Every person fits in somewhere, no matter how convinced they are of their uniqueness. That’s her theory. Pity she hasn’t figured out where she fits in just yet.
As Isla approaches the covert entrance to the building and signs in with security, she feels a ripple of embarrassment at her worn Converse All-Stars, frayed jeans and simple T-shirt. She’s only just turned thirty-one – on the second of February, an Aquarian through and through – but these tech startups already make her feel dated. She believes in the smell of old books, the crisp, clean break of a new Sunday paper over coffee and croissants and small bookstores where you can run your fingers over all the potential stories. She is old enough to remember burning mix CDs on her computer, or asking the record store to import an obscure album from Iceland. She doesn’t know how to fit in at a place like this, or even pretend to.
Atypical’s receptionist shows her to Julian Cox’s office.
‘Good morning, you must be Isla. Come inside! Great sneakers by the way . . .’ he says, in a voice so animated it would take Isla at least three coffees to match him.
‘Thanks.’
Everything about him is accelerated. He barks an order for a matcha latte to his receptionist, asks his Google assistant to play some Jack Johnson, answers his mobile, approves a deal and hangs up again in seconds. His office, a glass-cube smelling of incense, makes Isla feel as if she is in a smoky fish tank, with everyone watching them.
He turns to face her, his bright green eyes burning intensely.
‘I had Converse like that in Junior High. Took me months to save up for them. One day bullies spotted the clean white of new shoes on my feet. I lost my straight nose, and lost the sneakers too.’
It’s a lot to share in the first five minutes of meeting someone. Isla doesn’t quite trust it. ‘I’m sorry. It’s hard to imagine you being hurt that way now.’
‘I know, but I’m proud of my past. It gave me the desire to be successful. Everything is a blessing in the end.’ He’s good. Guys like these, they’re storytellers of the first degree. Isla needs to remember that, no matter how tempted she is to be drawn in.
He plays with the collection of shamanic rings on his fingers, his gaze somewhere in the distance. A punch from those ringed fingers could cause some serious damage, Isla thinks. ‘You know, I still can’t believe all of this is real. Just two days ago she was sitting exactly where you are, trying to wrangle more budget out of me for one our ambitious projects.’
The thought makes Isla squirm in her seat. The abandoned life of a person is far more haunting than their death could ever be. She scribbles in her notebook – Nicole was strong, a go-getter.
‘Well, I really appreciate you taking the time to—’
‘No,’ he jumps in, ‘I am so thankful that you came to us. You’re the first journalist to call. Nicole has . . . wait . . . sorry.’ He pauses and puts a hand over his eyes. They sit in awkward silence, waiting for the moment to pass. ‘She had been with us from our inception three years ago and was part of the family. When a business gets so big so quickly, that feeling of community is everything. Everything you see around us, this so-called “success”, is tough in its own way.’
The honesty is startling. Isn’t this the new American dream that everyone hopes for? Learn to code, build an app, make billions? Nicole must have been ballsy to hold her own in a male-dominated industry like this one, and conjure such emotion in Atypical’s charismatic leader.
‘What was she like?’
‘She was everything I could have hoped for in an employee, and a friend. Driven, dynamic, brilliantly intelligent.’ He pauses. ‘Are you getting this down? Driven . . .’
‘Dynamic—’
‘Great, you’ve got it. Nicole could have had any job she wanted, but she chose to believe in Atypical. She even supported me when I said no to Elon Musk – I’m sure you’ve read all about that debacle. Anyway, she understood what we were building and was prepared to defend it. She was one of those women who really stood for something, you know?’
Isla remembers the recycling bins at Nicole’s apartment, the fresh potted herbs, the bottle of locally sourced wine, the fair-trade linen, the sweet iron smell of old blood and the spicy, musky scent of perfume.
‘What did she stand for?’
He gazes into the distance, smiling. ‘Well, she wanted a fairer, more equal society. She was experimenting with ways of using technology to truly help others and bring people together.’
‘How so?’
‘Her passion project was working with governments and NGOs in East Africa, to bring underprivileged communities free access to Wi-Fi and medical services. The technology we are about to roll out in those countries is thanks to her ferocious idealism.’
Isla nods – she has read a bit about this story online. It’s a big deal.
‘Is there anybody who wouldn’t support these developments? Telecommunications is a cutthroat industry and is highly regulated by the government, especially in Africa. Maybe some local players weren’t happy with your new technology?’
Julian shifts in his seat, and tenses his jaw. ‘It can be tough entering new markets, sure, but Nicole had her contacts wrapped around her little finger. She was charming, and passionate about helping women in need. She’d go there and try out the food, drink at the local bars and even go dancing. Most importantly, she showed the authorities that our technology wasn’t another empty gesture of aid, it would truly help.’
Isla makes a note to look further into this herself.
‘She really seemed to work hard. Could she have possibly taken drugs to keep going?’ From what she could gather from the crime, it had many of the qualities of a drug or gang-related murder. It was not pedestrian, but performed by someone who was comfortable with violence.
Julian looks shocked. ‘Nicole was completely clean. She didn’t drink, smoke, eat meat or gluten. Her system wouldn’t even know how to react to an aspirin.’
Isla thinks back to the wine and the bowl of pasta. Julian clearly didn’t know his employees as well as he thought he did.
‘There was a bottle of Topamax visible in the crime-scene photographs. Were you aware she was being treated for a mood disorder?’
Julian is distracted by a message on his phone, but suddenly looks up. ‘Oh. That? Yes she mentioned it briefly but I make a point in not interfering in the personal lives of my staff. Her bipolar disorder didn’t affect her work in any way.’
Funny, Isla didn’t name Nicole’s mood disorder – she merely alluded to its existence. The left side of Julian’s face spasms every now and then. A nervous tic. It always happens to the smartest types, the ones whose minds won’t leave them alone. Isla can tell that he is used to having all the answers, or not hiding them. In the absence of the appropriate response he is on edge, wound up like a spring.
‘Julian – could I possibly interview a few of your staff members, and get a feel for Nicole’s life here?’
He hesitates, then his expression returns to its friendly mask. ‘Yes, of course.’ He points to a worried redhead rifling through papers in a nearby office. ‘Just speak to Mathilda over there, and she will coordinate it for you.’
‘Thank you, I really appreciate it.’
His cellphone flashes again. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to take this,’ he mumbles. Isla feels relieved to have a moment free of his intensity. She swivels her chair and takes some time to observe the office swimming around her.
It’s shinier and more hopeful than the dire interior she is accustomed to at the San Francisco Times. She spots a tray of smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels in the open-plan kitchen, and her eyes linger on their Nespresso machine. It must be at least an hour since she had her last coffee! Atypical seems like a really great place, just like all the fawning news articles say.
Employees talk quietly among themselves, the cheerful office space awash with the hush of fresh grief. Isla shudders at her own memories of navigating the blank space that follows a trau
ma, that dreaded period where nobody knows what to say, and so nothing is said at all.
Then, she spots a familiar tousle of brown hair, a pale, haunted face. She’s not doing anything to cause suspicion, simply struggling across the room with three mugs of coffee. But Isla knows her from somewhere. Has she seen her in an Atypical news story, maybe? Or has she been pushed against her in a tram? No, she knows those eyes, she looked right into them, held their gaze for long enough to recall their unique almond shape.
It hits her, heavy, sudden and sure. It’s the same woman she almost ran over outside Nicole’s apartment the day before. Close up, she notices her hunched shoulders, and grinding jaw.
Julian walks back into the room, smiling distractedly. His mind is already onto his next task. Isla is seconds into overstaying her welcome.
‘You’re OK to find your own way to Mathilda’s office?’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you for your time, Julian. It was an honor to meet you,’ she says graciously. She turns to walk away, but a spark of intuition makes her turn around. ‘And by the way, who is that young woman over there? The one handing out the coffees? I feel like I know her from somewhere.’
Julian looks up briefly from his MacBook. ‘She joined us a few months ago. Lovely girl, sharp as a tack. Her name is Freya Matthews.’
Chapter 7
Freya
Two days after the murder
Freya stares at the message on the screen. Another message. Another number. She is beginning to suspect this is not one person behind the screen, but several. Her mouth is dry. Her pulse, racing.
Hey baby, your profile pic is hot. You don’t have to be lonely anymore – I’ve got what you’re looking for.
It shouldn’t matter so much. She’s used to getting online messages out of the blue. Like that so-called CEO from Kentucky who sent her a private message on LinkedIn to say he liked her profile picture. Or the message request on her Instagram account from a man in Italy who she has never met but thinks she should join his modeling agency. People float up from the ether all the time, only to disappear again. It is nothing to worry about, or take personally. Everybody lives their life online, in full view of strangers.
So why does she flip her phone over and bury her head in her hands? Why does the message follow her for the rest of the day, as if it is ink imprinted on her skin?
In the middle of the night, she wakes up groggy and panicked to the repetitive pinging of new messages coming through on her phone, one after the other. Every text is in response to something she allegedly said two nights ago. And the content of the messages hits far too close to home. It could be a misunderstanding, but Freya is afraid it’s a cruel joke, played by someone who knows about the prank, someone who is intent on getting her back.
Chapter 8
Freya
Four years before
‘She’s running late.’
Freya looks up from the pamphlet she was reading into the open, fine-featured face of a young woman. She is around her age, with long, curly hair and a nose ring. She doesn’t look half as nervous as Freya is.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The finance director. She’s stuck in a meeting off campus. But they’ve told us to wait here for her.’
‘Oh . . . thanks.’ Freya turns back to her pamphlet, which lists all the amazing qualities of her college. Not that she needs a reminder, as she’s been coming here for a year. But her money’s run out faster than expected and she’s going to need some help to stay.
A pause. ‘I’m Jasmin.’
‘Freya—’
‘You’re another financial aid student, right?’
Freya plays nervously with a loose strand of thread on her shirt. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Not really, don’t worry! But I pride myself on having a talent for reading people. I’m on a scholarship for psychology. Well, partial scholarship.’ She leans back and looks at her, smiling. ‘So what’s your story?’
‘Uh, I’ve been studying computer science for a year. I didn’t qualify for a scholarship when I joined here, but I’m hoping my marks will speak for themselves now.’ Eighty percent for data structure and algorithms. Ninety-five percent for computer architecture. Top of the class for everything. It was a good innings, but would it be good enough? A degree from this university has the power to change her life.
There is something in Jasmin’s eyes that makes Freya want to talk, and unwrap every fear, laying them on the table between them. It’s no wonder she is training to be a psychologist. As she tells Jasmin her story, she feels her body relax and her breathing slows down. Sharing her burden with someone who understood has made everything feel OK again.
‘Well, I think that you’ll get the scholarship,’ Jasmin says, her voice sure.
‘You can’t know that.’
‘You work hard, Freya. This matters to you. And I believe good things happen to the people who deserve them.’
An optimist, of course. That’s why she has that serene glow to her.
A tall, formidable woman strides in. ‘Sorry I’m late, ladies. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
Freya sits on her shaking hands, and runs through her motivation one last time in her mind. This is either the end of the road, or the very beginning.
‘Don’t worry,’ says Jasmin. ‘You got this. And when your appointment is done, I’ll be waiting outside for you. We’ll go get the two-for-one burger special at the diner down the road, get to know each other and become great friends, you’ll see!’
Freya smiles weakly. That sounds nice, more than nice. It sounds like a life she’s not sure she deserves.
Chapter 9
Freya
Three months before the murder
Freya squints as she pulls a needle and thread over and over through the bright ruby fabric before her. The warm glow of sunrise both deepens the color and makes it difficult to get the stitching just right.
Her best friend, Kate, walks into the living room, rubbing her eyes. ‘Freya, it’s barely 6 a.m. What are you doing up? You know you’ve just started your dream job, right? It’s OK if your hobbies take a backseat.’
She looks up briefly from her work. ‘Sewing is more than a hobby to me. Coding crowds my mind with ideas. Sewing clears it.’ Stitch by stitch, she is adjusting, growing, understanding who she is in this new life.
Jasmin and Hattie stumble through, clutching coffees. Freya smiles at the incongruous picture of her three roommates standing next to one another. Kate is strong and sharp, Jasmin gentle and willowy and Hattie unabashedly sexy in her every gesture. Their friendship doesn’t make sense, but it has fueled Freya for over four years. This is her family.
‘Maybe you’ll meet someone.’ Hattie winks. ‘It must be a few months since your last boyfriend.’
Jasmin gives her a shove. ‘Don’t listen to her, Freya. It’s inspiring that you have so many talents.’
‘Exactly,’ Freya says. ‘Besides, Hattie, sewing my own clothing and wearing vintage is a radical act in a world of throwaway fast fashion. I’m too busy changing the world right now for a new boyfriend.’
‘Well, isn’t that a mouthful,’ Kate laughs.
Freya bites her lip. She is not quite telling the truth. While she is all big talk in front of her friends, she actually wishes she had someone closer to share this particular life stage with, someone whose arms she could fold into and sleep, safe in the knowledge that her good fortune won’t be taken away.
‘How is the new job, anyway?’ asks Kate.
‘Better. Three days in and I’m starting to figure out where everything is, at least. I just can’t wait to get stuck into more work.’
Jasmin gives her a hug. ‘Good for you. Fight that urge to pick at your life and find something wrong with it. You have worked hard for this moment, and you deserve all the happiness it brings.’
‘We know you,’ says Hattie. ‘You can never just relax, you’re always looking for the catch. There’s no catch this time. Life
is simply good.’
Freya nods, but doesn’t voice her disagreement. It is natural to feel nervous during the first few days of a new job, especially one with stakes as high as these. This is her dream – if she loses it, she will have failed herself, and shattered her own aspirations. But maybe the girls have a point, perhaps she just needs to be a bit gentler with herself. She is crossing the strange no man’s land between her old and new life after all.
A reminder pops up on her phone.
‘Dammit! I forgot I have an 8 a.m. meeting. I better get in the shower – stat.’
‘Good luck!’ her friends shout behind her, ‘And remember to enjoy yourself!’
*
Freya bustles into the office and grabs her new tablet out its box. It’s time for her first meeting.
There is an excited hum in the air as clusters of developers, marketers and strategists crowd together, passing trays of gluten-free donuts and talking among themselves. Everything is new, fresh, expensive. She pulls her sleeve over her scuffed vintage watch. Freya wonders who her friends will be, and what projects they will work on together, but for now she sits alone. She taps the tablet in front of her randomly, trying to look busy.
Julian struts in, hair pushed back, adrenaline pumping through his veins. ‘OK, OK, order everybody! Before we begin I’d like to formally welcome our newest recruit – Freya Matthews. I have never felt so nervous about getting someone to sign a contract with us. This woman is the real deal.’
Freya looks into the sea of welcoming faces. This moment of belonging among kindred spirits is something she has always longed for. These people really see her. If the young student version of her could see this now, she would break down in tears.
A young man sits towards the back of the room. His posture catches her eye at first. While everyone leans forward, drinking in each word Julian says, he leans far back in his chair, surveying the room with a wry grin. He doesn’t possess the overly groomed sheen common to most executives. Instead, he’s a bit rough around the edges. Mussed-up dark hair, crooked teeth, a fraying leather jacket rolled up enough to expose muscular forearms. The only clue to his tech cred is the latest Apple Watch on his wrist. His brown eyes meet hers and don’t look away.
The Pact Page 3
