Page 11 of The Refusal

I draw in a deep breath and say the first thing that pops into my head. “How’s things at home?”

“Oh, the usual. The roads are terrible, being retired is as dull as ditchwater, but on the plus side I got some freelance work from Northeastern Tech.”

“Oh yeah? Dad, that’s great.”

I close my eyes. My dad might have waded in for me, but he never does it for himself. He’s never pushed himself forward. He’s a brilliant engineer who worked a lowly job in a manufacturing company for thirty years. They treated him like shit, eventually compulsorily retiring him at fifty-five. They gave him a handshake and a pen for thirty years of unwavering service. Before I went to college to study computer science, he spent hours and hours bent over a bench with me soldering and making electronic circuits. I’ve been waiting all my life for him to get the recognition I think he deserves.

“I said I’d give them a hand in their lab.”

“They’re paying you though, right?”

“No, I volunteered to do it, Jo. I can’tchargethem.” His voice cracks and my stomach sinks. “They’re a publicly funded body. They need all the help they can get.”

I poke at a hole in my jeans. That right there is the trouble with my dad. He’s always thinking about the other person’s problem, and that would be great, lovely even, but he’s not exactly flush with money. He’s been on his own since my mom died, and I don’t remember a time when we weren’t owing money to someone. We always struggled. We maybe had a couple of vacations when I was young. He says he’s helping people out; I see all the bastards that take advantage of him. Sleepless at 3 a.m., I see the same fate for myself, the threads of my mom and dad running through me.

“Dad—”

He tuts at me in that way only parents can do. “Don’t start, Jo.” A deep sigh.

I bite it all back down. Change the subject.

“How are your hands?”

My dad has had some stiffness in the cold mornings over the last few years, and the doctors have warned it might be the start of arthritis. The idea that his hands might stop him doing the electronics he’s loved all his life makes my shoulders droop.

“Good, actually. You remember Joan?”

Joan lives over the road and I think she’s been sweet on my dad for a long time. Not that he’d notice. She takes him homemade muffins and feeds our old dog, Mitzi, on the rare occasion he’s away.

“She told me about this Pilates thing she goes to that’s helped with her arthritis. So I’m going to that with her. Ach, I think the hands are a bit better.”

The very idea of my dad doing an exercise class with Joan and her friends in their Lycra rolling around the floor makes me grin into my phone, and the tightness in my shoulders starts to loosen.

“You go for coffee with them afterward?”

“Sometimes,” he says, and I laugh out loud at this. My dad likes to talk about engineering, about how to solder a board. The Internet is his passion because people are generous with technical stuff online, and he’s learned to do and share more than he could ever have dreamed of. He’s the last person on earth I can imagine relaxing into the gossip of a coffee morning.

“Do you discuss politics?”

He harrumphs at this. “I don’t like your mocking tone, young lady.”

“At least put the world to rights?”

“Ailments. That’s what we talk about. How our bodies are giving out on us.”

7

Jo

Standing in the line for my morning espresso, my eyes land on the waving cat. This is good, right? Switching it up. Coffee from May’s. I’m not hoping to run into Janus. Nope, definitely not. Ugh. I can’t shake him out of my head: his long fingers wrapped around a coffee cup, thumb stroking the handle, the curl of his lip in a grimace, the soft dark hairs on his forearms. Somehow, the idea that he was a mess when he was younger just makes him all the more attractive. I was a mess, too. I’m still a mess.

Code. Code and networks. That’s what I should be thinking about: getting to the bottom of how the hackers got around his systems. From what Matt’s told me, their network defenses seem solid. And it’s complicated; so the hackers are good, and they know what weaknesses to look for. I need to add some extra security layers to fox even the ones who think they’re super smart. I should head out and visit some of his offices. Talk to people. As I raise my head, I catch a guy farther up the line watching me, and he winks. He’s tall, broad-shouldered and good-looking with short spiky blond hair and the kind of smile that makes women drop their panties. I grin back. Andy: former coworker, former partner in crime. I give a little wave and then gape at him as he steps out of line and heads toward me.

“You lost your place!” I gasp, but he grins at me. “That’s line heresy in my book,” I mutter darkly at him.

This gets me a laugh. “I saw a hot woman, what can I say?” He shrugs, and not for the first time I find myself admiring his clean-cut jawline and sharp suit. I’ve always got on with his dry sense of humor. If he wasn’t a complete womanizer, I might have been interested, but oh my God, the way he goes through women; he’s probably worse than Janus. Sourness coats my tongue. Why are all attractive men dicks where women are concerned?

“How’s Triton?” Triton Securities was my last proper job before my business became more than a side hustle.

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