by Sonja Yoerg
She selects one of the files. Three tabs are at the bottom: Raw Data, Compiled, Analysis. She clicks open the Raw Data tab. A security prompt pops up, and she enters the password. “The data from the iPads are uploaded here.” She clicks the Compiled tab, and another sheet opens. Again, she enters a password—a different one—at the prompt. “The raw data feed into this sheet, which does the number crunching.” She right-clicks on one of the cells in the table. “For instance, this cell averages the three observations of vertical eye movements in one session for one child. All of these cells contain formulas; they don’t store data per se, because whenever the Raw Data sheet is updated, the numbers flow through here and change.”
“But the formulas don’t.”
“Which is why this sheet is locked, so no one can change it by mistake, and also password protected, restricting who can lock or unlock it. We don’t want anyone changing the formulas by mistake.”
“Makes sense. Who has the passwords?”
Jackie sighs. “Everyone we’ve trained to upload the data. The password is only there to get people to pause.”
Vince sits back in the chair. “If you don’t mind me saying, that’s not much of a firewall.”
“No, it isn’t. But I never thought I needed one.”
“We’ll see, right?” He straightens his collar, probably because his neck itches. “What’s next in the chain?”
Jackie selects the Analysis tab. “The formulas shoot the numbers into this sheet. From here we use a statistical program to run the analyses, either the one built into Excel or we export it to SPSS.” She lifts her hands. “That’s it.”
Vince sips his coffee and drums his fingers on the table. “You’ve probably already figured out that we can use the daily backups to the network to retrieve previous versions of this file.”
“Yes, but how do we know if it’s the raw data file or the formulas that have been changed? And won’t it take forever to find the changes? Maybe not for one study, but for all of them?” Jackie hears the desperation in her voice. In her mind, the vast quantity of data files she has amassed over ten years is a stack about to fall and bury her.
“Here’s an idea. I’ll make a dummy data set with random numbers, run it through each day’s version of the sheet with the formulas, and compare the output. I can do that just by subtracting one day’s output from the next, like using one set of results as a filter for the next. If there’s a change, it will pop out.”
Jackie grabs his arm. “That’s brilliant.”
His face flushes. “Not really.”
“It really is.” Jackie tears off a corner of her muffin. She hasn’t eaten since yesterday, and a little good news revives her appetite. “What about the raw data file?”
Vince shakes his head. “Harder, I think. But let’s blow up that bridge when we get to it.”
Jackie pushes back her chair. “I can’t thank you enough, Vince.”
“I know it’s important, but I probably won’t get to it until next week.”
“That’s fine. Today’s Friday, after all. And thank you.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Yes, you have. You’ve given me hope.”
After Vince leaves, Jackie closes the conference room door so she can think without interruption. Tate has already narrowed down who might have altered the spreadsheet to Gretchen and Nasira. Jackie assumes the changes were made by accident—why would anyone alter her data?—but is wary of asking her postdoc questions that might be taken the wrong way, especially given their last personal conversation. Nasira has been polite but cool to Jackie, and it’s clear to Jackie that the other members of the lab, especially Tate and Kyle, who have been with her the longest, are picking up on the tension. Whatever Jackie says to Nasira has to be phrased carefully. Given Jackie’s lack of sleep and her stress level, she might need a teleprompter to pull it off.
If only Nasira were Jackie’s sole worry. Harlan and Nasira have obviously been talking about Jackie’s mental state and erratic behavior, so why wouldn’t Nasira bring home the juicy tidbit about the data problems? Jackie could question Nasira with kid gloves, and Nasira might still share the news. Jackie’s not sure why that bothers her, but it does.
She finishes the muffin and reprimands herself for yet again being too wrapped up in how Harlan and Nasira might react. Her priority has to be discovering the nature and extent of the data problem. If Nasira was rooting around in that spreadsheet, Jackie has to know. It’s her lab, and the data are her responsibility. If Harlan wants to make something of it, let him. She’s got nothing to hide.
Jackie returns to the lab after a seminar and sticks her head into the shared office where Kyle, Gretchen, and Nasira are eating lunch and working. Jackie was hoping as much.
“Hey, gang. Mind if I grab my lunch and join you?”
Kyle speaks around a bite of sandwich. “Sure thing, boss. I wanted to run something by you anyway.”
Jackie doesn’t wait for a consensus. She drops her bag in her office, retrieves her lunch from the fridge in the hallway, and pulls a chair from the corner of the shared office. Gretchen smiles at her and scoots over to make room. Jackie lets the small talk drift around the room while she opens her salad container (more kale) and squirts on the dressing from the packet.
A lull in the conversation gives Jackie her opening. “Tate came to see me yesterday about a discrepancy in the interim two-year data analysis. We’re both scratching our heads over it.”
“What sort of discrepancy?” Gretchen asks.
Jackie keeps it vague. “Just a difference in her analysis and one I did a week before. We’ve got backups, of course, and Vince Leeds is looking into it, but it might be helpful to know if any of you were in there.” Jackie reaches for her iced tea and takes a long sip, trying to appear casual.
Gretchen tilts her head. “That’s the four-year study, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh,” Kyle says.
“Then no. Not since, what?” She glances at Kyle. “Maybe the beginning of the summer?”
Kyle nods. “Yeah, we were looking at the eighteen-month data.” He stretches his long legs in front of him. “I haven’t been in there since then, either. Because dissertation.” His intonation suggests the narrator of a horror film. Everyone laughs and nods in sympathy.
Jackie pokes around in her salad as if she’s being picky about what to eat next. Without raising her head, she says, “What about you, Nasira?” and stabs a chunk of feta.
“I don’t remember the exact day, but yes. I’ve been looking at which behaviors seem to change the most from six to twelve months, and that’s one of the data sets I was reviewing.”
Nasira doesn’t seem bothered by the question, so Jackie probes deeper. “Were you in the formula sheets?”
Nasira puts down her sandwich. “No. I just wanted the analyzed data.” She thinks a moment. “Were the formulas changed?”
“Not sure.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
Jackie shrugs. “I really can’t guess.”
“By mistake?” Gretchen says.
“It’s got separate password protection.” Nasira folds the wrapping around her sandwich. “I’ve got a meeting at the medical center. Jackie, I hope you find out what’s going on with your data.”
“I’m sure I will. Maybe you could reflect on it, and let me know which day you accessed that spreadsheet.”
Kyle scrapes his chair back to allow Nasira to pass. As he does, he sends Jackie a quizzical and somewhat worried look.
“Bye, everyone.” Nasira slips out.
From her seat near the door, Jackie watches her postdoc retreat down the hall without a sound. Kyle and Gretchen are getting ready to return to work. Jackie carries her chair back to its place, and the meaning behind Kyle’s look dawns on her.
Nasira wouldn’t know the formula sheet was password protected unless she attempted to access it. Maybe she clicked on it by mistake. Maybe not.
CHAPTER 15
A week later, Jackie is holding extended office hours in honor of the end-of-the-semester crunch. She didn’t count, but guesses she answered questions for (and held the hands of) more than two dozen undergraduates.
She ushers the last student out the door. “Good luck on the exam.” Jackie forgives herself for having forgotten his name as there are more than a hundred students in the class.
The tall young man waves as he lopes down the hall. “Thank you, Dr. Strelitz.”
Jackie’s phone pings, and a notification appears on the screen: Endowed Chairs Reception, Dabner House, 5:30 p.m.
“Crap.”
She completely forgot. The stress of waiting to hear from Vince Leeds about the source and scope of the data problem is turning her mind into a colander. She was eager to get home. Miles flew in from Houston earlier, and she hoped they could relax together—or bitch and moan together—anything other than continue to dance their strained minuet. But one of the visiting professors at the reception is Lindsay Michener, a disabilities activist and expert on developmental disorders. Jackie is eager to talk with her, even if only to set up a time for a more in-depth conversation. The Dabner House is on her way to her car; she’ll stop by briefly.
She checks her outfit, a camel-colored sweaterdress and brown suede boots, and deems it spiffy enough for a glass of wine with academics.
The Dabner House is a Gothic outlier on a campus dominated by Georgian stateliness and glass-and-steel modernity. Dwarfed by the surrounding buildings, it has an otherworldly aura, as if the university sprang up unexpectedly around it, its original purpose forgotten. Jackie knows Dabner House is not the oldest building on campus, but the feeling sticks.
A man emerges and holds open the thick wooden door with black strap hinges.
“Thanks.” Jackie unbuttons her coat and hangs it on the rack in the foyer.
The main room is vaulted, but the walnut paneling and oversize paintings bring the walls in close. On the far wall, the fireplace—roomy enough to cook a steer in—is ablaze, rendering the air stifling. Jackie scans the people nearest to her for Dr. Michener, whom she knows only from her headshot, then proceeds to a table in the corner where, judging from the clot of bodies, drinks are being served.
A chilled glass of sauvignon blanc in hand, Jackie greets faculty she knows, keeping a lookout for Dr. Michener. Perhaps she decided to skip the reception.
“Jackie.”
She startles. Harlan is at her elbow, along with a man, somewhat younger than Harlan, sporting a tweed blazer and a neatly trimmed mustache.
“Hello, Harlan.” She offers a terse smile, unable to completely mask the tension he evokes. Two weeks ago, she left him the stay-out-of-my-life message, and she’s only seen him in passing since.
“Let me introduce Peter Durbin. He’s visiting from Nottingham as the McIntyre chair in English. We met a week or so ago at the president’s house—something Chen asked me to attend. Boring as hell save for Peter.”
Jackie shakes hands with Durbin. His smile is warm but he keeps his chin elevated. Jackie never cares about being a woman of average height except when men look down at her like this. She doesn’t judge him for it, though. For some it’s habitual.
“Welcome. Although by now you must have settled in.”
“I have indeed.” His accent is pure BBC. “The students are quite refreshing.”
Jackie smiles. Before she can speak again, Harlan does.
“I wanted you to meet Peter because we’ve discovered the most extraordinary coincidence.”
The twinkle in Harlan’s eyes is captivating, as ever, but Jackie is wary. Something is afoot. “Really?”
“Yes. It turns out that Peter went to prep school—public school, I guess you’d call it, Peter—with Miles.”
Jackie looks from Harlan to Peter. “You knew Miles at Felsted?”
“I did.”
“That really is a coincidence.” Jackie sips her wine, calculating the probabilities. “How did you two happen to uncover it?”
Peter shrugs. “At the previous function we wandered into the topic of American football, and I mentioned the structural similarities to rugby, wondering if Harlan here was familiar with it.”
Harlan eagerly picks up the story. “Naturally, I am quite familiar. In explaining how, I mentioned Miles by name.” He grins broadly, looking from Jackie to Peter and back to Jackie. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
Jackie puzzles over why Harlan is so gleeful. “Such a small world.”
“Indeed.” Peter is staring at her, still smiling, examining her while pretending not to do so. Jackie is confused and a little unnerved. “And you and Miles are married, I hear.”
“Yes, two years in February. I’m sure Harlan would have said.”
“He did, of course.”
“I might be mistaken, but you sound surprised.” Jackie is sure of the latent message in his tone and is annoyed enough to confront him, albeit politely.
“Do I? Well, I—”
“He was married before. Perhaps Harlan mentioned that as well. And he has a son.” Jackie realizes she sounds snappy and steps back. “I’m happy to let Miles know you’re in town. Were you close?”
“Friends, but, no, not close.”
“Either way, I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you.”
Harlan says, “I suggested that, too.” He spreads his hands. “We could all go out.”
Peter nods and sips his beer. “I’m game.”
“Wonderful.” Jackie smiles and hopes it looks sincere. She can’t honestly say why she feels at a disadvantage in this conversation, but she does. It reminds her of the evening Harlan came into her lab to ask about borrowing Nasira for his project. The words made sense, but she was missing something, not in on the joke. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find someone, then head home. Peter, I’ll be sure to tell Miles I met you. Enjoy yourselves.”
She smiles again and winnows her way through the crowd, keeping one eye out for Dr. Michener. Her trajectory is toward the door, however, and home.
Jackie steps into the warmth of her house, deposits her coat and bag on the bench by the door, and pulls off her boots.
She calls out to Miles on her way to the kitchen. “It’s me.”
He’s cutting tomatoes for the salad at his elbow. “Hi, beautiful. Two seconds.” He scrapes the tomatoes from the cutting board into the bowl, rinses and dries his hands, and comes out from behind the counter, opening his arms.
“So good to see you.” He hugs her and plants a kiss on her cheek. Not her mouth, she notes.
“You smell good.” A new cologne? She doesn’t want to say in case she is wrong. Nothing says “estranged” like forgetting what your spouse smells like.
“It’s the risotto. Chicken and fontina.”
“Sounds amazing.” She peeks over his shoulder. “Has it been ready long?”
He shakes his head. “No, your timing is perfect.” He returns to the stove and stirs. “Any news from your IT guy?”
Over the phone last night, Jackie told him the essentials of the data problem without indicating how serious it might be, either in its cause or scope. No point in being an alarmist. But he must have read the concern in her voice, since he remembered to ask her about it.
“Not yet. He’s working on it, but he has to deal with emergencies first, like computer crashes.”
“Right.”
“Did you finally meet with that player?” Miles is home a day later than scheduled because a key player had a family emergency.
Miles stops stirring, then resumes. “Oh, yes. Yes, I did. Walter LeFebvre. Looks as though he might sign. I’ll know for certain in a couple of days.” He points at the open bottle on the counter. “Wine?”
“Uh, no. Not this second.” Why did he seem thrown by her question? He couldn’t have forgotten having to change his flight. Then again, their transition to being together is always somewhat awkward, especially lately. Jackie has been assuming it’s her fault, but pe
rhaps that’s reflexive on her part. She can’t remember the last time he initiated sex—or the last time they had sex, now that she thinks about it. Definitely not since the Thanksgiving baby discussion three weeks ago. Talk about voting with your feet—or your whatever.
Miles is recounting his meeting with Walter LeFebvre. Jackie retrieves bowls, salad plates, and flatware. She tosses the salad, arranges a portion on each plate, and carries them to the table.
“Anyway,” Miles says, as he spoons risotto into the bowls, “I’m hopeful. He’s an incredible athlete.”
“Fingers crossed.” Jackie decides on wine after all and crosses to the table with her glass. “I dropped in at a reception just before I came home. Harlan was there.”
Miles sets the bowls on the table and sits. “Oh? How is he? I haven’t talked to him in a while.”
“Fine. Harlan is Harlan.” She tastes her risotto. “This is delicious, Miles. Anyway, he introduced me to someone who knows you—from Felsted.”
“Really?” Miles picks up his wineglass, by the stem as always, and pauses before taking a sip. “Who was it?”
“Peter Durbin.” Jackie continues eating, but also watches her husband. “Do you remember him?”
Miles concentrates on his food and waves his hand vaguely. “I didn’t know him well.”
“He remembered you, obviously, although he did mention you weren’t close.”
Miles meets her gaze. “Funny sort of cocktail-party conversation.”
“Not really. He struck me as somewhat arrogant.” She searched for the right phrasing. “And bemused by you, or by his memory of you, I suppose.”
“Bemused? Why?”
Jackie shrugs. “Got me.” She is about to add that, if she had to guess, Peter and Harlan shared a secret, but Miles will dismiss it as preposterous, given that the men hardly know each other. She has learned to refrain from sharing her thoughts about Harlan with her husband.
