CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EVAN
“WE HAVE A PROBLEM.”
I look up. Callie is standing in my doorway.
“Good morning, Callie.”
“Good morning. We have a problem.”
She enters without my asking. She closes the door, then looks around like a spy before saying something nefarious.
“It’s Rebecca.”
“What about her?”
“Don’t be mad.”
I take that in. Nobody says “Don’t be mad” unless there’s something worth being mad about.
“Promise me you won’t be mad,” she says.
“What’s going on, Callie?”
Sensing that she’s not going to get a pat assurance against anger, she pauses. Then she says, “I set someone to monitor Rebecca’s LiveLyfe activities.”
“You friended her.”
Callie shakes her head. It’s sheepish, almost. “All of her activity.”
My skin prickles. “You mean her messages.”
“Don’t be mad.”
“Why do you keep asking me not to be mad?”
“Because I don’t want you to be mad. I know you wanted to give her space. But it’s a good thing that—”
I take a breath. I fold my hands. “Now, what made you think I wanted you and everyone else to give her space? Was it because I told everyone to give her space?”
“Evan—”
“Was it because I told you how important it was that we let her do her work?”
“If you’ll just—”
“Silly of me to think we had an agreement. What with you agreeing to do as I asked, and all.”
“There’s too much at stake, Evan. You don’t see it. You never see it. You only ever see the bright side of things. But—”
“Terrible thing, for someone to see the bright side. To see how life might work out instead of falling into tragedy.”
“She’s out there blabbing to her friends about our people! She told some guy about a bunch of our employees, right down to their sad life stories!”
My mouth was open for rebuttal, but that stops me. “What sad stories?”
Callie puts her hands flat on my desk, sitting and taking slow breaths. It’s her resetting gesture, preparing to articulate now that she has my attention. I know she’s putting her facts into order, preparing to go back and explain.
“She got a LiveLyfe message from one of her friends. Or, I guess, not a friend. A guy who is threatening to sue over her little penis website.”
“From Steve?”
She nods. “He knows she’s working with LiveLyfe. Some of the things he said in their exchange make that clear — as well as making it clear that he thinks she has a boyfriend here.” Callie looks at me meaningfully.
“I don’t see why this justifies violating her privacy. And my request.”
“He obviously knows how to push her buttons. I reviewed the exchange when Jennifer brought it to me, and I found myself thinking, ‘Don’t reply, Rebecca! He’s just trying to get you!’ But she rises to the taunt, every time. And he kept poking. About LiveLyfe, about you. Well, not you specifically; I don’t think he knows who the guy is. But he’d say things to get a rise out of her, and he’d get it every time. Soon it was an all-out flame war.”
“And she was talking about employees? Why?”
Callie nods. “That’s what she’s doing, I guess. Her secret project is some behind-the-scenes thing. And Evan, I told you, we can’t afford—”
I raise a hand. I know we can’t afford a LiveLyfe exposé, even if it’s positive. I guard my privacy like a bank vault and LiveLyfe like a lioness. We’re not a public company. Our business is our damn business, and I don’t want her telling it to the world. But I don’t particularly want to be lectured right now.
“Don’t tell me what we can’t afford, Callie. Just get to the point.”
“He said we ran a sweatshop, full of union issues and unfair labor practices. It’s clear he’s talking out his ass; we don’t even have unionized employees. But oh boy, did she respond. She gave him a long list of why LiveLyfe is awesome and has great employees who love the company. It’d be flattering if it weren’t so dangerous, and a sign that I was right to watch her all along.”
Callie is right. Telling some asshole that LiveLyfe’s employees are great isn’t bad in itself, but who knows what else she’s spilling?
“Which employees? Executives?” I shrug. “You?”
Callie shakes her head. “Rank and file folks. A custodian named Paul James. Remember that rep in the wheelchair? The guy who lost both legs to an IED in Iraq?”
I feel the blood leave my face.
“Who else?”
She thinks. “Lila … Lila Sky?”
“Layla Sky,” I correct.
“You know her?”
I shake the question away. Not even Callie knows about Project Angel, and I don’t feel like telling her. It’s my money I’m giving these people, not LiveLyfe’s. It’s nobody’s business but mine and theirs.
I sigh. I hate that I’m not shoving this issue away, but Callie was right to bring it to me. She was right, apparently, to set someone to snoop on Rebecca after I ordered her free rein. Callie says she likes Rebecca; but in the same breath, she’ll say that the woman’s a loose cannon and a loudmouth. Given what she’s telling me now, that’s hard to argue. Rebecca told Steve the intimate personal details of our employees, and Steve has an even bigger mouth. Who knows what else she’s saying — telling her followers, perhaps, the color of my underwear.
It doesn’t matter that she’s defending LiveLyfe. This has to stop. Now. Or we’ll be the ones risking a lawsuit — not from Project Angel’s recipients, but a class-action lawsuit about LiveLyfe’s privacy in general. It won’t matter if we’re proven innocent; we’ll be crippled by the publicity, legal expense, and investment of time. If the wrong information spreads like it could, we’ll be in some serious shit indeed.
Callie tells me the rest. Everything that happened in her long, drawn-out, hard-to-read flame war with Steve. Then finished, she awaits my response. For me to tell her that she was wrong to pry.
But right is right. And problems are problems.
For a long time, I say nothing.
“We have to cut her off,” Callie says. “And talk to her.”
“You mean that I have to talk to her, don’t you?”
Callie nods, her face full of regrets, aware only of the unpleasant truth.