Page 114 of Never Forget

“You give people too much credit. There’s got to be another reason.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t want any part of it. I just want to be done with it all.”

“You deserve recompense for the way you’ve been treated, Scott. You were an employee, and they abused you. The very nature of your relationship with Naz should never have been permitted. He had power over you, used it to get what he wanted from you, and then discarded you.”

“I know!” I yell, my patience shattering. “And if you don’t mind, I really don’t want to keep reliving it. I get it! He was manipulating me, lying to me, and using me. And it worked, okay? I was in love with him. I probably would have let him keep manipulating me for years, or however long it took him to get tired of me if you hadn’t stepped in. And I’m grateful, but no one is going to believe that I’m a victim of anything.” I pause and suck in a breath. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“I don’t want to be any part of any lies or batshit conspiracies, but I’d stand behind you if we could show proof of their professional misconduct.”

“That seems reasonable.”

“Promise me you won’t get me involved in Curtis’ smear campaign.”

“My business with him is done. You have my word.”

“Actually, we might need his help one more time, unless you have another computer genius on your payroll.”

“What exactly is your plan?”

I’m dressed in the same ridiculous running shorts I wore yesterday to meet Curtis Howard. I actually jogged here this time, so I’m wearing sneakers instead of flip-flops, but I’m not wearing a shirt at all, it’s tucked into my back pocket. I’m hoping that my lack of propriety and the obvious display of not being wired will make Francis overlook my choice of shoes.

The transmitter Sunni stuck to me yesterday is tucked inside the laces on top of my right sneaker. Cory said it should be strong enough to pick up our conversation as long as we aren’t in a particularly loud area. Of course, this is New York City, everywhere is a loud area.

Francis is cautious, but his overconfidence in himself makes him dumb. It didn’t take much to get him to confirm that he’s been working with Curtis Howard, and he’s already admitted to being responsible for the leaked recording, even if he hasn’t said how he did it. But he’s slimy. It’s going to take a lot more than some vague conversation to pin anything on him. I need concrete proof that he was involved in the bomb threat.

I’m determined to get him to spill the truth about whatever’s happening at the label, and find out just how much of the bullshit the band’s been dealing with over the last couple of years has been because of him.

Getting him to meet in person was harder, and I had to bluff my way through it. I told him I was out, because how can he expect me to trust him if he won’t even show me his face? I already know his name, so it felt squirrely to me that he refused to get his hands dirty.

After I told him the only way I’d agree to help him was if he was the one to retrieve the laptop, he compromised with me and suggested we meet in person, then go in together close to closing time when it’s less busy.

Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?

Hands on my hips, I turn in a circle and search the faces around me expectantly. Cory sent me a picture of Francis so I could confirm that’s who shows up, but when he approaches me, I almost overlook him completely. He’s an exceedingly average-looking guy. Maybe five-foot-ten, short auburn hair gelled and combed to the side, with a bit of a receding hairline. He’s pretty pale, with a few patches of red across the bridge of his nose and cheeks that suggest he got some extra sun recently. The crease between his brows and the accentuated frown lines place him at close to fifty years old. He’s wearing brand name but basic clothes, khaki pants and a light blue button-up, a pair of wire-frame glasses in the front pocket. His shoes are good quality but worn.

I don’t know why, but I was expecting him to look younger. At least he seems clean and doesn’t look like he might secrete something on me.

“Why are you so sweaty?” he asks by way of greeting.

“Are you… Francis?”

“In the flesh. Not what you were expecting?”

“Just making sure,” I say, holding out my hand to shake. “It’s nice to meet you in person, Francis.”

“Likewise,” he grimaces. Unlike his buddy Curtis, I don’t have to even try to squeeze too hard while pumping my arm a little too enthusiastically.

“Jesus, you’re like an overgrown labrador, aren’t you?” he asks, pulling his hand back and shaking it out. Rather than looking annoyed, he looks a little amused.

“I get a lot of happy endorphins when I work out,” I say.

“I’m assuming that’s also why you’re so sweaty?”

Smiling, I nod. “I thought it might help with that whole wire thing, because if I’m all wet, it would mess up a wire, right?” I know it doesn’t work that way but sometimes letting people underestimate you is beneficial. “Although, for the record, you came fully dressed. How do I know you’re not wearing a wire?” I ask, crossing my arms.

“If you’d like to pat me down, feel free. Although I’d prefer it if you at least dried your hands off first.”