Only the wicked, p.1
Only the Wicked, page 1
part #1 of The Sinful State Series Series
Only the Wicked
The Sinful State Series
Isabel Jolie
To Emma—spread your wings and fly, my baby girl. May you have delightful and wicked adventures, but not too wicked. There’s time yet for that.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Bonus Epilogue
Afterword
Gratitude
Also by Isabel Jolie
About the Author
Pride is more than the first of the seven deadly sins; it is itself the essence of all sin.
– John Stott
* * *
There is a method in man’s wickedness; it grows up by degrees.
–Francis Beaumont
Prologue
The message jolted me at 3:47 a.m., cutting through the silence of my San Francisco penthouse like a serrated blade. I’d been awake anyway, staring at financial projections that made less sense with each passing hour, more determined than ever that we needed a new CFO.
* * *
This is Brandy Sussman from Congressman Mitchell’s office. The Congressman would like to schedule a meeting with you regarding ARGUS and an upcoming Senate Intelligence Committee hearing on surveillance technologies. ARGUS has been identified as a priority review target. Please respond with your availability.
* * *
My blood chilled. Miles, my partner, told me he’d shut this down. Priority review target. In Washington-speak, they’re coming for us.
I set the phone down with hands that weren’t quite steady and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay. In the reflection, I caught sight of myself: rumpled hair, two days of stubble, dark circles under eyes that had seen too much in forty-one years. I looked like what I was—a man whose creation was about to be dissected by politicians who didn’t understand the first thing about technology or privacy.
This was exactly what I’d feared when I built ARGUS. The moment when government decided that private innovation was too dangerous to remain private.
My phone buzzed again with a text—this time from Alex, my CFO. Given the time, I could only assume that he, like this early bird congressional assistant, was on the East Coast. Another in his latest series of increasingly urgent messages about taking the company public.
* * *
Rhodes, Jonathan from Capital Partners met with Lehman yesterday. They’re talking about forcing an IPO whether you agree or not. We need that capital for infrastructure, and they want their return. Call me.
* * *
I deleted Alex’s message without responding. Going public now, with Congress circling like vultures, would be corporate suicide. But staying private meant fighting both political pressure and investor revolt simultaneously.
Dictating a message to Miles, my co-founder, it was all I could do not to call him and wake his ass.
* * *
You told me the congressional investigation was handled. It’s not. Combined with the investor pressure...this isn’t good, Miles.
* * *
I checked it and hit send.
Seconds later, the phone rang, the subtle electronic pulse ring tone amplified in the early morning silence.
“Why are you awake?” He sounded half-asleep.
“It’s happening—”
“No, it’s not. I told you, it’s handled, and it is.”
I rubbed my palm over my face, over my burning eyes. I could have fought Miles, but he’d only tell me the congressman should be ignored and reiterate it was handled.
“We need to discuss the CFO situation. It’s time we bring in someone with more experience.”
“Wait. What? I’m getting whiplash here.”
“It’s called running a business.” Miles frustrated the hell out of me. The laid-back, friendly bullshit worked for investors and clients, and back in college it was mildly fun, but I needed him to keep up. “You told me the hearing is handled, I’m moving on. Let’s talk about Alex.”
“At three in the morning? Jesus. You need to get some sleep.”
“Alex needs to be controlled. He’s not aligned with us. He’s pushing the investors to push us. Going behind our backs.”
“Wait a minute. Rhodes. Come on. The paranoia is beating you, man. He’s not going behind our backs. This is Alex. Our friend. Get some sleep.”
“I’m not paranoid. We brought Alex on back in the garage days. He doesn’t have the skill set. He’s relying on old plays that he learned in B-school. We need someone with a different approach. Someone who gets our game plan.”
“He just had his third kid and you want to shitcan him?”
“You want to keep him on? Fine. But we need to bring someone on with more experience. Someone who can monitor his dealings with our investors and package clever financing deals.”
“Can we just…” I could hear his frustration, but it was nothing compared to the alarm coursing through my veins. “Will you take a break? Christ, when was the last time you slept through the night? Lack of sleep breeds paranoia.”
“For the last time, I’m not paranoid.”
“Remember when you were convinced that tech journalist was investigating us? Turned out she was writing about facial recognition in retail stores. You’re seeing threats everywhere.”
He had a point about the journalist. Maybe I was seeing shadows where there were none. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. You need to get away. Clear your head. Sleep. Remember what it’s like to think about something other than risks and assessments. Maybe take Sara.”
“Seriously?” He’d stayed close to my ex, but I hadn’t.
“Forget I mentioned her, even though she probably could get away right now and she’d be good for you. She knows you. It’s been ages. You’re still friends, right?”
“Miles.” If I pinched the bridge of my nose any harder, it would have bruised.
“Fine. But take a break. I refuse to make any major personnel decisions when you’re running on fumes.”
When was the last time I slept for more than a few hours? I was way overdue for a break.
“I am overdue for a visit back home.” Nana couldn’t easily travel anymore.
“Perfect. Book it today. And Rhodes? Don’t bring your laptop. Don’t check emails. Don’t even think about D.C.—which I promise is taken care of. Just...exist for a few days.”
His concern was genuine, and despite my frustration, I found myself considering a break. Maybe some distance would give me perspective on both the congressional threat and the CFO situation.
“And Sara…” Miles could push me on many scores, but my ex wasn’t one of them.
“I prefer solo. I need space.”
“Good. You’ll come back with a clearer head. Trust me on this. Whatever’s happening in Washington can wait a week. The world won’t end if you’re offline for a few days.”
Miles was right about one thing—I did need space to think. But as I tapped out travel instructions for my assistant, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this congressional hearing was just the beginning. Someone wanted to control ARGUS, whether through political pressure, investor revolt, or outright acquisition.
In the mountains, away from Silicon Valley’s pressure and Washington’s threats, maybe I’d find the clarity I needed. Maybe I’d figure out how to keep ARGUS independent while navigating the political minefield that was about to explode around us.
From consumer groups to privacy advocates to investors, risks to ARGUS—my creation—darkened the horizon, but I refused to surrender. Not to Congress, not to profit-hungry investors, not to anyone who wanted to turn my technology into a weapon.
First, I needed to get away, escape to a place where the only oversight would be my own conscience and the only pressure would be deciding which trail to take. Maybe then, I could sleep. Recharge.
Miles was convinced I was being paranoid, seeing threats that weren’t there. I hoped he was right. But my gut told me that in Washington, in Silicon Valley, paranoia was just another word for preparation.
Chapter
One
One month later
Rhodes
It’s Tuesday morning and there’s not a soul around. Clouds in the distance, winds from the southwest, a slight chill in the shade, and enough heat to break a sweat in the open sun. I lean on the railing, taking in the famed three-hundred-and-sixty-degree Blue Ridge views. A need for solitude brought me to these mountains from my youth, bum elbow and all. Miles was right—I needed distance from more than just the boardroom pressures. It took weeks to get away, but I’m finally here.
I close my eyes and inhale, breathing in the fresh, crisp air. High-pitched chirps punctuate the quiet. A vision of my office and the white board with red and black scrawls infiltrates my inner sanctum, and I open my eyes, choosing the real-life view before me. The canopy of leaves provides shade from the sun and a sense of wilderness, the feeling that undeveloped lands exist and flourish. It’s a perfect, languid summer day. Back in San Francisco, summer lost meaning. But here, I feel the season in my bones, or at least, I remember what it used to mean, before...
Miles was right to shove me out the door and insist I take time to recharge. Besides, if one of us didn’t step away—give some space to our disagreements—we might have resorted to blows.
A falcon flies overhead, flapping its wings until it hits an air stream and coasts high above. Fast, fierce, and powerful, falcons are a symbol for Horus—an Egyptian god who represented the sun, the sky, healing, and protection.
If I had my phone, I’d refresh my memory of the falcon-headed god. Protection and healing—exactly what I came here seeking. But my phone connects me to the world and with that connection I am inundated with messages and emails. No phone is good. This is what I need. An electronic detox. Space to decompress.
I close my eyes once again, resting my thighs against the banister. The breeze cools my skin. Behind me, the unmistakable sound of footsteps on wood breaches the quiet. My muscles tense.
The Yellow Mountain fire tower is on almost every North Carolina hiking map. A beautiful summer day like this, others were bound to come. And you don’t hike the trail without taking the time to take in the view.
With one last glance across the Smokies, I turn to cede the tower to the recent arrival. A dark-haired woman, hair pulled into a ponytail that swings slightly with her movements, climbs the ladder, her back to me.
“Ow. Fuck.” Her progress stops, and as if sensing she’s not alone, the woman turns her head, giving me a view of cheeks flushed with exertion. She’s not sweating, but it’s not that hot—yet.
Did she take the steep shortcut like me?
Two paths to the top. One easy six-mile trek, or a steep mile-and-a-half climb.
The way she’s frozen in place, stuck in a trance, reminds me of a deer in the forest, evaluating the need for flight.
“Hi there,” I say, stepping back from the hold, giving her more space, letting her know I’m not some sicko.
Which, come to think of it, is she alone? I only heard one person approach.
“Hi.”
She resumes her task of climbing the ladder. It’s a wooden ladder, the kind a person might attach to a tree house, only this one ascends into the tower through a cut-out on the deck platform.
I watch closely as a lithe, fit body rises. With each push from her right leg, she mutters to herself, lower this time, presumably to prevent me from hearing her cuss. Her legs are lean, the muscles flexing beneath smooth, lightly tanned skin. Either she spends her days outdoors or she’s naturally tan. She could be a park ranger.
But no. A park ranger wouldn’t wear those sporty short shorts. Lots of the girls in my high school wore shorts just like those, loose at the leg openings, designed for running, and while parents frowned, I did not. That was a long time ago. Maybe the styles have changed. Or maybe I stopped noticing.
She reaches for the banister, her feet on the second rung, and my southern upbringing kicks in, prompting me to step forward and offer my hand.
“Thank you.” Her voice is light, the words automatic.
More weight than I expected presses down, but I easily take it, offering balance as she climbs out of the hold. A bloody spot on her right knee catches my attention. A thin stream of dried blood forms a line from her knee to the base of a thick hiking sock.
“You okay?” I ask, although, it’s not like I have a first aid kit. I don’t even have my phone.
“Oh. I’m fine.” Her right knee bends, and only the right toe of her hiking boot touches the deck.
Her gaze travels over the perimeter, captivated by the view.
For her to turn her back on me, I must come across as trustworthy.
As she studies the horizon, I examine the woman’s profile. Smooth skin, tiny silver studs for earrings, no visible tattoos above the neckline. Her chocolate brown hair shimmers with healthy shine. She’s younger, but I’d guess she’s late twenties, maybe.
It’s a Tuesday and she’s not working. Unless… Internal alarms ring and I take a second look over her frame, hunting for what? A camera?
You’re full of it, Rhodes. No one here knows who the fuck you are. And that right there is why you’re here.
Still, the paranoia Miles accuses me of having makes me scan the tree line once more. No one. Just mountains and sky.
The woman steps forward to the railing, still entranced.
I’m halfway down the ladder when a board creaks from her one-legged hop. She’s injured and alone.
Rhodes—
I stop my grandmother’s lecture before the replay.
Fine, Nana. How exactly am I going to help her? Walk with her down the six-mile return trail?
What else are you going to do? You have the time. Unplugged. Remember?
What am I supposed to say? She said she’s okay. If I insist on staying to help her, I’ll come off as a misogynist ass.
You’re really going to leave an injured woman to manage a six-mile trail to the parking lot on her own?
She’s the one who went hiking by herself.
So did you.
The woman twists around, one hand on the railing, her right leg bent. At this angle from the floorboards, I’m offered a clear view up the back curve of her thigh. The hem of her shorts juts out from her ass, shading the path higher, revealing a mere glimpse of white cotton panties.
“Are you okay?”
Of course she’d wonder given I’m hanging on a ladder and gawking like a teenage perv.
“Yes. Ah, I’m just wondering… Did you park in the lot? Cloud Catcher Lane?”
“Yes.”
Of course she did. Where else would she park?
“Ah.” I bend my head, a gesture that sometimes disarms. “How are you planning on getting back with an injured leg?”
She looks down at her bloody knee and shrugs. “I’ll be fine. I’ll find a stick in the woods.”
“And you’re going six miles,” I say, more to myself, wondering about the stats for the likelihood of being attacked if injured. Without my phone, I can’t check them, but logically a woman would be at greater risk.
“Six miles?” Now it’s her tilting her head, only she’s doing it to imply I’m wrong. “It’s a mile and a half, tops.”
“You’re taking the shortcut with an injured leg?”
“I’m not walking six miles on it.”
She’ll break her neck if she attempts the steep decline without help.
She smiles, amused by my question, not offended, I think. Her brown eyes are warm, a deep hue with golden flecks, her pupils small from the abundant sun. She comes across as a good person, like maybe a schoolteacher or a nurse. A nursing schedule could explain her freedom on a Tuesday.
“I’ll be fine,” she insists, brushing me off and returning her attention to the view.
