by Penny Reid
Kat: Can you call Dan? I’ll see him for dinner, he’ll fill me in.
Placing my phone on my lap, I gave my attention to the senior vice president of Research and Development, currently detailing the lack of funding for major divisions within his purview. I was taking notes, but said nothing. I’d dropped into the meeting unannounced, like all the other random R&D meetings I’d attended since Monday. My goal had been to observe, hoping to get a sense of Caravel’s drug discovery agenda.
So far, it seemed like Caravel’s current agenda—as mapped out by Caleb—was to maintain the status quo.
Of the meetings I’d attended thus far, this man was giving me the most valuable and comprehensive cataloguing of cuts made to R&D I’d encountered. Additionally, this cataloguing was information no one else had been willing to share with me despite my numerous—official—requests.
I didn’t doubt for a moment that Caleb was responsible for the lack of responsiveness by division leaders; Caleb was the CEO after all. As it currently stood, I didn’t have voting rights for my own shares, so what motivation did they have to respond to my requests?
However, this vice president seemed to be at his wit’s end. Perhaps he was so frustrated with my cousin, the man was willing to take one for the team, as it were. He wasn’t directing his comments to me explicitly, but it was clear the man had gone off-script because I was present, implying that severe cutbacks to drug discovery had damaged Caravel’s long-term viability.
I agreed with the senior vice president. If we weren’t researching and developing, then what were we doing? What was the point?
Another twenty minutes or so passed, maybe longer. The subject turned to adverse event reporting to the FDA and EMEA. The cell phone on my thigh buzzed, Dan’s name flashing across the screen, and my heart gave a flutter and a twist. As quietly and unobtrusively as possible, I left the room, Stan following me out and closing the door carefully behind us.
I accepted the call and brought my phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s me. I’m almost there and I’m bringing dinner, for Stan too.”
“Thank you.” I glanced over my shoulder to Stan and tilted my head down the long hall which would lead us to the elevator. “We’re on our way back to my office and will meet you there.”
“Sounds good.” I heard the turn indicator click on in his car. “Pulling into the parking garage. Hey, any trouble from Tiny Satan today?”
“No. I haven’t seen him.” I looked to Stan again and he nodded, indicating he hadn’t seen Caleb either.
“Hmm. . .”
“What?”
“It’s just, you haven’t seen him all week.”
“Yes, but he’s made his presence known by impeding through subterfuge any and all attempts to gather information. The only way I’ve been able to get a picture of what’s going on here is to attend division meetings unannounced.”
“Hmm . . .”
“What? What does Hmm mean?”
“He hasn’t tried to contact you. He’s not taunting you. Stopping the flow of information seems mild in comparison to trying to lock you away. We know he’s there, in town, showing up to work every day. Why isn’t he trying to torture you? What’s he waiting for?”
“Maybe he’s given up.” Even as I said the words I knew they were a long shot.
“You know that’s not true. He’s biding his time, waiting . . .” Dan didn’t finish his thought. I listened as the light squeaking of tires taking a sharp turn on cement sounded from his side of the call. “Never mind. Listen, I’ll see you soon. Like, five minutes soon.”
“Sounds good.”
We exchanged our goodbyes, and as the call ended, I spotted a few people walking down the hall, moving toward us. Stan shifted to my left and placed his hand on my back, inserting himself between me and the approaching group. This was the type of thing I used to hate when I was a teenager, when my assigned security detail would hover, stand between me and other people.
But now, with Stan, who I knew and liked, I found myself not really noticing enough to care.
I recognized one of the cluster from her picture—Dr. Carlyle—a member of R&D from Dr. Branson’s old group, before he’d been downsized. Dr. Branson was the scientist who’d been let go by Caleb’s special order and then, according to Marie and Matt, had immediately received funding from some unknown source to continue his work on a small island in the Caribbean.
I’d made it a point to look up Dr. Branson and his team after speaking with Janie this past Wednesday about Marie and Matt’s information.
Placing my hand on Stan’s arm, I leaned toward him. “Just a second. I want to speak to this woman.”
He nodded, looking tense and taking a step back to give me room.
“Excuse me, Dr. Carlyle?” I moved to intercept the woman, offering my hand. “Hi. I’m Kathleen Caravel-Tyson.”
The whole group stopped, their eyes going wide as they looked between me and their colleague.
For her part, she seemed mildly surprised, but not awestruck. That was too bad. I would have preferred her to be awestruck.
“Uh, hello. Nice to meet you.” She accepted my handshake, giving me a tight smile.
“Can I speak to you for a moment? I’m interested in the work you’ve been doing on ocular AI. I’m on my way to the elevator and I have,”—I glanced at my cell without really noticing the time—“I have five minutes. I’m pushing the board to double funding for the next six quarters and I’m looking for flagship projects. I’d like your thoughts on the focus of R&D dollars moving forward.”
She nodded, now looking more surprised and maybe a little dazed. “Yes. Absolutely.”
Stepping away from her colleagues, she glanced to Stan—who stared back at her, expressionless—then came to my side.
“Please,” I motioned for her to walk with me, “give me some background on your current project.”
Dr. Carlyle glanced at me nervously. “I—since we only have five minutes, I’d prefer to discuss your plans for the new R&D dollars.”
“You don’t think your current project is worthy of expanded funding?” I searched my memory, struggling to remember to which project she’d been assigned after Dr. Branson’s exit.
“No. Currently, I’m working with the ophthalmological regulatory team on obtaining an orphan drug status for a new generic we’ve acquired. It’s pretty straightforward and doesn’t require expanded funding, or investigation.”
I slowed my steps, wanting to prolong the conversation in order to ask her about Dr. Branson. I noted she seemed to be discouraged by her new assignment.
“Well then, where would you like to focus your energy moving forward? What areas of research have been underfunded—or have lost funding—that, in your estimation, are worthy of investment?” I pasted a calm smile on my features, hoping my method of questioning wasn’t too obvious.
Dr. Carlyle glanced at the elevators a few feet away and stopped, turning toward me. “We had a team dedicated to ocular implants last year that was shut down without warning, even though our early results were promising.”
Bingo.
“Tell me more.” I crossed my arms, studying her.
She proceeded to describe in painfully specific scientific detail Dr. Branson’s ocular AI project. My heart quickened as she spoke and I tried to keep up. The truth was, I didn’t understand most of what she was saying, each word contained more syllables and Latin roots than the last.
Her voice raised suddenly—not to a shout, but enough that I could tell she was agitated—and she launched into a tirade, using phrases like, “evidentiary power analysis,” and “split-tailed T-tests.” I did my best to look thoughtful and not lost, reminding myself that scientists often spoke a different language. Likewise, they usually had no idea that most people didn’t know what continuous variables were in reference to a confidence interval estimate.
I had a vague idea, and only because I’d taken research methods last semester o
n accident.
But then, she said, “The point is, the project was misrepresented. I don’t know how or why, but the results our research manager shared with the executive group were completely misleading. He’d left out—”
“Misleading? Why would your research manager mislead the executive group? What was his name?”
“Dr. Branson was the research manager and,” she shook her head, looking exasperated, “I don’t know. He left out the latest trial information, making it look like we’d stalled and made no progress in the last six months, when in fact, our—”
“Dr. Branson? Which group does he manage now?”
She grimaced. “He left. He was downsized last year.”
“Hmm . . .” I nodded thoughtfully. Very, very thoughtfully. “Do you think you can reach out to him? See if he’ll speak to me?”
Dr. Carlyle huffed impatiently. “Maybe. But, honestly, he’s not critical to the project. I was the PI with the FDA. Actually, co-PI with Dr. Barelvi. We worked with legal to ensure Caravel filed the patent before the project was dropped.”
Despite my efforts to hide my surprise, my mouth parted and I blinked at the woman.
If Caravel held the patent, then what the heck was Dr. Branson doing in the Caribbean?
“Could you—are you sure Caravel holds the patent?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Dr. Barelvi and I did the legwork with legal.”
“Not Dr. Branson?”
“No.” Her hands came to her hips and she gave me a skeptical once-over. “Dr. Branson was only our research manager. It wasn’t his research.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Fiduciary: “An individual in whom another has placed the utmost trust and confidence to manage and protect property or money. The relationship wherein one person has an obligation to act for another’s benefit.”
—Wex Legal Dictionary
Example of a fiduciary: The CEO of a company is a fiduciary for their company.
**Kat**
Dan is bringing you dinner.”
“Good,” Stan grumbled, “I’m starving.”
I gave him a small smile from where I leaned against the back wall of the elevator. My feet hurt.
We were finally on our way to my office. Stan had texted Dan to let him know we’d be running late. The conversation with Dr. Carlyle had taken more than thirty minutes. I’d learned quite a lot.
“You could’ve said something if you were so hungry. I could’ve cut short my discussion with Dr. Carlyle.”
He shrugged as the doors opened to the executive level. “No biggie.”
We exited the elevator together. “Starving is no biggie?”
He shrugged again, which wasn’t a surprise since Stan shrugged a lot, and gave me a rueful grin. “I’m always starving.”
“Should I carry food with me?” I teased, scanning my card and reaching for the door handle to my office, which also happened to be my father’s old office and the biggest office in the building.
Stan seemed to consider this as he held the door open for me to precede him. “I carry nuts in my pocket.”
I was about to suggest I carry a pizza in my purse when Dan’s voice interrupted, “Stan, please stop telling my wife where you keep your nuts.”
Stan, standing in the doorway, laugh-snorted. “Good one.”
Dan, standing next to the conference table, grabbed one of the three plastic bags on the surface and walked to me, a welcoming smile on his features. He brushed a soft kiss against my lips, and my body sighed.
That’s right. I experienced a full-body sigh at the sight of him. Everything relaxing, stilling, and yet, at the same time, tensing with anticipatory restlessness. And at the end of the sigh was a single whispered thought.
I love him.
Of course I loved him. He made it so easy.
Gazing and smiling into my eyes, Dan held the bag extended toward his friend. “Get out of here.”
“Sure thing.” Stan snatched the takeout and disappeared through the door, leaving Dan and I together. Alone. Yay!
“How are you feeling?” I asked, enjoying his closeness even though we weren’t touching.
“Good. Better.”
My smile grew at his answer and relief for him had my body sighing again.
Dan had been in a perpetual bad mood for most of the week, quieter than usual, less prone to smiles and jokes, easily confused, and—sadly—less prone to touching or kissing me. I completely understood. He needed time and space to heal, and I wanted to do everything I could to support him. But seeing how frustrated and unhappy he’d been concerned me.
Yesterday had been better than the previous days. When I arrived at the penthouse and upon his suggestion, we’d curled up on the couch and watched a movie. He’d fallen asleep a half hour into it, so I covered him with a blanket and let him sleep. He’d still been on the couch this morning when I departed for work at 7:30 AM.
“You weren’t up yet when I left.”
“I slept in, didn’t wake up until noon.” He laughed at himself, his gaze moving over my face in that way, giving me the impression that he really, really liked looking at me.
“Wow. That’s—”
“Something like fourteen hours.” Dan’s hand slid down my arm until our fingers met. “Are you hungry?”
“Actually, no. Not yet.” I wanted to see if I could find the patent information for Dr. Carlyle’s project. For that matter, I wanted to fill Dan in on what I’d discovered. “But you should eat if you’re hungry.”
“Nah. Not really. Ma and I had a late lunch. Do you want me to horrify you with her latest plans for dinner on Sunday?”
I chuckled, allowing him to lead me toward the couch in front of the window.
Since my knitting group and their significant others were flying in for a visit this weekend, Dan’s mom had decided to throw a “small family get-together” on Sunday as a way to celebrate our recent marriage. According to Dan, this meant at least fifty to a hundred people, depending on who was working, who was in town, and who was in jail.
“You make it sound like meeting your family is the same as being burned at the stake.”
“Except, being burned at the stake is less uncomfortable.” He motioned for me to take a seat, and then claimed the spot next to mine, his arm along the back of the sofa, his attention on my hair. “And the people are nicer.”
I shook my head at his antics. “Before we talk about Sunday I wanted to check, did Janie call you?”
“Not today.”
“Ah, okay. She texted me earlier and I told her to call you. And I need to tell you about a conversation I had just now with one of Caravel’s R&D investigators.”
“Sure.” He fiddled with my hair, twining it around his fingers. “Go for it.”
I described my conversation with Dr. Carlyle, pleased to see he looked just as confused as I felt when I got to the part about Caravel holding the patent to the ocular AI device.
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t know why she would lie.” I crossed my legs, bringing myself closer to Dan. “It should be easy enough to verify.”
“Huh.” He stared off into space. “Then what is that guy, Dr. Branson, doing in the Caribbean?”
“I don’t know.” I also stared off into space.
Dan stood abruptly and crossed to my computer. He appeared distracted, still lost in thought as he sat behind my desk.
“What’s your password?”
“You want me to give you my password?” I shook my head at him, trying to look serious. “I was told by tech support here never to give out my password.”
He rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile on his lips. “Fine. You type it in.”
I crossed to him, coming to stand behind the desk so I could type in my password. But mostly, it was an excuse to lean forward across and in front of him, my breast brushing against his shoulder and arm, my behind in the air. Straightening once the computer logged in—half-leaning, half-sitting on the surface
of the desk—I smiled sweetly at his expression.
His eyes were narrowed, and hot. “You’re good at that.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
I rolled my lips between my teeth so my smile wouldn’t spread and crossed my arms. “What’s the plan? What are you looking for?”
“Nothing. I’m going to let Alex look for it.” Dan navigated to his Cypher Systems email account and typed out a message, quickly summarizing all I’d learned from Dr. Carlyle and asking Alex to determine who held the patent.
When we were both satisfied, he hit send and leaned back in my chair, once again his eyes losing focus as though he were deep in thought.
I took the opportunity to study him, the color of his cheeks, nose, and forehead; how, even though he was thinking, he felt present in a way that had been lacking for the last week. He wore one of his sleek suits, dark blue, with a vest. His forest green and gold silk tie made his eyes look hazel.
He looked better.
He seemed better.
A lot better.
Earlier in the week, I’d made the mistake of rushing things. I’d arranged for his mother to have a spa day. I’d caught him sending me smoldering looks over the weekend and I thought perhaps a little TKC—touching, kissing, and cuddling—would help.
Plus, I’d missed him. Desperately.
But it was too early.
Yes, his mouth had been on my breast, doing wonderful things that should have felt wonderful, and all I’d felt was frantic, cold detachment. He was still in pain from his concussion and bruised ribs, I realized this as soon as we’d begun kissing, but I didn’t know what to do. I tried to relax. I couldn’t. I was worried for him and wasn’t able to turn my brain off, couldn’t disengage enough to feel anything.
Just like old times.
Therefore, other than a few tender kisses, all of which had inspired more heat and longing than my rushed attempt at intimacy, we hadn’t been physical since.
The failure had been frustrating, but I did my best to treat the incident like a small setback, one that wasn’t likely to repeat. I mean, how often would he have a concussion?
