A Thousand Pieces of You
Page 65
Theo has a badge on his license plate that allows us to drive through the security gate at the boundary of their grounds. The grass seems to have been manicured to a uniform length, like on a golf course. Long rows of oleander bushes line the straight, smooth path into Triad’s parking lot.
“C’mon,” Theo says. He’s grinning, like this is no big deal. Probably he’s psyched just to get a look at the place. “Let’s get you a guest pass.”
I fall into step at his side, but I can’t help staring upward at the sheer enormity of the building as we walk toward the entrance. The sunlight reflects so brilliantly from the glass that it’s hard to focus on it for long.
If Paul is right—if Triad’s plots go beyond Mom and Dad’s worst fears—I’m walking straight into the lion’s den.
The glass doors part for us as we walk into a lobby even more dazzling than the building’s exterior. While Theo flirts with the female security guard to hurry along my pass, I indulge the impulse to stare. This space would be spectacular no matter what, but it’s sort of surreal to have it all to ourselves, my footsteps echoing slightly in the silence. The lobby ceiling is at least ten stories high, lined with view-screens showing different demos of Triad products both real and theoretical. Always, at least one of the screens is glowing Triad’s trademark emerald green, with white letters spelling out the corporate motto: “Everyplace, Everytime, Everyone.”
A tug at the hem of my cardigan makes me look around to see that Theo has clipped my security pass right there, at my hip. He winks at me. “Relax. Remember—no matter how impressive all this looks, your parents are still the biggest thing that ever happened to this place.”
Hardly. This is the house that Wyatt Conley built, and everyone knows it. Still, Theo’s smile helps quiet the butterflies in my stomach. With him, I feel safer.
He holds out his hand. It’s a casual gesture, or he wants it to seem that way—but I can tell he’s nervous. Last night’s kiss flickers through me, a reminder of everything I feel for Theo, and everything I don’t. We can’t meet each other’s eyes.
But I take Theo’s hand.
Of course this building also has those awful glass elevators. We step inside, and Theo says, “Lab Eleven.”
“Certainly, Mr. Beck,” the elevator replies. Okay, that computer is maybe a bit too smart. Smoothly it lifts us through the lobby, viewscreens shining brilliantly all around us.
“We ought to have the place pretty much to ourselves,” Theo says. His thumb brushes across my knuckles. “Jordyn at the security desk says only five other people have signed in all day.”
Just as he says it, though, the elevator gently glides to a stop at a floor I can tell isn’t our destination, from the way Theo frowns. The doors open—and Wyatt Conley steps inside.
Wyatt Conley. Himself. Yes, he’s the founder and CEO of Triad, which means obviously he’d show up at headquarters sometimes, but actually running into him in the elevator . . . it’s like taking the Universal Studios tour only to be personally greeted by Leonardo DiCaprio.
Except how it’s not like that at all, because I’m beginning to believe this might be the man responsible for my father’s death.
“Theo.” Conley says that name so easily you could imagine he doesn’t have a couple thousand employees, and that it isn’t kind of weird that he apparently knows every single one of their names. “Are you here to work or to show off for your girlfriend? I wouldn’t blame you if it were the latter.”
“This isn’t—I mean, this is Marguerite Caine.” Theo’s hand tightens slightly around mine. “Dr. Kovalenka and Professor Caine’s daughter.”
Conley’s smile widens. “Well, well, well. About time I met you.”
Technically we met back in London, if my running onstage during his presentation counts as “met.” But that was a different universe’s version of Wyatt Conley. This one dresses pretty much the same, though: careless rich, faux casual, more like a kid than a tycoon. He seems . . . not homicidal. Whatever that is. I mean, Conley definitely seems to be full of himself, but what do you expect from a thirty-year-old internet mogul?
“Pleased to meet you,” I lie, hoping Conley believes I’m being awkward only because it’s soooo awesome to meet someone famous.
Apparently Theo thinks I’m being awkward, period, because he quickly says, “Thought Marguerite ought to have a chance to look around.”
“Absolutely.” Conley’s smile is so easy, so natural, that despite everything, I could believe he’s actually being sincere—at least, at the moment. “I see the resemblance to Dr. Kovalenka. Your parents are remarkable people, Marguerite. You should be proud of them.”
“Yeah, I am.” And I don’t need you to remind me.
The elevator glides to a stop on the tenth floor. Theo leads me out, but Conley comes with us; either he was headed this way to start with, or he has way too much time on his hands. Even though Theo must be unnerved too, he acts like it’s completely normal for Conley to tag along. Our path takes us along a corridor with one glass wall looking down on the lobby below, so the brilliant colors from the screens shine through. Conley grins as he says, “The daughter of two geniuses. Who knows what we might expect out of you one day?”
“I’m not one of the family geniuses,” I say hastily. “At all.”
“C’mon,” Theo says. He’s grinning, like this is no big deal. Probably he’s psyched just to get a look at the place. “Let’s get you a guest pass.”
I fall into step at his side, but I can’t help staring upward at the sheer enormity of the building as we walk toward the entrance. The sunlight reflects so brilliantly from the glass that it’s hard to focus on it for long.
If Paul is right—if Triad’s plots go beyond Mom and Dad’s worst fears—I’m walking straight into the lion’s den.
The glass doors part for us as we walk into a lobby even more dazzling than the building’s exterior. While Theo flirts with the female security guard to hurry along my pass, I indulge the impulse to stare. This space would be spectacular no matter what, but it’s sort of surreal to have it all to ourselves, my footsteps echoing slightly in the silence. The lobby ceiling is at least ten stories high, lined with view-screens showing different demos of Triad products both real and theoretical. Always, at least one of the screens is glowing Triad’s trademark emerald green, with white letters spelling out the corporate motto: “Everyplace, Everytime, Everyone.”
A tug at the hem of my cardigan makes me look around to see that Theo has clipped my security pass right there, at my hip. He winks at me. “Relax. Remember—no matter how impressive all this looks, your parents are still the biggest thing that ever happened to this place.”
Hardly. This is the house that Wyatt Conley built, and everyone knows it. Still, Theo’s smile helps quiet the butterflies in my stomach. With him, I feel safer.
He holds out his hand. It’s a casual gesture, or he wants it to seem that way—but I can tell he’s nervous. Last night’s kiss flickers through me, a reminder of everything I feel for Theo, and everything I don’t. We can’t meet each other’s eyes.
But I take Theo’s hand.
Of course this building also has those awful glass elevators. We step inside, and Theo says, “Lab Eleven.”
“Certainly, Mr. Beck,” the elevator replies. Okay, that computer is maybe a bit too smart. Smoothly it lifts us through the lobby, viewscreens shining brilliantly all around us.
“We ought to have the place pretty much to ourselves,” Theo says. His thumb brushes across my knuckles. “Jordyn at the security desk says only five other people have signed in all day.”
Just as he says it, though, the elevator gently glides to a stop at a floor I can tell isn’t our destination, from the way Theo frowns. The doors open—and Wyatt Conley steps inside.
Wyatt Conley. Himself. Yes, he’s the founder and CEO of Triad, which means obviously he’d show up at headquarters sometimes, but actually running into him in the elevator . . . it’s like taking the Universal Studios tour only to be personally greeted by Leonardo DiCaprio.
Except how it’s not like that at all, because I’m beginning to believe this might be the man responsible for my father’s death.
“Theo.” Conley says that name so easily you could imagine he doesn’t have a couple thousand employees, and that it isn’t kind of weird that he apparently knows every single one of their names. “Are you here to work or to show off for your girlfriend? I wouldn’t blame you if it were the latter.”
“This isn’t—I mean, this is Marguerite Caine.” Theo’s hand tightens slightly around mine. “Dr. Kovalenka and Professor Caine’s daughter.”
Conley’s smile widens. “Well, well, well. About time I met you.”
Technically we met back in London, if my running onstage during his presentation counts as “met.” But that was a different universe’s version of Wyatt Conley. This one dresses pretty much the same, though: careless rich, faux casual, more like a kid than a tycoon. He seems . . . not homicidal. Whatever that is. I mean, Conley definitely seems to be full of himself, but what do you expect from a thirty-year-old internet mogul?
“Pleased to meet you,” I lie, hoping Conley believes I’m being awkward only because it’s soooo awesome to meet someone famous.
Apparently Theo thinks I’m being awkward, period, because he quickly says, “Thought Marguerite ought to have a chance to look around.”
“Absolutely.” Conley’s smile is so easy, so natural, that despite everything, I could believe he’s actually being sincere—at least, at the moment. “I see the resemblance to Dr. Kovalenka. Your parents are remarkable people, Marguerite. You should be proud of them.”
“Yeah, I am.” And I don’t need you to remind me.
The elevator glides to a stop on the tenth floor. Theo leads me out, but Conley comes with us; either he was headed this way to start with, or he has way too much time on his hands. Even though Theo must be unnerved too, he acts like it’s completely normal for Conley to tag along. Our path takes us along a corridor with one glass wall looking down on the lobby below, so the brilliant colors from the screens shine through. Conley grins as he says, “The daughter of two geniuses. Who knows what we might expect out of you one day?”
“I’m not one of the family geniuses,” I say hastily. “At all.”
