She would know with how much time she spent trolling the web, coming across those types of people. Hell, knowing her, sometimes getting credible information from them. Or at least a decently fleshed out conspiracy we could use against someone if we needed to.
"But this isn't his imagination. This is really happening."
"So was forced sterilization to tens of thousands of poor black people in the U.S. up until the early seventies. But no one believed that either. People still don't believe that," Nia told her. "It doesn't matter if the claim had merit. People will disbelieve it because of who the information is coming from. Women--especially poor women of color--and crazy white dudes with bulging eyes who live in their mama's basements, ranting about a new world order, tend not to have much credibility. If people can't trust them--because of their prejudice or because of their bias against uncomfortably passionate people--then they won't believe what they have to say. Even if it is true. That's how people work."
"He was really gone, Gem," I told her, my voice sad because I knew that while they had a somewhat abusive partnership, that she cared about him, she cared about his plight. She wanted his truth to come to the light.
We were proposing a solution to her problem that would take that away from him. Sure, the product would never see the light of day. And there would be some comfort in that. But I knew her well enough at this point to know her heart was breaking for Rylan and his impossible decision.
"There's just not much else we can do," I added, giving her a defeated shrug.
"We need to act soon since we know this product is going to launch. The closer we get to the launch, the more of a chance that they won't take our deal since they will have put too much money into packaging, and schmoozing the stores for shelf space, and advertising. We need to get this done. And soon."
"Are we talking within the next few days?" I clarified.
"I am going to get Smith back here first. So that will be two days, give or take. I want to make sure we have someone on the outside to look out for threats since he clearly employs the kinds of people who would chase an innocent woman through her apartment building and across town, risking getting caught. I doubt he is fully unprotected. I will feel better about us going in there if we have him."
"I want to go."
"No."
That came from both me and Quin and--somewhat surprisingly--Nia as well.
Nia, like her sister, was all about women being given their own agency, the same rights that men had been enjoying since the dawn of time. She wasn't someone who would let you get away with saying that just because someone was female, she didn't have the right to do something.
Like join in on a meeting.
"Yes," Gemma insisted, chin lifting. "And don't try to tell me that clients don't come to meetings. I worked in the office. I know that they do."
"This is different," Quin insisted.
"Because I'm not paying?" she asked, pinning Quin with an almost intimidating glare.
"Because clients are a paycheck. They don't matter to me personally. You do. I don't go parading the people I care about in front of a firing squad."
"It isn't a firing squad. It's a meeting," she insisted.
"And the fact that you don't realize that this kind of business meeting can turn into a firing squad is exactly the reason you can't be there."
"I'm not seventeen anymore, Quin. Don't be condescending," Gemma demanded, tone surprisingly angry, assertive.
To be fair, Quin had been more condescending with her than he typically was with other clients.
"I'm trying to be clear," he told her, knowing he didn't have a defense against the condescension thing.
"Then let me be clear too," she said, unfolding her legs, gaze direct, jaw tight. "If you don't let me come, I will contact Rylan myself and tell him what you guys are up to. He will make it public in a heartbeat. Your choice," she added, getting to her feet, making her way down the hallway, closing the door, turning the lock.
"When the fuck did she grow up?" Quin asked, shaking his head.
"Yeah, Lincoln," Nia said, eyes bright, "when did you realize she wasn't a teenager anymore?"
Before I could respond, only managing to shoot her a hard look, Quin was sighing.
"We are going to have to bring her," he decided. "Normally, I would say fuck it. But if she managed to do all this shit under our noses for all this time with no one suspecting a fucking thing, well, I don't doubt she would find a way to blow this whole fucking thing up if she was pissed enough."
"I don't want her to go," I objected, head shaking.
"I don't either. But it doesn't look like we're going to have much of a choice. Smith will make sure we're safe from the outside. Maybe we can get him to throw up some cameras for Nia to keep an eye on from here too."
"I could do that," she agreed with a nod, excited over the idea of being able to be in on an active part of the investigation. Normally, her job was done well before there was any sort of confrontation.
"She'll be as safe as we will," Quin reminded me and, seemingly, himself as well. "That's the best we can do."
Unable to come up with any other options, and knowing there would be no talking Gemma out of it, I decided not to stress too much about it.
--
"Can I talk you out of it?" I asked, standing behind Gemma as she combed her fingers through her hair.
It seemed like she was making every effort to look the polar opposite of how she looked when she was working for Phillip.
While she had been hanging around the office in brightly colored yoga pants and tank tops, she had foregone makeup, had kept her hair in a messy bun most of the time, never wore any jewelry.
This evening I came in to her in a floor-length patchwork skirt that featured every color and pattern known to mankind. She'd paired it with a cream linen shirt with long sleeves. Her hair was flowing down her back and over her shoulders. There were bangles at her wrists and mismatching earrings in each lobe--one a trio of silver stars, the other a dangling moon.
This was the Gemma who used to flit into the office all the time years ago, the Gemma everyone knew and loved.
Even with an impending tense meeting ahead of us, there was a lightness about her, a self-assurance, a calm that I didn't realize had been missing until right that moment.
"I feel like I need to see him one last time too, I don't know, have closure."
"Somehow, I don't think you mean you want to slap him for all the ass grabbing."
"No. I just... I don't know. I want him to see the real me, I think. I felt so defeated by working there, so worn down, so not like myself. It sounds silly, but I just need to do this."
"It doesn't sound silly. But you didn't have to get involved in a kinda risky conversation to have this last face-off."
"No," she agreed, nodding. "I am coming to this meeting because, well," she said, pressing her lips into a firm line.
"Go on. You can tell me," I told her.
"Well, because I don't trust you guys to make sure this product doesn't hit the market. I know that sounds horrible," she admitted. "I don't mean it to. I just think your focus is my safety first. And if the only way to secure that is to let this go through, well, then you would make that deal. I can't let that happen."
Honestly, that was fair.
I mean neither of us planned to let the product hit the market, but sometimes shit went down, sometimes deals went sideways.
"Alright, but let us do the talking, okay?"
"You're the professionals. I am just there for accountability. How do I look?" she asked, turning to face me, spreading her arms a bit.
"Beautiful," I told her without hesitation, it being the plain truth. She was always unfairly beautiful. Like the sun radiated from within her, making her almost hard to look at sometimes. "And confident and determined," I added when she clearly wanted more than that.
"Thank you. Okay. Now, don't tell me you are going to ruin all this with a bulletproof vest."
"No. Smith and Nia haven't even found a single security camera at his place. He's stupidly lax about personal protection."
"I mean, it's not like he's a celebrity. Unless he was getting death threats, I would think he lives a somewhat normal life."
"A normal life in a four-point-five million dollar estate with a maid and two grounds keepers."
"I don't begrudge someone their wealth that they've worked for, but it always drove me nuts that he was cheap. He made the girl at a snack cart give him his exact change. Because he really needed those thirty-five cents. I have a perverse sort of pleasure at the idea of seeing his face fall when he realizes he's not about to make millions and millions of dollars while endangering the public."
"It's not perverse. I always enjoy watching someone who thinks too highly of himself being brought down a peg or two."
"Let's get to it then, shall we?" she asked, giving me a smile, but there was suddenly some tension behind it.
It was understandable she was nervous.
I'd been on more jobs than I could count, several of them much more dangerous than this one.
But there was no denying the skittering of nerves across my skin as we moved downstairs, as we met up with Quin, as we went over the plan.
We weren't expected.
Quin had decided a surprise drop-in would be the safest bet.
We knew from both Smith and Nia that he was home, recovered from his flu, just moving from room to room, restlessly flicking the TV on and off, drinking cucumber-infused water left on the island by his housekeeper.
"He liked his water at room temperature. He has sensitive teeth," Gemma supplied to the question hanging in the air as we drove into his neighborhood. "Which conveniently doesn't apply to his bourbon on the rocks."
"Alright. You ready?" Quin asked, turning to look at her in the backseat.
"As I am going to be," she agreed, and it hadn't passed by me that she had been deep belly breathing like she did when she meditated the whole ride.
"Now, I personally think this is going to go smoothly. But just in case shit goes down, you get behind one of us. And if we say it is safe to run, you fucking run. You don't wait for us. You don't try to be brave. You run. Got it?"
"I know I can't fight," she admitted, rolling her eyes at herself.
"Okay. Let's get this shit over with."
With that, we climbed out of the car, making our way down the street in silence.
Walking behind Quin, I reached out for Gemma's hand, giving it a quick, reassuring squeeze, finding it uncharacteristically clammy.
"It's gonna be okay," I added in a whisper as we made our way up the driveway.
Quin stooped, reaching to grab a key under the lone gnome in the front garden where Gemma had told us we'd find it.
With that, we walked into the house like we belonged there.
Which made the actual owner who did stop short, dropping his glass of what looked like bourbon on the rocks as he let out a choked curse.
"What are you do--Jenna?" he asked, eyes squinting at Gemma who was half-hidden behind me.
At her name, though, she moved outward, lifting her chin, rising up to her full height.
"Gem-ma," she clarified.
"Whatever. Your quitting was incredibly inconvenient, you know."
Incredibly inconvenient?
Quin's face held the same surprise and confusion as I felt.
That wasn't how people who were plotting kidnapping and murder acted.
"Having to actually replace your own toilet paper roll must be so taxing," Gemma drawled, and it took a lot not to smile, not used to her being so snarky.
"What are you doing in my house?" he asked, moving away from his mess. It would likely sit there until the housekeeper came back in the morning to handle it.
"We're here to discuss a business problem," Quin informed him.
"I don't discuss business in my home. Without an appointment."
"In their defense, you would have no idea if you actually had an appointment unless someone else told you," Gemma told him, on a roll.
"You were the worst assistant I'd ever had," Phillip shot back as we followed him past the front door and into his study--a room decorated entirely in dark wood and leather.
"Alright, you're done talking to her," Quin informed Phillip with enough aggression to make his shoulders tense. "We're here to talk about your cancer cover-up."
I knew the second it was out of Quin's mouth that something was wrong, that we were wrong.
"Cancer cover-up," Philip repeated, brows furrowing. "Oh, that nonsense about a few cases after lifelong use? Newsflash, people, all chemicals can cause cancer after using them in huge quantities over a long period of time."
"We're not talking about that. We're talking about your so-called 'more natural' product about to hit the market."
"It doesn't cause cancer. Jesus. You environmentalists. Suspicious of everything."
This wasn't an act.
I'd known a lot of good liars, but this wasn't a lie.
He truly believed their product was safe.
"It killed several of your employees," Gemma snapped, not quite buying it.
"What?"
"The fuck is going on here?" Quin mumbled under his breath, barely loud enough for me to hear.
"Don't act like you don't know about it. You had files about it on your computer."
"There are a lot of files on my computer."
"There was a detailed file from Roland Eggers right before the cancer killed him."
"I knew we lost Eggers. He was a good man. But I know nothing about any correlation between his illness and working at our company."
"Don't try to tell me that you don't know what is going on in your own company," Gemma snapped.
"I know what is told to me in emails and meetings."
That was likely fair enough.
No CEO knew every little detail about every department of their company. They delegated and expected those who he delegated things to to update him regularly on possible progress or setbacks.
At this point, we had to ask ourselves one simple question.
Who, aside from Phillip, stood to gain the most from keeping this in the dark?
My head whipped over, finding the name practically flashing across Gemma's eyes as well.
David.
He was suspicious, paranoid, ruthless, threatening.
And smart enough to keep his boss in the dark.
"I think I need to make a call," Phillip said, already reaching for his cell phone, putting the pieces together himself.
We all stood there on bated breath, half expecting him to lay it all out over the phone.
But, to our surprise--and his credit--he just demanded David come over, that there was something they needed to discuss immediately.
"Now, who the hell are you guys?" he asked when he hung up, gaze moving over all of us.
"Quinton Baird," Quin supplied. "We... fix things," he supplied carefully.
Luckily enough, men like Phillip Harper knew exactly what fixers were, how they operated, why they were needed.
"Hired by?"
"Doing a personal favor for our former employee," Quin supplied, nodding toward Gemma.
"And she needed you to fix, what, exactly?"
"A wrong in your company."
"We don't know if there is a wrong in my company," Phillip said diplomatically.
There were a few more tense sentences shared before the front door opened and slammed closed, as footsteps clicked on the marble as they made their way toward us.
I could feel Gemma moving in behind me more, her breathing starting to rush out of her as David came around us, casting a curious gaze at both Quin and me, and--likely--just the side of Gemma since her head was hiding behind my shoulder.
"These people have come here to tell me something very interesting about my company."
"What could they possibly have to tell you about your company?" David asked
, and I could already see what his role was. CFO, sure, but also the resident ass-kisser, ego-stroker, the one who convinced Phillip that everything was fine, that he was the lord and master.
When he was the puppet master who had his boss on a string.
It was all making so much fucking sense.
Who stood to gain the most from pushing a product through despite the scandal?
The man in charge of making the company money. The man who likely stood to gain an obscene raise when it was a commercial success.
He wasn't dumb.
He would take the money, invest it, let it grow, then pull it out before the people started dying, take a plane to some country without extradition, and retire while living the good life.
And let his clueless boss take the heat.
It was the perfect long game.
That was why the file was on Phillip's computer, but buried so deep that Phillip himself would never happen across it. So that when the time came, there was evidence that he knew about it.
Christ.
We didn't need to go after Phillip, after Blairtown Chem.
We just needed to go after David.
A much simpler target.
While I was busy trying to process what was going on, Phillip was launching into it.
The cancer, the files, the fact that he knew nothing about it.
"Now is the part where you tell me you had nothing to do with it," Phillip said, something in his voice making me stiffen.
"Three people," David said. "Three people would cost us hundreds of millions of dollars over the course of its life."
There was a pause, the gears turning, Phillip seemingly putting together the pieces Quin and I already each had.
"You were going to let me take the fall, weren't you?" he asked, that tone in his voice getting even more chilling.
"It's not like--"
David didn't get to defend himself, though.
Before any of us could even guess at how he would react to such a blatant betrayal, Phillip's hand was moving, opening his top drawer in his desk, reaching inside, pulling something out.
I was a split second too late in recognizing what was going on.
The Middle Man Page 18