The Quiet Girl

by S. F. Kosa

  And it doesn’t fucking matter. I’ve already put this meeting off once, and the Pinewell guys are our last chance. I go over my financial model one more time, down a slug of Macallan, then another, and tumble into sleep.

  I wake up early, groggy and confused, but it all comes back quickly. Too quickly. I have no space to think about Mina right now. Biostar is all that matters this morning. I get ready on autopilot, tending to my body as if I’m on the outside of it, scrubbing and shaving and draping it with clothes. Double-checking my model, stowing the laptop, driving up Memorial to Kendall Square in Cambridge.

  Pinewell is on the tenth floor of one of the gleaming glass buildings that line the street. As I ride up in the elevator, I silence my phone. If Mina hasn’t called yet, she’s unlikely to in the next hour.

  When I step out into the Pinewell office, I am greeted with a nice view of the Charles sparkling in the summer sun and the partner Drew and I met with at the beginning of last week. Blake Pierce looks relaxed in his jeans and sports jacket, all smiles and well-trimmed beard. During our first meeting, he joked about how his Model S is smarter than he is, that he was considering making it a partner, but I’ve looked the guy up. He’s an MD from Harvard, just one who doesn’t whip it out and lay it on the table first chance he gets.

  He gives my hand a vigorous double pump. “Feeling better today? Your assistant said you had an awful cold last week.”

  A nice, easy excuse, and far preferable to the truth. “Much better, thanks. Appreciate the reschedule on such short notice.”

  “Happy to accommodate. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like a man in need of really good espresso.” He gestures eagerly toward a coffee bar that takes up the back half of their reception area. On one side, atop the glazed concrete counter, sits a beer tap—Trillium, of course, a source of bragging rights in these here parts—and on the other end is a machine that looks a lot like an engine, slick and chrome with the word Speedster emblazoned on one end.

  “They only make four hundred of these babies a year,” he says as he snags a little ceramic cup from the cabinet. “Best rocket fuel on the planet.”

  “Can you make it a cappuccino?” Any more acid and it’ll probably burn a hole right through my stomach.

  “Can do, but I’m telling you, it’s a shame to dilute it. Nectar of the gods.” He’s grinding beans to powder, packing it down into the little metal cup, slotting it into the machine.

  “He always wants to show off the Speedster” comes a deep voice from behind us. I turn to see a middle-aged Indian guy, also casually dressed, also smiling. “If we cut back on our espresso budget, we could probably invest in one or two more companies this year.”

  “Nah. We’d all be asleep at our desks,” Blake says as he steams the milk. “You have to be alert if you want to spot the real gems.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Alex, this is Francis, our finance director. As I told Drew last week, if we’re going to go forward, I figured it was best to make sure we’re speaking the same language.”

  I pat my laptop bag. “Ready when you are.”

  Blake presses the cappuccino into my hand, laser focused. “Now you’re ready. I have another meeting, but you two have fun. Francis, make the sausage.” And then it’s like someone’s cut the string, and he’s moved on to the next agenda item for his day. He strides down the hall, presumably toward his corner office.

  I like him, but I also understand why Drew hates his guts. He’s ten years younger than we are and already where Drew wants to go.

  Francis leads me to a tidy office at the other end of the hall. The space is populated by orchid plants on every available flat surface. There’s a Yankees pennant on the wall, and I wonder if he’s a diehard fan or just likes to bait people. On the desk next to his laptop is a picture of him with what I assume is his family, solemn-looking wife, two smiling teenagers. He sees me looking and nods. “I’ve got one at Harvard and the other at Hopkins. I won’t be retiring anytime soon. Do you have children?”

  “A daughter. She’s five.”

  “That’s a fun age,” Francis says, efficiently concluding the obligatory small-talk portion of the program as he moves us to a conference table across the office. “Let’s set up here.”

  I fire up my laptop, pull up the model, and walk him through. Of all the Cambridge VCs we’ve met with, Pinewell is the only one we’ve gotten into the details with, mostly because Drew walked away from the others in search of a better deal. He thought they’d come crawling back to us with offers to sweeten the pot, but it’s obvious—to me, at least—that these guys have plenty of options.

  For Biostar, Pinewell is the only option we have left.

  “So here you can see how I got to our valuation,” I say after I run through the fundamentals. “We’ve got a risk-adjusted NPV of three fifty, and we estimate $80 million to get to market.”

  Francis has a pair of glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he peers at my screen. He sighs and sits back.

  “I’ve been pretty conservative,” I say quickly.

  He shrugs. “Your modeling is solid. Your assumptions are rational.”

  “But.”

  “They do not take the true risk into account.”

  “I factored it in.” I nod toward my screen. “Sixty percent chance of FDA approval. We understand that this isn’t a sure thing, but if it pans out, it’s really going to be something.”

  He chuckles. “Off the top of my head, I can name ten companies we’ve invested in that have cured cancer—in mice. Just like you did.” He takes off his glasses, folds them, and slips them into the inside pocket of his jacket. “We have a graveyard in the basement for all those companies, with a slick logo on every tombstone. Every single one went under.”

  I decide that now is a good time to drink my cappuccino.

  “Allow me to explain,” he continues. “While it’s truly wonderful to heal the ills of our furry little friends, mice are not people.”

  “I think I went to business school with a few rats.” I’m smiling, but I’m also grinding my teeth.

  “Yes,” he says. “I looked you up. You have deep experience, Mr. Zarabian, but not in biotech. This business is all about risk.”

  “All business is about risk. Preferably calculated.”

  “Is that what you did when you made the leap into this industry? Took a calculated risk?”

  I drain my cup while Francis chuckles.

  “Forgive me,” he says. “I am simply trying to impress upon you the unique nature of our business. Let’s say, for argument’s sake, this ion channel that Biostar has identified is the golden ticket. Okay? You’ve got yourself a treatment! You’ve gotten CaX429 through clinic! You’ve gotten FDA approval!” He’s been waving his arms, grinning, but then the smile drops away. “Look out the window, my friend. Within one block of here, there are twenty other MIT startups, perhaps fifty. Immunotherapy is very hot right now. If even one comes up with a treatment for squamous cell carcinoma that’s 10 percent more effective than Biostar’s, please tell me the name of one doctor who will choose you over the competition.”

  I set my coffee cup on the table next to my laptop. “The pilot data were impressive. You have to admit that, at least. And the market potential is high.”

  He puts his hands up. “I don’t make the decisions—I’m not a partner. Blake is intrigued, and that’s why we offered $25 million, pre-money, in exchange for 50 percent. It was a good offer.”

  “But that’s less than 10 percent of our valuation—”

  “And fully half of my valuation.”

  “—in exchange for control of the company!” This is the point in every past meeting where Drew’s head nearly exploded. Biostar is his baby, and he’s gotten us this far. He’s not about to hand over the keys.

  Francis gives me a look that says he’s had this conversation a dozen times at
least. “Alex, my friend, we have invested in sixty-three companies so far, and nearly 70 percent have gone under within five years. Do you know what that means?” He aims a finger at the picture of his family. “If I want to get those little geniuses of mine through school, the remaining 30 percent of our investments had better fly. To grow wings, you need our help. We are the opposite of dumb money—we know how to get things to market. And by necessity, we’re not in the business of handing out cash without being able to pull the levers. I can tell you right now that no other sophisticated VC will either. This is how the game is played.”

  “Drew isn’t going to like this,” I mutter, snapping my laptop shut.

  Francis pushes his chair away from the table. “You can always go out and find that dumb money. But another $25 million will be difficult to come by unless you have best friends in Silicon Valley or Saudi Arabia.” His eyes narrow. “And I’ve seen a list of your board members. It’s already full of dumb money.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say dumb—”

  “Friends and family, yes? You have a lot of people who believe in you, and that’s wonderful.”

  He makes it sound like we’re a couple of college kids with a garage band. “They believe in the data,” I remind him. “They want to see this therapy get to the people who could benefit from it.”

  “Sherri Zarabian. Your mother by any chance?” When I nod, he says, “I thought so. Does she have a PhD in immunology? How many companies has she started?”

  “Look, we’d be happy to have some guidance from Pinewell. Blake knows what he’s doing, and he’s got an awesome reputation. But even if I convince Drew to agree to this, when we go for Series B funding in a year or two, this is going to be a problem for him.” Drew’s not going to want to see his shares diluted like that.

  Francis waves my concern away. “He won’t be around for Series B. By then, Blake will have recruited someone with market experience.”

  I go still. “What?”

  Perhaps seeing the unguarded shock on my face, he stands up and pushes his chair in. “I have said too much. But startup CEOs are merely that, Alex.”

  “And startup CFOs?”

  He laughs. “Like I said, my friend, your modeling is solid. Once you understand the biotech terrain a bit better, you’ll do beautifully. And don’t worry about your CEO. He’ll make enough money on this to buy a craft distillery if he needs to drown his sorrows. But without funding…”

  Without funding, he’ll have 50 percent of nothing. So will my mom. And all those stock options I took in lieu of meeting the salary at my old job, all in the hope that the risk would pay off? Garbage.

  “I appreciate your candor.”

  He’s already out in the hallway. “Explain the logic to your CEO. Most of them don’t mind letting go once they understand that someone else will carry the ball into the end zone. There is tremendous risk here but also great potential. Biostar has promise, and we’d love to see it succeed.”

  I follow him out to the lobby. I shake his hand. I ask him to thank Blake and assure him that I’ll be in touch after I go over the offer with Drew and our board. Once I’m on the elevator, shell-shocked and already dreading the next several hours, I check my phone.

  Four new messages.

  One text is from Drew. He wants to meet me to celebrate. Confident and oblivious bastard that he is, he assumes that I’ve set Pinewell straight and walked away victorious.

  Another is from my mom, complaining that Mina still hasn’t gotten back to her and asking if I’ll have her call tonight—the book club meeting is tomorrow.

  I also have a text from Caitlin, asking whether I’ll be picking up Devon or if Mina will be doing it. Apparently Devon has a surprise for Mina. Something she made at her day camp yesterday.

  And I have a voicemail from Detective Felicia Correia, asking me to call her back as soon as I can. Still in the shadow of the Pinewell offices, I dial the detective’s number, my hands trembling.

  “Mr. Zarabian,” she says when I get through. “Thank you for getting back to me so quickly.”

  “You found her,” I say. I should probably sit down. I’m feeling light-headed.

  “No,” she replies. “We haven’t found Mina. We found her car.”

  “Where?”

  “Park ranger called it in from Beech Forest. The car was there overnight, maybe the past two nights. Your wife’s wallet and keys were locked inside.”

  Chapter Four

  Let’s get out of here,” Esteban said. “There’s a place I want to take you.”

  She jerked her head from the pillow. Esteban was dressed and showered. She glanced at the empty expanse of bed next to her.

  “I slept on Matt’s couch last night,” he said. “You seemed like you needed space.”

  She sat up, holding the sheet to her chest. “You want to take me somewhere?”

  He held up a key. “Borrowed a set of wheels and everything. Come on. Nice day for a Sunday drive.”

  She eyed the key and then Esteban himself. She remembered the previous evening, Amber making her uncomfortable as usual, Jaliesa being nice, and Esteban chasing that redheaded guy down the street. By the end of her shift, her entire body had been drooping with exhaustion, and the rest of the night was a fog. But it seemed like Esteban had left her alone, and it eased the anxiety she’d felt upon seeing his face. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll get ready.”

  “I’ll be outside.” He closed the bedroom door, and his footsteps retreated down the hall.

  She showered and dressed in the same clothes she’d worn the previous night. They weren’t the freshest; she would wash them in the sink when they got back. She slathered on some deodorant she found in the cabinet and headed downstairs. She tucked her hand into her pocket and pulled out an envelope full of twenties. It made her feel powerful. Smiling, she slid the money back into her shorts and found Esteban waiting in the street outside the guesthouse, leaning against an old silver Corolla with a crumpled back bumper.

  “Where are we going again?”

  “Can’t it be a surprise?” He opened the passenger door for her. She eyed the seat, and he bowed and gestured grandly. “Your chariot awaits.”

  A warm breeze gusted around her, and a gull cried overhead. Fluffy clouds glided across the vibrant blue of the sky. “Are we going to the beach? Do I need my swimsuit?”

  He looked startled for a moment. “Oh. No. We’re going to a restaurant.”

  “Where?”

  “Come on,” he said. “Just get in.” He cleared his throat and chuckled. “I already told you more than I meant to! Leave me some mystery. You like that, right? Mystery?”

  She took a step back.

  He groaned. “Layla, just go with this, okay? It’s my treat.”

  She put her hand on her stomach. The sun was already high in the sky, and she was hungry. Really hungry. She slid into the car.

  Esteban closed the door gently and plopped into the driver’s seat a moment later. The car was filthy, the back seat cluttered with empty pizza boxes and grease-spotted paper bags, the floor littered with empty soda cans and a few beer cans, too. “Sorry about the mess,” Esteban said as he pulled onto the road.

  “There are a bunch of restaurants we could have walked to,” she commented when he turned onto Route 6 a minute later.

  “I thought it would be good to get out of Provincetown.” He opened the center console, which was packed with CD cases. “Remember how we met?”

  She nibbled at a hangnail on her thumb.

  “You said you weren’t from Provincetown, and I said I wasn’t either? Remember that?”

  “Of course I do,” she said. Though she didn’t, not clearly. Playing along was often easier than confessing, as most people would fill in enough gaps that she could pretend well enough.

  “You remember the song that was playing, outs
ide of Haverman’s?”

  “When?”

  “When we met. Jesus, girl. Your memory is shit. Like someone hit you in the head.” He slid a CD into the player and punched the button to move to a specific track. “I remember it like it was yesterday. You were sitting on the curb, right outside the restaurant, and Lou sent me out to get rid of you because we didn’t need a homeless person scaring away customers. You remember the song that was playing?”

  “You do?” she asked.

  A song began to play, the first notes washing over her, the next couple catching like cogs. It was familiar, so familiar. It was the tune she’d been humming for…as long as she could remember. “Oh! Yeah. I know this one.”

  He grunted. “Not sure how you’d forget. You remember what you said to me?”

  “When we met?”

  “I didn’t think you were high, but now I wonder.”

  Had she been high? That might explain a thing or two. “Let me listen,” she said. It was a rock tune with soaring guitar, and the singer began to wail. She was greedy for the lyrics, as all she’d had was the melody. She tittered as she caught a few words—lonely, running, hiding… “Are you trying to tell me something?” Her voice had gone weird again.

  He paused. “Are you?” He went quiet again just as the singer belted out, “Layla!”

  Cold prickles spread across Layla’s chest as the chorus went on and Esteban began to sing along with it. “Like a fool, I fell in love with you,” he practically shouted, off-key. His grin sent a chill through her. It was too wide, too sharp.

  She slapped her palm against the buttons on the dash, sending the tracks skipping forward before the sound cut off entirely.