Page 8 of Man of the Year

Our place is a tiny two-bedroom on the ground floor of a three-story brick row house. If it were me, this place would be pristine. But Cara is a costume designer. Every space in our apartment is occupied with fabric swatches, garments, and sequin strips. A pincushion model and a tailor’s dummy stand in one corner, a mannequin in another. Cara is talented, but I wish she didn’t have so many side hustles that make our apartment look like a dressing room for a burlesque show.

A scratching noise draws my attention to the cage sitting in the corner.

“Ugh, Trixy.” I rise with a sigh and walk to the kitchen to grab a piece of lettuce and zucchini. We get the battered veggies for free from a small grocery store around the corner, just for Trixy.

Trixy is our pet rat. Smart, feisty, and honestly, quite useless, but I love her to death. She’s entertaining to watch. The cage door lock broke some time ago, so now we have a treasure box holding it closed.

I feed Trixy, then hurry back to the computer.

“Geoffrey Rosenberg,” I whisper as I search the internet.

There are dozens of articles about him, most only in connection with his venture, as well as several pictures of him from conferences and interviews with bloggers. All his social media accounts post strictly business info.

I spend two hours reading anything I find about the mysterious millionaire. I make myself instant noodles and absent-mindedly eat them as I scroll the internet.

There’s very little info about Rosenberg’s school and college years. He was raised by a single mom in Vermont. She passed away when he was a freshman in college. He dropped out, started exploring the digital currency world, and recently took the financial world by storm.

Someone on an online crypto forum thread posted a picture of him from his college years.

“Well, hello,” I murmur as I study the twenty-year-old Geoffrey Rosenberg. He’s come a long way from the skinny, unremarkable redhead he used to be.

But Rosenberg’s past is not of much interest to me. His present is.

Trixy starts loudly rattling the cage. She does that often. I think she’s bipolar.

Cara jokes, “She’s just like us back home. Trying to break out of the cage. Maybe, one day we’ll set her free.”

I close my eyes and hold my breath, feeling the tears coming on.

Cara, Lindsey, and me. We were so young when we moved to New York City. We tried so hard to make it big, to forget the gloomy little life we had in a small town in the crack of nowhere.

Cara has always been a troublemaker. Lindsey was the smartest of us three. A straight-A student in school. A full-ride college scholarship, unlike the low-income financial aid that Cara and I got. Unfortunately, terminal cancer has no regard for merits or lifetime goals.

Lindsey never made it to her twenty-third birthday.

I’d never been to a funeral until the day we buried Lindsey, back in our hometown, where the few people present glared at Cara and me as if we had stolen her away. Before leaving the cemetery, Lindsey’s father paused in front of Cara and me and said angrily, “That city killed her.”

Tears burn my eyes. Trixy goes still in her cage, as if feeling my sadness.

I can’t lose Cara, too. I don’t want to bethe only one. The only one to be alive. The only one to “take the world by storm,” as we pledged nine years ago, driving the beat-up Toyota across the States on our way to the Big Apple. God, we were so naive.

I might be naive right now, but I need to figure out why Rosenberg did what he did to Cara. I need closure. I want revenge for Cara. That means I have to get to Rosenberg.

I pick up my phone and dial the handsome stranger, Nick. My call goes straight to his voicemail, so I send a text instead.

Me: Any update on the potential job for me? Thank you again for doing this. Hope to hear from you soon.

Nick responds in two minutes.

Nick: I’ll let you know soon.

My optimistic mood deflates. “Soon” can’t come soon enough, so I start cleaning the living room, moving Cara’s current projects to her bedroom that barely has space. Even Lady Bunny and one of Alexander McQueen’s models’ poster on her bedroom wall have tchotchkes hanging around them.

When my phone dings with a text message notification, I dart toward it like a ninja.

Nick: Tomorrow. 9 a.m. You will meet with Julien, the house manager.

An address follows, near Alpine, a wealthy area in Jersey—no surprise.

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