The Pact Read online

  Her fingers fumble for her notebook, where she has written some key facts to remember. Part genius, part Adonis, Julian is the newly crowned future of tech, a clean-cut savant who does not indulge in substances or inappropriate Twitter rants. In some ways, he is more famous than Atypical itself. He speaks ten languages fluently; he studied yoga with a guru in the Himalayas; he writes both forwards and backwards and was assumed deaf until his first year of school, simply because he was thinking so deeply. He is deliberately humble, and lived with his parents until his business got on its feet. Although Atypical is not yet listed on the stock exchange and has no obligation to share information publicly, Julian still publishes the salaries of all his staff to promote equal pay.

  The technology that has caused such a stir is a low-cost device that will bring free Wi-Fi to rural villages in Kenya and Tanzania. Through a combination of smart technology and GPS, Julian and his team at Atypical will introduce cheap medical technology that delivers much-needed supplies to those who do not have access to them. While the business is yet to break even, the hope and idealism keeps the investment pouring in. Freya can recite the ins and outs of the technology. She has read every article on it. And, although she’s got the job already, she still has a fierce desire to prove herself.

  As Julian approaches Freya, her breath catches in her throat. He is dressed in a simple gray T-shirt that exposes a sleeve of intricate tattoos. His dark, wavy hair falls just short of his shoulders. There is a mischievous glint in his eye, as if they are already complicit in something wonderful together. On a lesser man, the expression would pass off as sleazy, but on Julian it is simply warm.

  ‘Freya! Welcome to the tribe.’

  The word tribe conjures up trance concerts in the desert, and Shamans administering mind-opening psychedelic drugs inside hemp-woven teepees. While Julian is heading up one of Forbes’ ‘Top 10 multi-million-dollar businesses under five years old’, there is something in his manner that suggests he’d be up for that as well.

  ‘Right, let’s take you on the grand tour!’ The first thing that strikes Freya is how easy the office feels. An arrestingly beautiful woman with a natural afro and a septum piercing furrows her brow in concentration as she runs complex code on the screen before her. Identical twins are curled up on a sofa in the corner, having a heated discussion. A woman in a glamorous hijab and hoop earrings speaks animatedly into her phone. Every person radiates a sense of importance, a sense of being at home and stretching out confidently into the world. Just looking at them makes Freya stand a little taller.

  There is a meditation room, yoga classes at lunchtime, a juicing station, fresh herbs growing off living walls, the latest MacBooks that only launched a few weeks before, and a room where you can draw on all the walls and floors. It is more of a paradise than an office.

  While these perks are exciting, they aren’t the reason Freya is here. She wants to be part of the boldest projects in data science and this is the place to do it. There are no rules, no limits and infinite opportunities for Freya to create amazing, life-changing work. Today, tech CEOs are our Greek gods, possessed with magical powers, their companies are where they practice their magic. She gets to use technology to elevate the lives of those less fortunate and make a real difference. She will be imbued with the power to work miracles. Her whole life is a miracle, an example of how the care of others can turn things around, so nothing could matter to her more.

  Julian gestures to a desk that bears a charming, handwritten ‘Welcome Freya’ sign. There is a Mac in a box still sheathed in plastic, and a few gifts – a mug with a quote by Ayn Rand, Freya’s favorite author; a packet of chamomile tea; and several slabs of Lindt white chocolate. These gifts are not random – they all happen to be her favorite things.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asks, and she is flattered by how he searches her face for approval. ‘We did our research to find out the things you love.’ Freya smiles. These days, looking up a person online is alluded to so casually, so confidently. It has been stripped of shame and repackaged as the highest compliment. She expected this, long before she got the call. Which is why any picture of her doing anything she shouldn’t have has been sanitized.

  ‘It’s perfect, thank you.’ She pauses for a second, adds, ‘I really appreciate it, so much.’ Hopefully he can see how much she means it.

  The day is a whirlwind of introductions. Freya smiles until her face is about to crack.

  Later, when the copper doors of the elevator close behind her and she emerges, blinking, onto the city streets, she feels different. Like stepping into a movie, she is suddenly animated. The moment shines with importance, as she teeters on the brink of her future.

  She runs through the conversations she had during the day and suddenly feels a little embarrassed at how keen she was. There were moments she thinks she said the wrong thing, where she came across as too excited, too awkward, too much. She walks home a little faster to outrun the feeling, instead focusing on the good. It’s just growing pains, nothing more. This is a big step! She is living the dream, it’s no wonder she feels a bit paranoid it will all be ripped away. But there is something else too, something that quickens her pulse and dries her mouth. Because while it was the perfect day in so many ways, after the joy there is a bitter aftertaste that lingers. The acrid, inexplicable taste of fear.

  Chapter 4

  Freya

  The morning after the murder

  The overwhelming sense of joy last night has settled into an uncomfortable jittery feeling that tugs at Freya. She throws on her Nike running gear and ties up the laces on her trainers.

  Kate shakes her head. ‘No matter how many years I have known you, I’ve never been able to understand how you can run on a hangover.’

  ‘It’s totally logical – you sweat out the toxins, and then the night before is forgotten,’ she says.

  Freya jiggles the key in the lock to let herself out the apartment. It’s a muggy, humid day. The kind where fights break out for no reason. As she turns to go, Kate grabs her arm with surprising force. ‘Be careful out there, OK?’

  ‘Of course. I always am.’

  As her steps fall into rhythm, she cannot escape her thoughts the way she usually does. She paces down streets she doesn’t usually use, as if by running faster she will outrun her worries. She did something stupid last night. She played a juvenile, petty prank in the heat of the moment, and this morning she fears the consequences.

  Her wandering takes her a few blocks away from Atypical, to Market Street, the location of the chic apartment blocks she could only aspire to live in. Maybe one day, when she earns enough to no longer have to share a house with Kate, Jasmin and Hattie. She chuckles. Who is she kidding – she will always want to live with them.

  Sirens wail oppressively close to her, and she stops in her tracks as they speed past and park outside the building. Her mind goes somewhere else for a second, then she stops herself. No. Don’t be stupid. It was only a prank. It couldn’t have caused . . .

  A message on her phone. A welcome distraction.

  Hey, says an unknown number, I’m so glad you said hi. I think you’re cute too.

  It’s innocuous enough, but this morning the message hits too close to home. It reminds her of the prank last night, and the grave mistake she has made. She wants it to be over, lost in the drunken memories of the night before, sweated out in this morning’s run, but this message suggests she is wrong.

  She can’t think about this, not with the roar of sirens and the hiss of buses in traffic. She turns and almost collides with an old Ford, driven by a woman with scruffy auburn bangs.

  ‘Jesus! Watch where you’re going! You could have got yourself killed!’ the woman shouts. Freya’s heart is hammering in her chest, the adrenaline surges through her body.

  She runs all the way back home, darting through the traffic, pushing past pedestrians, breath pounding in her chest, not once breaking her pace, never looking back. Her phone in her pocket, a funct
ional object turned suddenly sinister.

  Chapter 5

  Freya

  Five years before

  Three a.m. The worst time of the morning. What one foster mother called ‘the darkest hour of the soul’. Freya stretches in the cramped confines of her second-hand car. Her neck is so stiff, she can barely breathe and it feels like someone is hammering a large nail in the small of her back.

  Everyone talks about saving for college, but nobody mentions the hidden costs, like textbooks, food and having a place to stay. Nobody remembers that the people sitting next to you in class will have the latest tech and wear $100 frayed denims with the attitude that they somehow deserve it, that they earned these privileges themselves. College is filled with people whose parents have money. Freya tries to push the resentment down and focus on the work, but some days are harder than others, especially when she can’t even get a full night’s sleep.

  Quick footsteps, a knock on the window. ‘Hey there, hey!’

  Shit. Freya always tries to park far enough out of sight to not draw attention to herself, but close enough to campus security to be safe, but she must have slipped up tonight. She’d only got back to her car around midnight, after working in the computer labs, and probably wasn’t as clear-headed as usual. She’s not sure what would be worse – mockery or getting into some sort of trouble. Are you allowed to still study if, technically, you don’t really have a place to live?

  She pushes her hair out of her face and rubs the sleep out of her eyes before winding the window down. It’s a manual window, not electric, and the process of opening it is awkwardly protracted. She stares into the bright, hazy eyes of Kate Jones, the only other girl in her computer science class.

  ‘I thought it was you!’ Kate laughs. ‘You also had a rough night?’

  ‘Uh . . . yeah.’

  ‘I was supposed to go out for one drink after my assignment. But, you know how it goes. Suddenly wine turns into shots and shots into tequila and the next thing you’re making out with a barman from Russia called Vlad who says he’s here to get a modeling job.’

  Freya is exhausted, but she musters up the energy to nod knowingly. Truth is, she hasn’t had a relationship before. Romance is both something she has pushed aside in favor of her studies, and something she obsesses over. How would it feel to truly belong in another’s arms. She resolves to keep talking until she wears Kate out. Perhaps then her secret will remain undetected.

  Kate continues, ‘Honestly, how did you find the assignment? I felt like I was reading Hebrew for most of it; I couldn’t understand a thing! I think that’s why I ended up going drinking afterwards, I felt like such a fool. If I fail another semester, my parents are going to kill me!’

  Freya begins to respond, but then she sees Kate’s gaze extend behind her, to the clump of clothes on the backseat. Her face twists in that all-familiar awkward grimace that someone makes when they are faced with poverty.

  She speaks slowly, carefully. ‘You live in your car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She thinks for a moment.

  ‘Isn’t it cold?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Freya can’t believe that she hasn’t made some excuse and driven off.

  Kate simply keeps standing there, mouth agape. ‘But you’re the smartest person in our class!’

  ‘Smart people can also be poor, Kate.’

  She looks mortified. ‘Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just shocked, that’s all. Here I am with my own apartment and a monthly allowance from my parents, and I’m barely scraping by. You’re amazing!’

  ‘I’m not looking for pity, or awe for that matter.’

  ‘I know, I know, maybe a cup of coffee and some early morning waffles will do? I’m starving. My treat.’

  The connection is instant, like long-lost sisters. Breakfast turns into an impromptu study session, which turns into lunch, which turns into a friendship that leads to a deal. Freya can move into Kate’s apartment, wear her clothes and eat her food on one condition. She has to help Kate pass college.

  Chapter 6

  Isla

  Two days after the murder

  Isla is accustomed to violence. Summarizing horrific acts into 300-word news snippets is part of her job. To work in a newsroom is to witness the dark side of human nature every day, and pretend that it doesn’t hurt.

  How often has her own mother whispered over the phone, anguish etched in her voice, ‘Why did you have to choose a career that reminds you of all the pain in the world?’ Isla’s never been able to answer her, and has never doubted her profession. Until today.

  Another woman’s body, broken and defiled. A horror that becomes more familiar the more it takes place. It ignites a sense of urgency in Isla.

  If she can break this story, really, truly blow the truth wide open, it would at least feel like her job means something. In reporting this murder truthfully and compassionately, she can find some sense of justice.

  She has to act fast. The story is already being rewritten, online, by a thousand different authors. According to her research, Nicole Whittington worked for the white-hot tech startup, Atypical. Twitter, however, is already muddying the waters of her biography, with people publishing reckless hearsay. Was she black, white, or of mixed ethnicity? Was she beaten, found hanging, found after slitting her wrists? The claims and stories circle one another until there is barely a trace of Nicole left. What is the truth, and what isn’t?

  The answer begins with the case file, summarized and distributed to a selected group of journalists. The cause of death: extensive trauma to the head. Nicole was found with five blows to the skull, two hard enough to crack through. They were delivered by a bronze sculpture of a nude woman. Was the nudity of her body, and the weapon’s a mere coincidence, or the work of a skilled murderer trying to communicate a message?

  Isla does a reverse image search on the artwork. It’s by an award-winning contemporary artist, and worth hundreds of dollars. In order to afford a piece like this, Nicole had a fair amount of disposable income. A quick glance at the company’s public salary report confirms this.

  There are other little details that intrigue her, the faint brushstrokes that, one by one, reveal the bigger picture. The perfect apartment. The dinner for one. The color-coordinated closet bearing only shades of black, white and beige. The absence of family photographs, but the abundance of high-end art. The spicy, musky scent of perfume floating out of the bathroom door. Apart from the meal, the bottle and the single glass, the place was immaculate. Attached to the abridged case file are some additional photographs of the crime scene. She zooms in on the medication on her bathroom counter: multivitamins, birth control, Topamax. Topamax – a powerful mood stabilizer used in the treatment of bipolar disorder. She minimizes the photograph on her computer to revisit later. Interesting.

  She zooms in on a note on the fridge. It’s a simple printout of a spreadsheet, a schedule. Why Nicole even bothered to print it out is anyone’s guess, as every day looked exactly the same.

  5.00 a.m: Wake up

  5.30 a.m: Gym

  7.00 a.m: Arrive at work

  7.00 p.m.: Leave work

  7.30 p.m. – 9.30 p.m.: Japanese lessons (Tuesdays and Thursdays) and French lessons (Mondays, Wednesdays and Sundays)

  Usually, when you scratch the surface, you’ll find that an ordinary person is not so ordinary after all. A shocking crime does not come out of the blue, it reveals the long, complex path the victim took to get there. It’s more than the murder, or figuring out who was the last person the victim had contact with. The story comes before that.

  Privilege or a good job does not render a person spotless. Isla has seen housewives running online fraud empires and CEOs smuggling drugs in business class. More often than not, women fall prey to the kind of everyday violence that nobody flags as abnormal. Stalking ex-lovers are dismissed as overzealous yet harmless. The evil bubbles below the surface, undetected, until the moment someone gets killed.

&n
bsp; But this particular schedule leaves little room for any kind of evil to thrive. Nicole’s social media feeds are spotless and earnest. Where would she have found the time to get mixed up in something sinister? If the printout on her fridge is to be believed, she spent most of her time at work. After going through it many times, Isla knows what she has to do. She pulls up the monochrome website of Atypical, finds the contact details at the bottom of the page, and makes the call.

  ‘Atypical – how may I help you?’ says a chirpy voice.

  ‘Excuse me, can I set up a meeting with your CEO, Julian Cox?’

  ‘What is it in connection with?’

  ‘The murder of one of your employees, Nicole Whittington. I’m a journalist.’

  A pause. ‘How do you . . . ? Wait. Just a moment please—’

  ‘I’ll stay on the line.’

  ‘He can see you tomorrow morning, at 10 a.m.’

  In the time Isla has been a reporter she has learned one thing for sure. In order to get to the bottom of the story, you need to get to the people involved first.

  *

  According to Google Maps, Atypical is nestled in the heart of The Mission, close to Isla’s favorite burrito joint. The restaurants look more polished than the last time she visited the suburb, and the pedestrians look cooler, but some things haven’t changed. The street murals still bathe the area in a riot of color that takes her breath away. Isla’s running late, but she stops for a moment to take a picture on her phone.

  She spots a group of men wearing sleeveless puffa jackets, walking toward a Tesla that is tethered to a charging station.

  ‘A flock of tech-bros,’ she says to herself. ‘I must be nearby.’

  Discerning which San Francisco sub-culture a person is from is one of Isla’s secret talents. Maybe it’s because she deals with unsolved cases every day, but she likes to focus on the details people give away in their clothes, shoes and mannerisms.