Strike Me Down - Mindy Mejia Page 0,62
And now, nearly a full day later, nothing. No money. No Nora. Her analysts assured me they were working through the holiday and would update me “as soon as we have verifiable information to impart,” but Nora herself hadn’t been back to Strike since she’d left me standing in Logan’s old apartment—aroused, empty-handed, and alone. She’d been at the hospital, at the bedside of her near-dead partner. The shadows were creeping closer, covering the tournament itself. We couldn’t afford bad publicity or questions, not when we’d already stretched ourselves to the breaking point. Strike Down had to be perfect. It had to—
“Let’s get this over with. I’ve got fifteen million signatures waiting to cramp the shit out of my hand.”
Everyone at the window turned as Logan walked into the room. She wore gym clothes, an artfully cross-ripped tank top with shimmering leggings and high-tops that she stacked on top of the table, leaning back and gazing expectantly at us over the dark slash of her mouth. I took it in—the lipstick, the celebrity-gone-grocery-shopping outfit, the oiled biceps ready to angle into a thousand Instagram stories—as I moved to the opposite end of the room and gestured for everyone else to sit.
“Sara?”
Nodding mutely, Sara booted up the projector, but the Events Coordinator held up her hands and seemed to be taking a quick attendance. “Wait. Who’s at the office?”
“The trainers are running the show at the gym today for all the sample intro classes.”
“No, I mean with the accounting people and their creepy computer. Are they all with Darryl?”
Everyone looked at me and I cleared my throat. “The Parrish team found something yesterday that could lead to the bulk of the money.”
The room erupted in exclamations and questions. They all wanted to know details, whether it was oversight or deliberate, if someone had purposely sabotaged our company, and I found myself channeling Nora’s calm and caution.
“There’s still work to do and they can’t divulge much until the investigation is complete. It’s a good sign, I agree, and I’ll update everyone as soon as I know more,” I said, looking at Logan, where a small smile lay like a gauntlet on her face.
After the room settled down again, we reviewed yesterday’s data. Attendance. Sales by category, time, and location. Social assets and feedback. Logan’s face smoothed over until any trace of emotion had submerged under a gleaming, immaculate mask. Although her feet remained propped on the table, she watched the screen as attentively as a summer intern, occasionally interrupting to clarify a point and once to ask the exact follow-up question I was going to address.
She’d displayed a caricature of herself these last two days, brighter and filed down at the edges, as if doing a softball impression of the persona we’d created together. I wasn’t an idiot. The woman who’d threatened to kill me on our balcony, who’d walked over broken glass rather than spend another minute in my company, was here in this room. She was waiting to make her move, and I couldn’t risk a single blink.
“vStrike is a runaway hit.” Logan interrupted the presentation again. “It looks like we’ve got Chris Pine trapped in those boxes.”
C.J. grinned. “I’d want a different kind of virtual encounter with Chris Pine.”
“New division!” Logan banged on the table and everyone laughed. She leaned over her legs, stretching out her tendons before rising to survey the stadium floor.
The Events Director covered the rest of the updates and then glanced in my direction before moving on to her last point.
“There were no incidents around the stadium last night and we’ve got increased security again today, including three dedicated squads to direct traffic.” The mood in the room changed, and there was a moment of silence before Logan spoke. She didn’t turn, but asked the question while facing the exhibition with her hands on her hips and legs braced wide.
“What about the man?”
“The last we heard he hadn’t woken up yet,” C.J. replied.
“And the investigation?”
“They still haven’t found the driver, as far as we know.”
“There was no footage, no security cameras?” Logan fired each question without pause, still facing away from the room, showing us only the perfect arc of her trapezius.
“I—I don’t know, Logan.” For the first time all morning, the Events Director faltered, checking her phone as if a notification holding all the answers might have popped up. She glanced around the table, eyes falling on C.J., who cut in.
“We aren’t given that level of information from the police, but it’s not like