by Sonja Yoerg
“How odd.” Miles had stopped eating, but now picks up his fork. “How very odd.”
“That’s what I thought.” She sips her wine. “He wants to see you.”
“Who? Durbin?”
Jackie laughs. “Yes. Who else? Harlan suggested we all go out.”
“Well, I suppose . . .” He still hasn’t resumed eating.
“Are you okay? You seem a little weirded out.”
“Do I?” He takes a bite of the risotto and chews thoughtfully. “This is actually really tasty. I’ll have to save the recipe.”
“It’s excellent.” Jackie gets up and retrieves the wine bottle. “More?” Miles nods, and she pours. “Peter Durbin is in the English Department. In case you want to contact him.”
“I suppose he was wearing tweed.”
Jackie is perplexed by her husband’s response to Durbin. Jackie didn’t like the guy, but Miles said he hardly knew him, so why isn’t he more curious about the man?
Her phone vibrates on the kitchen counter. She pushes back her chair. “Do you mind? It might be IT.” She normally wouldn’t answer during meals, but she told Vince Leeds to call her with any news.
“Of course not.”
Jackie picks up her phone, sees that it’s Vince. She raises a finger to signal Miles and heads to the guest room. “Hi, Vince.” She leans the door closed.
“Hi, Jackie. Is this an okay time?”
“Yes. It’s fine.”
“I’m sorry to keep you on tenterhooks, but it’s been a crazy end to the week.”
“I understand.” She sits on the easy chair, and stands up again, agitated. “What did you find?”
He lets out a long breath. “It’s like we thought. The formulas were changed on Saturday the first. Or, more precisely, sometime between two a.m. Saturday and two a.m. Sunday. Two is when OneDrive is backed up.”
Jackie paces the room. “Okay. Were you able to tell how extensive the change was?”
“I know where you’re going. If it’s just one cell, it could be a mistake. If it’s several changes, more likely it’s foul play.” He pauses. “Five changes in that spreadsheet, the one we looked at.”
Jackie’s head feels like a balloon. She reaches behind her for the chair and lowers herself into it.
“You there, Jackie? You all right?”
“Yes, I’m here, Vince. But holy crap.”
“That’s the technical term for it.” A rustling sound, like he’s squirming in his chair. “Sorry. Trying to lighten the message.”
“I know. Don’t worry.” That’s what she told Tate. But now she is worried. Very worried. She has managed to cut off every rabbit trail of disaster her mind has wanted to follow during the last six days. Now her thoughts are a pack of wild rabbits scurrying down every single one. Who would do this? And why?
Vince clears his throat. “I did find something else.”
Jackie pulls herself out of her dark thoughts. “What do you mean?”
“I took the liberty of sampling a couple of your other recent data files. This wasn’t the only one with a problem. I found another formula change in a file labeled AIOS17, from more than three weeks ago.”
“Which day?”
“November twentieth. Why? Is that day significant?”
It is. Tate met with Jackie about her independent research that day. It stuck in Jackie’s mind because it was Tate’s birthday, and Jackie brought a cake from Sweet Somethings for the lab to share at lunchtime. Tate was really touched. After they finished, the others left for a seminar, except for Tate, who stayed to help Nasira learn how to upload the data from the AIOS assessments. There was no reason for Tate or Nasira to monkey with the Compiled spreadsheets—the ones with the formulas—no reason whatsoever. But she doesn’t want to get into that with Vince, at least not tonight.
“Sorry, Vince. I think I’ve had about all the news I can handle tonight. Can we talk again tomorrow—or whenever you have time?”
“Sure, Jackie. I understand. I’ll be touch tomorrow.”
“Have a good evening. And thanks again.”
“No problem.” His voice softens. “We’ll figure it out. Nothing is lost.”
“You’re right. Good night, Vince.”
She closes the call. Nothing is lost. Sure doesn’t feel that way. And without knowing how deep or wide the problem is, it’s impossible to say what has already been lost, including her reputation. Vince meant to convey that the data can always be recovered; there is a safety net. But Jackie isn’t certain of anything anymore. She doesn’t know whom to talk to, whom to trust. Even Miles, always trustworthy and transparent, has become enigmatic, and Harlan, who has always been crystal clear in his motives, now operates in the shadows.
And Nasira. Jackie wishes she could peer inside the woman’s head and gain a sliver of insight into what makes her tick. It’s been more than two weeks since their testy confrontation in the café, and since then, Jackie has done her utmost to keep personal matters out of the lab and normalize their interactions. But the data breach is lab business. What motivation could Nasira have to meddle with the data files? Jackie is stumped, but since nothing else makes sense, either, Nasira’s motivation is simply one more open loop trailing in the swirl.
Her data, those reliable specks of reality, can be recovered, but there is much more wrong in her world than jumbled formulas. It’s as if she has been thrown out of a plane in the night.
She can tell herself there is a net below, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling like a free fall.
Nothing is lost.
Nothing except her grip.
CHAPTER 16
Another night of crappy sleep. At a campus coffee shop Jackie orders an extra shot of espresso for her latte to go and hurries to her office, wishing she’d remembered her gloves. It’s well below freezing, and the wind is biting at her fingers. Within minutes her face is numb, and it’s possible her nose is running, but she can’t feel it. Students and faculty rush past, wrapped in bulky scarves, hats pulled tight over their ears. The second week in December is never this cold.
Jackie pulls open the door to Wolf Hall. Amy Chen, the chair of the department, arrives from the other direction, and Jackie props the door open with her boot.
Amy hustles inside, and Jackie follows her in. “Jackie! Good morning.”
“Good morning, Amy. Isn’t it awful out?” She stamps her feet to bring the feeling back.
She smiles. “You forget I went to school in Syracuse.”
“Right. Just another balmy day for you.”
They set off toward the elevator. If they keep walking together, Amy Chen will ask about her classes, her work. She always does, not so much out of friendliness, but as a way of keeping her fingers on the departmental pulse. Jackie doesn’t want to say anything about the data security mess in her lab, nor does she want to pretend nothing is going on. If there is fraud, she’ll be obligated to tell Chen about it, and she doesn’t want her to remember this conversation as one where she said everything was fine.
“You know what, Amy?” Jackie slows to a stop and Chen does, too. “My feet are so numb, I’m going to take the stairs and hope that warms them up.”
“Sure, sure.” She is already moving off. “Let’s catch up soon, though.”
“Definitely.”
Jackie hates taking the stairs—the building is old, and the stairwell is dingy and neglected—but the exercise does thaw her toes and force her to breathe deeply. Her nerves are frayed, and her stomach is turned inside out. Today she must confront Nasira, and it fills her with dread. Last night, after Jackie spoke with Vince, she texted Nasira, asking to meet at eight this morning, but has not yet received a reply. Jackie really wants to get this little chat out of the way so it doesn’t hang over her all day.
She lets herself into the lab and stops by the shared office. It’s empty except for Kyle, who is surrounded by takeout containers, candy wrappers, and coffee cups.
“Morning, Kyle.”
; “Hi, Jackie.” He rubs his cheeks with his hands.
“Did you go home at all?”
“Yeah. But only because you won’t let me set up a cot in here.” He gives her a crooked smile.
Jackie realizes how much she’ll miss him when he leaves next year. He was her first post-Harlan student—in other words, the first one she selected without his input. “Do me a favor? If Nasira comes in, let her know I’m here.”
Kyle raises one eyebrow. “Is this about the data problem?”
For him to reach that conclusion, Jackie must have failed to keep her tone neutral. “Yes. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew what was what.”
“Because you knew I’d worry about my study?”
“In part. And don’t worry.”
“Hey, these days I schedule all my worrying, and it’s tight. Right now the only thing I’m worried about is running out of coffee.” He lifts his cup in a toast and turns back to his computer.
In her office, Jackie distracts herself with mindless tasks: sorting through emails, updating the study schedule, making a to-do list for the weekend. She usually looks forward to Fridays; with no classes and no regular meetings, she can catch up and head into the weekend with her desk clear. Working every weekend is a must when classes are in session, and empty Fridays keep her sane.
Except today.
By midmorning, Jackie’s anxiety is shifting toward anger. Why hasn’t Nasira at least texted her back? Jackie picks up her phone and considers calling her, but she really doesn’t want to have this conversation on the phone. Instead, she takes her coat and scarf from the back of the door, resolving to pace outside in the cold until she regains her equilibrium.
A rap on the door. “Jackie?”
Nasira. Jackie yanks open the door and steps back.
Nasira’s eyes widen in surprise. “Oh!” Her cheeks are rosy, and she’s wearing a white cable-knit scarf over a black shirt. She’s obviously just arrived. Her eyes go to Jackie’s coat. “Were you going out? I can come back later.”
“No. Stay.” She takes a breath. “Please. Have a seat.” She hangs up her coat, closes the door behind Nasira, and sits at her desk. Her palms are sweating, but she’s fairly certain her demeanor projects calm.
Nasira unwinds her scarf. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your text. I wasn’t sure of my schedule.”
Nasira falls silent, her gaze drifting, and Jackie wonders if something is amiss. She can’t ask, of course. “Well, you’re here now.” She considers where to begin. “I heard back from Vince about the problems with the spreadsheet for the four-year study. As we guessed, the formulas were altered. Vince was able to figure out when it happened.” Nasira nods. Jackie is hoping to see some sign of guilt or discomfort, but the woman maintains her usual equanimity. “It was Saturday the first.”
“Okay. Does that help somehow?”
“Were you working in the spreadsheet that day?”
“I don’t remember exactly—”
“I did ask you to try to recall.”
She straightens. “If I had, I would’ve told you. Isn’t this just a mistake?”
Jackie leans forward and rests her forearms on the desk. “Apparently not. Several formulas were changed.”
Nasira frowns.
“I’ve asked the others, and no one else was in there that day.”
“So you’re accusing me?”
“I’m not accusing you. I’m asking you. I’m trying to figure out what happened to my data.” Jackie strives to keep her tone level; she’s acted like a whackjob with her postdoc often enough.
Nasira twists and extracts her phone from her rear pocket. “Let me check, okay? I don’t make notes on everything I do, but maybe there’s something here.” She scrolls and pecks and swipes. “Oh, right.” She crosses her legs and swings her foot. The slider on her insulated boots hits the zipper with each upswing. Click, click, click.
Jackie leans toward her. “What?”
Nasira looks up from her phone. “I remember now. The night before, Friday, Harlan’s router stopped working. He ordered a new one, but it wasn’t going to arrive until Monday. Neither of us had anything planned, so we took the train to New York—without our laptops.” She slips her phone back in her pocket and resettles. “Looks like I’m in the clear.”
Jackie is struck dumb by the news of this jaunt, which serves both as an alibi for the data fraud and as a dagger in her foolish, jealous heart. “Listen, Nasira—”
“What reason would I have to tamper with your results? I want to work here, remember?” She gets to her feet. “Honestly, Jackie, I don’t know what to think about you anymore.” Indignant a moment before, now she appears genuinely wounded.
Jackie, perplexed and distraught, searches for words, but her thoughts won’t link up. She wipes her sweaty palms on her jeans.
Nasira moves to the door, her hand on the handle. “Working here has become stressful. I’m committed to the research, but the subtext of your questions—plus everything else—is a bit much.”
Whatever is going on with the data, the woman’s distress feels honest. “I don’t want you stressed, Nasira. That’s not my goal at all. Please try to understand the situation from my point of view. I’m asking everyone the same questions, and there are only so many people with access to the files.”
Nasira pauses, her posture softening a fraction. “Do you honestly think any of your students would try to sabotage your research? They worship you, Jackie. Don’t you see that?”
Jackie blinks at Nasira, a lump forming in her throat.
“I’m going to think hard about this, Jackie.” She leaves, closing the door softly behind her.
The room is quiet. Jackie’s temples throb and she’s desperately thirsty, but her limbs are leaden and she can’t seem to move. If nothing made sense before, it makes even less sense now. She is no closer to knowing who manipulated her data, and now her postdoc is claiming a hostile work environment. Jackie is so stressed herself she forgot to ask Nasira about the other spreadsheet Vince said had been altered. It’s not like Jackie to be derailed, but the mounting problems and lack of sleep are taking a cumulative toll. She closes her eyes and tries to calm her mind, but she’s always been a failure at calming techniques of any kind and more inclined to reach for the wine bottle than the yoga mat.
Jackie is touched by Nasira’s assertion that her students worship her. True or not, they depend on her, especially the graduate students, and until she knows what happened to her data, she must rely on reason, not emotion. How many of the people working in her lab are sloppy about leaving their laptops where others can access them, store their passwords somewhere obvious, like on their phones, or give access to lab files for other reasons? If she had to hazard a guess, she’d say most if not all of them.
Again she considers Nasira, whose defense is that she wants to work in Jackie’s lab. But the truth is that if Nasira is successful in obtaining a grant for her MRI research, she can take the money anywhere with a machine and a source of subjects—in other words, almost any larger university or medical center. She only needs Jackie now to gain experience to be credible as an expert on autism. Once that has been established, Jackie and her lab are expendable.
The gap, however, between expendable and worthy of sabotage is enormous. Could Nasira be angry enough about Jackie’s snooping and meddling to attempt to torpedo Jackie’s career? It seems unlikely, a wildly disproportionate response, especially given the risk of getting caught. Meanwhile, Jackie has further estranged her; she resolves once again to take the target off Nasira’s back.
Her head is pounding now. She digs in her bag for ibuprofen and finds none. She checks her phone for messages and is surprised it’s almost one o’clock. She skipped breakfast so no wonder her head hurts. Having organized her work for the weekend before Nasira showed up, Jackie decides she’ll head home and pick up food on the way. It’s only going to get colder anyway.
She packs her bag and slips out of the lab wi
thout stopping by the shared office. Ten minutes later she’s at the counter at Sweet Somethings. The room is warm and smells so good she wants to curl up in the pastry case, eat her way through the contents, and fall asleep forever. She orders and carries a sticky bun and tea to a window seat while they make her sandwich. The blue-and-yellow French Provençal tablecloth is so cheerful, her eyes well with tears.
Just eat, Jackie. Eat, and drink your tea.
The sticky bun is heaven, the brown sugar and butter and cinnamon melding in her mouth, sparking associations with childhood treats and holidays and happiness. The sensation smooths her a little, like a stroke across ruffled fur. As she eats, she looks out the window at the people walking by, mummified in their coats and scarves. Despite the cold, people are out getting ready for the holidays. Jackie wonders why she doesn’t do this more often: drink tea from a porcelain cup, people watch, eat wicked pastry. The answer, she knows, is that she works too much. But still.
“Hello, Jackie.” Harlan looms over the table. She startles, and her cup clatters against the saucer. Before she can gather her thoughts, he’s pulling out the opposite chair. “Mind if I sit? We didn’t get a chance to catch up last night.”
Why does he keep sneaking up on her like this? She wipes her mouth with her napkin, pushes her plate to the side. “Actually, I was just leaving.” Her moment of calm ruined, all she wants is to go home.
He gestures to her half-finished bun and steaming teacup. “You’ll get a headache if you skip meals.” His brow is knitted with concern. He was always watchful of her erratic eating habits, and his reference to them now is both disconcerting and reassuringly familiar.
She sighs and takes a drink of tea. She’ll go when her sandwich is ready. There’s no point in making a scene.
Harlan settles into the seat. “All ready for your talk next week?”
Neutral topic. What a relief. She’s giving one of the Gottfried lectures on Monday night, part of a series open to the public. She provided the title months ago—“What Theory of Mind Teaches Us about Autism”—but beyond that she hasn’t given it any thought. She hasn’t had the bandwidth. “It’s on my agenda for the weekend.” She almost adds, Unless another disaster strikes, but stops herself. “It’s always hard to know how to pitch a talk to such a broad audience.”