Page 69 of Her Dark Salvation

What did you wear to the office today?

I’m still at the office.

What!

I lost track of time.

I’m sending someone to take you home.

Tyrant.

When it comes to your safety? Absolutely. Now, what are you wearing?

That red sweater you like.

Are you trying to torture me, woman?

You asked!

Cruel. Three more days. xo

I’d kicked off the simulation, unsure it would even complete. When I’d arrived at the office Thursday morning, my stomach turned over. It had completed all right.

I reached for my water bottle and drank, but it did nothing to combat the hit of adrenaline speeding my heartrate.

I’d hoped the results were an error on my part. A wrong parameter setting. A botched assumption. Something. Anything. But I’d double-checked my work and couldn’t find a mistake. And if there was one thing I knew, I knew my algorithms. The math and the modeling approach represented my life’s work. They were rock solid. So, I’d run the simulation again. And again.

Marco was right; someone was stealing from him. He’d told me multiple times he’d doubted it was the economy, and I realized then I’d never really believed him. I did now. The facts stared back at me as clear as the bright winter sky shining above the Commons. I sat back in my chair, looked out the window, and chewed the side of my fingernail.

Funny thing about the real world—events in the real world came with real consequences. Inside the confines of my old office, I’d churned over data sent in by a third party with whom I had no connection, no vested interest. My attachment to the results approached mild fascination at best.This might make a good paper. I was a distant observer, detached from the work and focused on one thing—publishing my next breakthrough in financial modeling.

But these results? These results had meaning. These results impacted lives. These results were personal.

Marco would be furious, and the pain of betrayal would fan his fiery anger into a blazing inferno. My heart broke for him, but I knew what I had to do. I slugged down more water and picked up my phone.

I have the preliminary modeling results.

Nothing over phone or email. I’ll send someone to pick you up.

I printed the report, grabbed my things, and headed downstairs to wait for my ride. The hurt and anger I was about to cause tied my stomach in knots. But I had wanted to experience the real world, and in the real world, results had consequences.

* * *

A manin a gray suit and tan trench coat leaned against the lamppost outside the entrance of Terme di Boston. I tried to ignore him, but his eyes were fixed on me; I felt his unrelenting stare as keenly as the bracing cold.

“Dr. Barone,” he said.

“Yes?” I narrowed my eyes, confused as to who he was and how he knew my name.

His dirty-blond hair shifted wildly under a gust of wind. He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a leather wallet, and flipped it open, holding it next to his face. The letters FBI blared a silent warning. My coat and gloves were suddenly too hot despite the winter wind.

“My name is Agent Johnson. Do you have a moment?” he asked and flipped the ID closed, filing it away in his suit jacket.

“I…” I swallowed, trying to jumpstart the connection between my brain and my mouth, but I’d gone full deer in the headlights. I stood there stunned and silent.

“You have quite the resume, Dr. Barone.”

My eyes darted to the entrance of Terme and one of Marco’s security guards. He watched us from behind sunglasses, his face impassive.

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