Page 2 of Bought

I try to meet his gaze. He’s never seen me before, has more data to process. I see pictures of him all the time. It’s impossible to work in this industry and not know who he is, even though he keeps a relatively low profile. He has hard, angular cheekbones, eyes that are naturally narrowed. His nose is pronounced, but not unattractive, and he has a strong chin and jaw. A handsome face. He could be a model. But he doesn’t need to be. He could look like a bridge troll for all it matters.

I felt underdressed compared with the secretary. I now feel like I’ve wandered in wearing my pajamas. He’s wearing a suit. I’m guessing it’s probably very expensive, judging by the way it fits his body.

I am very, very close to losing my nerve.

Coming here is probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. But I have to do it. It’s the right thing to do. There’s always the chance he isn’t aware of what’s going on beneath his nose. Could be some rogue element in his company. If it is, he will appreciate what I have to tell him.

“So,” he says. “Your messages were very urgent. I hope you have the evidence to back them up.”

“Uhm, yes.” I fumble with my laptop, and open it on the corner of a desk bigger than a bath. I have it set up to run right away, so immediately a block of code appears, gleaming white on black. The screen is a bit dirty, I realize, never really noticed in my dusty little apartment.

He stands a few feet away, his arms folded over his chest. I find it almost impossible to keep calm as I start to speak. I hate giving presentations, and that’s what this feels like. Ethan Keller has the same effect on me as a crowd of a million might. My palms are sweating and my voice shakes as I start to lay out what I’ve found.

“Uhm. So. Okay. Well, I, uhm. Found something when I was working on an app using the Vipyr framework.”

“Mhm.” He waits patiently.

“It’s, uh… in the code… It, uh… well… it looks like it’s doing a few things it shouldn’t do. Like, uhm, well, it seems to be scraping personal data, and then using that data in concert with data collected from other users to create profiles that can indicate preferences a user hasn’t directly expressed. Like… uh…”

“You’re describing advertising,” he says dryly.

“Well, uh, yeah, I mean, yes,” I stammer. “But this is on a whole other level. This is, uhm… more like mind reading. Deducting qualities of a consumer based on a vast array of data points…” I find myself talking more quickly. What I’m describing is wrong, but it’s also pretty impressive.

“We call it deep penetration.”

I blush even though I really don’t want to. He said those words that way on purpose. He’s trying to throw me off.

“Oh, so you know about this?”

This is the million dollar question. And I already know the answer. I can see it written on his face. It’s in his complete lack of surprise. I thoroughly expect to be thrown out of his office at any moment. In the silence that follows, I start talking again.

“Well, because, if you didn’t know, it’s uh, illegal, and even if it’s not illegal, it’s wrong. People don’t know what they’re giving away when they use apps built on this framework.”

“I believe it’s all laid out in the terms and conditions,” he says calmly. Too fucking calmly.Why am I here?The question suddenly pops into my head. He knew why I was coming to talk to him. I hinted fairly heavily in the email I sent him. I figured his invitation meant he didn’t know, but now that just seems stupid on my part.

I never realized how much like a shark he looks in person. Those eyes. They’re frighteningly magnetic. Still waters run deep, and when I look into his gaze, I feel as though I’m at risk of falling into a void I might never return from.

He’s handsome, there’s no doubt about it. But he’s handsome in a way that should scare anyone with a soul.

“So,” he says in that husky purring rumble of his. “What you’re saying is you’ve discovered a function of the code, which you believe gives me the power to potentially manipulate millions of people. And you’ve come to me in the hopes of…” He spreads his large hands in an elegant questioning gesture, palms up.

Right here is the futility of my entire premise.

“Asking you to stop?”

He laughs. He laughs in my face, an amused, dark, borderline mocking laugh that makes me blush with shame.

“So you believe, Callie…” His laughter fades.

“Casey,” I correct him.

“Sorry, Casey, of course,” he smirks, not sorry at all. “So, Casey. You believe that you have uncovered something with the kind of power to influence everything from the washing powder people buy, to the candidates they vote for… and you think… that…” His cheek quirks a little, and I suddenly realize that all along he’s been trying not to laugh at me. “And you think you can ask me to stop using it and I will?”

“Well.” I clear my throat. “I mean, when you put it that way it sounds…”

“You are dangerously naive,” he says, his features becoming composed once more. “I thought you would at least be here to extort some kind of profit. If the technology you are describing does in fact exist, it would be worth billions of dollars. And you come in here…” He runs his eyes over me and I feel the judgment of me, my clothing, my presentation. I’m an engineer, not a model. He’s used to women in designer clothing. Does he even know what a chain store is?

“You come here,” he continues. “And you ask me just… to stop.” The muscle in his jaw is twitching again. I get the sense that when he tells this story later he will not be so restrained in the way he shares it.

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