Instagram Gemma is the Gemma I know. Sharp, funny. But my mind flashes back to her empty apartment. Why didn’t she tell me she was moving? Did Gemma have a secret?
What if her profile persona is nothing more than some smoothed-over decoy? How well did I know her?
I want to throw my phone across the room and burst into tears for the friend who came here chasing a new life. I saw her yesterday, and today she’s gone. It’s cruel and almost too unreal to stomach.
It takes effort to keep scrolling.
I’m about to give up when my eyes catch on a picture of her sitting in a window seat. She’s tucked into a bench seat as the light casts a glow over her features. The ornate carvings in the window molding—detailed flowers and vines sculpted into amber wood—suggest she’s somewhere with old-world opulence. A hotel maybe? Or a library?
The picture’s time stamp is a week old and underneath it the caption reads, “When he catches you in the perfect light…”
“He”? There was a guy? She never mentioned that.
I shake my head to clear my mind, reminding myself there’s always a perfectly good explanation for things. There’s always an answer. But I don’t have one. Not one I like anyway.
Because the only answer I can come up with is that Beau knows something about what happened to Gemma last night.
I need to talk to him. If he knows something, he’ll tell me. Because from the day we met, Beau’s always been honest with me.
Chapter 9
California
“I have seen the full spectrum of human morality today. I earned a drink,” I said to Gemma as I dropped onto the barstool in front of her with a dramatic sigh.
Gemma arched a brow, already reaching for a rocks glass from the rustic shelves behind her. “Long day in the temple of capitalism?”
I shoved my iPhone down the bar as far away from myself as my arm could stretch.
Me and that phone are on a break.
“Simon double-booked his meetings somehow, so I had to smooth that out by attempting to be in two places at once. James tried to take credit for a pitch deck I built. If I have to explain exponential growth curves to one more man who thinks he invented math, I’ll commit a felony.”
Gemma smirked as she poured me a vodka soda. “So…same as yesterday?”
A few times a week, I would finish out my workday on a barstool at Greenleaf and we’d trade war wounds. She saw Hollywood actors crying into their martinis and venture capitalists forgetting their wives’ names while I got a front-row seat for what happened when those same people tried to run companies.
Sometimes, I’d let her pour me a drink while I answered emails, but most of the time, I came for the noise. The crowd humming with real-life conversation instead of profit and lossassessments. I liked the way the chaos felt like being back in New Orleans, familiar and steadying.
Tonight, though, I was so tired I couldn’t bring myself to open my laptop.
“Distract me,” I pleaded. “How was the rugby club? Please tell me everything about your scrum-loving, oak tree of a future husband.”
Gemma’s love life was so known for its misfires and crash-outs even she found amusement in the casualties.
“Ick.” She recoiled at the memory. “It was a bust. I met this guy named Sebastian, and he spent the entire night talking to himself in the reflection behind my head. It was like performance art. But fear not…” She steepled her fingers. “I have something better than that. Remember last week when you were trying to run down Beau Walker’s whereabouts?”
She nodded toward the door, and as if on cue, a dozen guys poured in. Their type was instantly recognizable. Their wardrobes looked effortless—but that was part of the charade.
God forbid they be perceived as interested in something as superficial as clothes when they are busy running the world.
Every piece signaled stealth wealth. Their cashmere hoodies, thousand-dollar plain T-shirts, and designer sneakers that screamed “limited run” had all been curated by bougie stylists.
“That is the leadership team for InfoSynth,” Gemma said under her breath. “The whole pack of them is scary smart. Did you hear that last week their camp leaked news that they’re in the final stretch of a sale?” She scanned the raucous crowd. “The net worth of this room just went up by severalbilliondollars.”
They’re hereandthey’re shopping around a sale. Simon’s going to be thrilled.
A leak like that wasn’t idle gossip. It was a prod. InfoSynth hinting at a deal could only mean one thing: The holdout of the decade was finally ready to cash in, and best and final offers were due.
