. His coding skills are improving at a rapid rate. It’s nice to know that his college degree wasn’t a completewaste of time. But he’d rather burn this company to the ground than contribute to its success—even in a small way.

It’s Friday afternoon again, which marks his third week at the company. And he’s exhausted. Before coming to Portland, Drew had been warned by a half dozen healthcare providers at the VA that the transition to civilian life is always hard.

They weren’t kidding. So far it’s hell. It shouldn’t be this hard to sit in an ergonomic office chair and write code. But by Friday his injured knee is as stiff as a crowbar.

Nobody likes a whiner, though, and all the people who care about him are either far away or dead. So he doesn’t complain. Instead, he puts two Advil into his pocket. Then he pulls a box of Girl Scout cookies out of his backpack. Thin Mints today. He bought three different boxes last week from his landlord’s granddaughter.

Trying not to limp, he crosses the open-plan office to the kitchenette and selects a coffee pod to drop into the machine. After swallowing the pain pills with a nip of water, he puts a mug beneath the spout and presses the button.

Then he opens the cookies, taking one for himself and placing the rest of the plastic sleeve on the counter, as if in invitation.

By Drew’s count it only takes seven seconds for a young programmer named Trevor to decide it’s time for a coffee break. Trevor is a twenty-three-year-old who talks of nothing but the Patriots. Drew can picture him a year or two ago, wearing his baseball cap backward on a frat house lawn somewhere.

“You’ll help me with these cookies, right?” Drew asks as his coffee finishes brewing. “I like supporting the Girl Scout troop, but I don’t want to get a gut.”

“If you insist,” Trevor says, already reaching for a cookie.

Sometimes trust can be purchased cheaply.

“Looks like they’re setting up for another one of those Friday meetings,” Drew says, parking his hip against the countertop and taking a sip of his coffee. “What goes on in there? Besides snacks and better coffee than we’re getting.”

Drew is careful not to look at Ariel when he says this. But he’s relieved to see that she’s already procured an urn of the good stuff for the conference room, plus several high-end catering trays.

And this time her father grunted his approval instead of losing his shit.

“Every Friday it’s a different police force,” Trevor says, reaching for another cookie. “Cops love Chime Co. They’d put a camera on every house if they could.”

“Makes the neighborhood safer,” Drew says, because that’s the party line at Chime Co. Even if the truth is far more complicated. “But why bother rolling out the red carpet for law enforcement? I thought the genius of Chime Co. was selling cameras right to consumers.” This, according to the internet, is what made the company grow so fast. Security cameras used to be marketed to gas stations and liquor stores. Now everyone wants to turn their home into a mini surveillance state.

“Yeah, it was Edward’s idea to go direct to consumers,” Trevor says. “He got the idea when a friend of his got mugged. A pregnant lady. Got pushed down in her own driveway. Lost the baby. They never caught the guy.”

“Oof,” Drew says, even if Edward strikes him as the least sympathetic man in Maine.

“That story always gets trotted out in the Friday meetings with cops. They get a boner off this idea—that with a Chime Co. camera,your arrest rates could go way up. So they want Chime Co. to sell as many cameras as they can. It makes their job easier. Plus, police departments get perks and incentives when they sign up with us.”

“Incentives,” Drew says carefully. “Like what? Free donuts?”

Trevor dumps a sugar packet into his coffee. “The police force offers a special discount on Chime Co. cameras to every house in the precinct. It’s great advertising. And each installation means an ongoing subscription fee.”

“Nice racket,” Drew says.

“Yeah, and the force earns points for each camera they push.”