by B. E. Baker
She steps forward in alarm, her hand knocking against a pile of files, which tumble behind my desk.
“I am so sorry.” Her eyes widen like she's terrified I'll fire her for being clumsy.
“It's fine,” I say. “Hard to sneeze without knocking something over in here. I should be embarrassed I suppose, but I haven't had a single extra second for tidying lately, and chaos has always worked for me.”
She leans over the desk to where the files fell between the desk and the wall. She's not very tall, so when she leans forward like that, I get a good view of her very nicely shaped backside. Which I should not be ogling. I turn away and force myself to grab the diagram off the printer.
“Uh, Mr. Campbell?”
I turn back toward her, not my fault this time, but she's still bent over the desk. Come on, Gerty, think this through. I'm trying to act like a boss should.
I clear my voice. “If you step back, I'm sure I can reach the files.”
She rummages around a little more and my computer shuts off abruptly.
“Hey, what are you doing?” I step toward her, looking toward the wall where she's poking at things.
She finally rights herself, and turns around to face me, brandishing a tiny black cylinder the size of a tube of lipstick.
“Uh, did you just destroy my computer?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I fixed it.”
I raise one eyebrow and point at the screen. “My computer begs to differ. It's most definitely not working anymore.”
“Do you know what this is?” She waves the cylinder at me.
“Uh, part of a power cord? Or maybe part of the keyboard controls?”
“Yep.” She nods vigorously. “It's supposed to look like that, anyway.”
“Are you ever going to tell me what you think it is? Because I'm beginning to wonder whether you're a maniac.” An adorable maniac, but a maniac nonetheless.
“This is a key logger.”
I've heard of that, but I can't quite recall what it does.
“It logs your keystrokes. One of my professors collects them and plays with the code that interprets what they collect. It's like a puzzle, but they're almost always used for something illegal. Any idea why someone might put one on your computer?”
I curse. Then I curse again. “Tell me how they work, exactly.”
“Well, I guess anyone with access to your office could have put this on the back of the desktop keyboard. All the data coming from your keyboard passes through this, one stroke at a time, and this tiny device saves all of it. Until someone uploads the data from it.”
“How would they retrieve it?”
“This one looks like it's hooked up to transmit wirelessly,” she says. “Maybe a Bluetooth device?”
“So someone in the office is collecting the info every day?”
She taps her lip. “Maybe, but it wouldn't have to be done that often. Especially since you aren’t here all day most days so the data set would be smaller.”
“How are they doing it? Do they have to come in my office?”
She shakes her head. “Not necessarily. They'd need to come within transmission range, but I'm not quite sure what that would be on this.”
“But it's probably an employee?” I ask.
“I would guess whoever placed it was an employee, or someone who could access your computer to add it. But the retrieval could be done by someone from outside the office who visits pretty regularly. I suppose that could be a lot of people. Supply companies, regular contractors, janitors, maintenance staff. It probably could be collected as infrequently as once a week or even every ten days.”
“Gerty,” I say. Did she cringe for some reason? “That's your name, right?”
She swallows reflexively. “Yes sir, that's right.”
“I suspected you at first, if I'm honest.”
“Me?” Her eyes widen. “Why?”
“You're new. You've got this innocent look about you, as though you'd adopt a dozen orphans from Africa if only you could.”
She frowns. “What's wrong with adoption?”
I sigh. “Nothing, but you show up one day before I get word that—”
“That what?”
“Nothing.” She doesn't need to know exactly what's going on. “But the timing is suspicious.”
“Why would I hand you my own key logger?” she asks. “Besides, this had to be placed and then checked regularly. You think I had someone else do that for me? And then I showed up and instead of checking it, I what? Hand it over to convince you I'm trustworthy?”
It seems a little convoluted.
“What's going on, anyway?”
I peer at her. Is it an act of some kind? She’s prying now, but probably only because this whole situation has crossed beyond bizarre and into absurd, bad spy movie territory. Unless she brought the key logger and pretended to find it to win me over. Then again, she didn’t have anything in her hand, and she doesn’t have pockets in her pants, so where would she have been hiding it?
I might be going crazy.
“Based on timing and proximity, I don’t think you could be complicit, even if you are a new hire.” I gulp. “I’m going to share something with you. As of right now, you may be the only person on earth who will know enough about what’s going on to help me.”
She frowns and backs one step toward the door. “Uh, okay. Are you a CIA agent or something? I thought all that extra security was weird.” She glances around her like she's expecting someone to jump out from behind the curtains. Or maybe like she thinks I'm nuts.
“Nothing like that. But I began with another startup and another invention before this one, something in a similar field. It was worth a lot of money, but before I even filed a patent application, someone else stole my idea. They filed first. Game Over.”
“That stinks.”
“You have no idea. But it's worse than just stealing my idea, really. They stole everything. The tech, the prototypes, all of it. They filed the patent application before me, and I had no way to prove that I owned it. So this time I hired a completely different team. None of the same researchers, none of the same staff. I picked an office in an obscure office park, and it worked. I filed first, but only by two days according to my lawyer. Apparently another shell company just filed and they're going to claim that this new invention belongs to them, exactly like last time.”
“Wait, who is it?”
“You need to put that key logger back on my computer,” I say. “Because that's exactly what you and I need to figure out.”
“Are you serious?” she asks.
“Deadly serious.”
“Uh, okay. So you're going to, what? Type in things that will throw them off?”
I think about it. “I think we go about business as usual, especially since this time we have the upper hand.”
“Okay,” she says. “But then what do you want me to do? Because I can't really do anything dangerous. I've got commitments.”
Commitments? What does that mean? I can't think of a way to ask that isn't creepy, so I stay focused. “This is corporate espionage, not a murder investigation. Other than stealing my ideas, I have no reason to believe the thief is dangerous in any way. Even so, if you help me, you'll never go anywhere without me along. And if we see any indication things could turn violent, I’ll call the police immediately.”
She breathes in deeply and looks up at me with the most trusting, beautiful eyes I've ever seen. “Okay, boss. Whatever you say.”
Boss. I'm her boss. I needed the reminder that I shouldn't be thinking about her remarkable eyes. Or how full her lips are. Or how much I want to pull her against me and tug that sweater off her shoulders.
“We'll get started tomorrow,” I say.
“You should also make sure IT checks out the firewalls. If anything is down, the person who installed this may not even need to use it. Do you trust your IT guy?”
I close my eyes. “I don't even have an IT guy to trust anymore
.”
She frowns. “Who's making sure your FTP server packet filters are working?”
“No one.”
“You're worried about a leak, and you don't have an IT person at all?”
“Sounds like you know a little something about it.”
She crosses her arms and leans against the desk. “I should confess something. I applied for the job as your assistant because I saw you had an IT position open. I was hoping if I got my foot in the door as an assistant, I might have a chance to do a little IT work. I graduate in two months with a degree in computer programming and I can't find a job because I don't have enough experience for anyone who's hiring in my field.”
“You were playing me, then.” I smile. “Just not in the way I thought.”
She grins back at me. “I sort of was, but not to steal anything. I almost didn’t mention it, but I figure with your current situation, complete honesty’s probably the best policy.”
“Would you mind taking a look at our firewalls before you head home?”
She bobs her head. “Sure, I'd be happy to do that, and I can lend a hand until you fill the position.”
“You may be mouthy, but I guess we're lucky you showed up.”
It's like she's my guardian angel. She follows me into the server room and I log her into the system. I hover for fifteen minutes or so, but her fingers fly over the keys expertly. She doesn't seem to be doing anything nefarious, not that I'd know necessarily.
“What are you doing exactly?”
“How much do you know about how firewalls work?” she asks.
I shake my head, but realize she can't see me. “Not that much. I know the Internet is comprised of a bunch of servers in various places that provide information in response to GET commands.”
She leans back in her chair. “Not bad, actually. Better than most people. So a firewall is a set of protocols that control what things can pass through your company's T1 line to access information on your computers. If there's one tiny hole, then people can poke their way through. And you have a hole here.” Her fingers keep typing, and I try to watch but can't puzzle out quite what's happening.
“The hole came from Greg Killean,” she says. “Wait, is that—”
I sigh. “I fired him because of that today.”
Her fingers click away. “For using porn on a company network.” She whistles. “A lot of porn. Really gross, illegal porn.” Her mouth twists up. “Blech.”
“Yep. I didn't figure I needed to disclose the gory details to the entire office, but yes. I only found out because another employee walked in on him, well. It was reported to me. It's not a comfortable spot to be put in, but I dealt with it. I didn't think much about the possible consequences to the network.”
“That one is cleaned up now, but why didn't your last IT guy see that?”
I lean against the doorframe. “No idea. He had plenty of experience too, so maybe that isn't all it's cracked up to be. He was working on another project and maybe he’d already checked out, mentally.” Or maybe not. “Could he have placed the key logger?”
She shakes her head. “Doubtful. He wouldn’t have needed to. He’d have access to your desktop from here. If he had a key logger, it would have been part of some kind of shell and pea game. A distraction, a red herring.” Her mouth drops. “So if I were a bad guy, full disclosure, I could have placed that phony key logger to gain your trust so you’d get me access to this.”
I bob my head. “I’d already thought of that.”
She cocks her head, her lips slightly parted. “You aren’t worried?”
“Not really. I trust you for some strange reason. Or maybe I’m just a dupe.”
“In my defense, your people did run a background check and pulled all my IDs back to like, grade school.”
I chuckle. “There is that. But that’s true of anyone. I’d assume someone truly nefarious would have gotten good fakes.”
“I wish I had some fake credit cards,” she says. “But all I know how to do is tighten up network security and help fix glitches.”
“Which is exactly what we need you to do until we can hire a replacement for our last guy. I think until we hire someone new, you may be pulling double duty.”
“I'm okay with it,” she says. “As long as you'll give me a recommendation for an IT position once Nancy returns.”
I doubt I'll be interested in letting her go when Nancy returns, but I don't mention that. “Sure, but our top priority right now is catching whoever installed that key logger. I think we should get started first thing tomorrow morning.”
Her jaw drops. “I might have misheard you just now. Does that mean you're coming into the office before noon tomorrow?”
“That's so surprising?”
She shrugs. “Kind of, yeah.”
“I don't usually come in until later, but I'll make an exception for this.”
“So you aren't in a coffin, or like howling at the moon every day before two p.m.?” Her eyes twinkle at me and my head dips a few inches toward hers before I remember I absolutely, positively cannot kiss her, no matter how funny she is, or how good she smells.
No matter how dark her eyelashes look against her cheeks, I can't touch her face. No matter how soft her hair looks, I can’t stroke it.
“I didn't say that,” I joke. “But I'll delay my coffin nap tomorrow in pursuit of a bigger villain. Are you with me?”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
Before we leave for the night, she follows me back to my office and bends over the desk to plug the key logger back in. I try to look away, but I don’t quite succeed. I hope we find the leak soon, because unless she does have a husband or boyfriend I haven't heard about yet, I don't know how long I can spend around Gerty without really infuriating Nancy.
6
Trudy
I spend far, far too long in front of the mirror in the morning. I start with a black sheath dress Mary gave me last month when I told her I'd be interviewing, but it screams ‘I’m trying too hard.’ I put on a low-cut cotton top and a fitted skirt next, but that's too ‘come hither.’ Finally I change into a sky-blue button down blouse and black slacks. Mary once told me the shirt exactly matches my eyes.
It's stupid that I'm spending so long thinking about how I look.
Because there's no way Jack Campbell cares how his mousy little assistant dresses. I doubt he could pick me out of a line up. He bankrolled the entire company himself, which means he's someone with means. It makes sense, with his assured nature, and his clear, if somewhat disorganized, genius. Actually, he reminds me a little bit of a younger, more aggressive version of Luke. Better looking, too.
Which makes me think about Mary's repeated efforts to set me up with Luke's brother Paul. I saw a photo of him, months and months ago. He looked like a dorkier version of Luke. Chunky, black-framed glasses and a sweater vest. I absolutely love nerds, so why do I keep refusing that offer? Unlike my boss, Paul is someone I could actually date, and he's exactly my type judging from that photo. Mary warned me years ago that Chris was a train wreck and I should dump him.
I ignored her, and here I am. Divorced, penniless, in debt up to my eyeballs, to my perfect sister, no less, and raising my darling son alone.
Even so, if I agreed to let her set me up with this Paul, it would be doomed from the start. There would be so many expectations weighing the entire thing down that it would certainly implode. But if I brought an absurdly handsome entrepreneur to my sister's wedding who I met on my own?
That would feel good.
I’d have a job I got on my own, and a quality guy I met myself. Could I ask him to be my date for Mary's wedding? Maybe as a favor to an employee, and after a little light flirting. . .
Great idea Trudy. Flirt with the boss and lose your job. And then where will I be? Back to square one, with nothing crossed off my list.
When I spend a little too long doing my makeup, I stare at the mirror and make a promise out loud.
“I w
ill not smile at my boss. I will not flirt with my boss. I will not, under any circumstance, kiss my boss. I will remember my list and why it matters. I found a job working for a man who's slightly unpredictable and way too good-looking. Which probably means he's a ladies man. I've made progress on turning this temporary placement into an IT position, so I will not even think about kissing him. I need to save my money and repay Mary. Only then will I start looking for people to date. And I'll only date people who can't ruin my chances at keeping my job.”
“Mom?” Troy clutches his teddy bear and blanket to his chest. “Who are you talking to?”
I spin around and cross the room. He holds his arms out, and I pick him up.
“No one baby. Mom was just talking to herself.”
He snuggles into my shoulder. “I do that too.” I know he does. I hear him every day during naptime.
Or, I used to, back when I was around for his naps.
I miss hearing my baby babble to himself quietly. I miss watching Mickey Mouse with him in the mornings. I miss making eggs and toast or pancakes. But if I want to take charge of my own life and provide for our future, if I want to grow as a person into someone he’d be proud of, if I want to stop wishing and hoping and start doing, then sacrificing a little of this precious time is the price.
It still stings to pay it.
I kiss him on the forehead and shamelessly offer him a bribe. “Life cereal?”
Troy beams. He loves cold cereal, and it’s so expensive that we almost never have any. Life is the lowest sugar option that doesn’t taste like cardboard.
When I pull into the office parking lot five minutes before nine, I park my ten-year-old Honda next to a shiny blue Tesla. I bet it belongs to Jack. My heart isn’t racing because he’s already here. It’s just because I don’t want to be late. I do my best to look casual when I walk inside, waving at Ish, putting one foot in front of the other purposefully, but I'm breathing a little too fast and my cheeks feel warm.