Page 38 of The Mogul: Leonard

I keep quiet next to him, not wanting to disturb this moment that feels so intimate.

She tries to reason with him. “I know, but we can find another solution.”

“This is the easiest one, and I don’t mind paying a bit,” he says more firmly.

The woman nods, and we walk out of the place, waving our goodbyes. When we get into the car, I can’t contain my curiosity anymore.

“What was that about?” I ask.

He gives me a look like he doesn’t want to tell me what just happened, but he has to because I was there and he can’t deny it.

“Some families and the homeless around here have a hard time getting by, so they come here, take what they need, and I come by once in a while to pay the bill. This is a family-run business, and they’re trying to help the community, but they can’t afford to give away things for free,” he explains almost reluctantly, and I’m speechless.

Every time I convince myself he is the bad guy, he pulls some major hero card that upends all my beliefs. Like this, providing for poor people and trying to hide it.

Who are you, Leonard Walton?

13

Leonard

“I swear I want to throw this computer out the window!” Roxanne hisses, standing up and pacing around the room.

She is furious. We have reached another dead end. We’re running in circles, and I can understand her frustration. We’re both used to getting what we want quickly, and this makes us both restless.

For once, I have no words for her. I’m equally disappointed in our results. And I can’t blame it on our lack of commitment because we have been here in my office for many days and nights, trying to find out how they got in.

“How is it even possible? We follow the money, the digital traces they could have left, nothing. How is it possible that we can’t come up with anything useful? Who are they? Why are they better than us?” she almost shouts. She is so agitated I don’t even know if she’s breathing.

Those are all valid questions, and I’m disappointed that I don’t have any answers for her. I don’t know if she is angrier at not being able to finish this job or because she thinks there is someone better than her out there. I know a thing or two about pride, and she seems to value her skills to the point of honing them to perfection. Apparently, someone is more perfect than her.

It’s similar to the feeling I had when I had to ask for her help. What if she proves that she is better than me? It’s a low blow to recover from.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer for any of that,” I reluctantly admit.

She turns around and stares at me. I don’t know if she is pissed with my lack of help or just pissed in general. Difficult to say when she is so angry.

“What are we getting wrong?” she asks.

“We are doing nothing wrong. That’s the problem. We’ve tried different approaches to the same problem. We checked, double-checked and we compared notes. If one of us made a mistake, the other should have noticed, but nothing.”

She scoffs, disappointed, starting again to pace my office.

“Well, there must be something we’re missing, or we would have found a solution by now, don’t you think?” Disappointment drips from every single word like acid, corroding her happiness and her ability to think straight.

She’s gone down this rabbit hole we are working on, and she can’t get out. She won’t find anything useful until she can clear her head.

“We have to take a step back and try to see things with a fresh perspective,” I suggest.

She scoffs again. “How many times have we already done that?”

“And we’ll keep doing it until we find something. Staying on the same path won’t help us find anything useful,” I insist, and she rolls her eyes.

She won’t listen to me. She is so focused on her rage that she can’t think of anything else.

I stand up and get her attention. When I walk toward the door, she starts panicking.

“Where are you going? We haven’t finished here,” she complains, following me to the elevator.

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