Page 87 of Only the Devil
Ahmed says, “Sterling Financial’s funds being approved for retirement accounts and 401K investments speaks well of your firm and your work.”
I continue smiling like a doofus, but I have zero idea what he’s talking about. How could we be approved for anything? A fund collapsed last year losing investors everything.
“It’s impressive,” he says to Phillip, but his gaze cuts to me in a way that makes me wonder if my facial expression is giving away my inner thoughts.
I’m a programmer, not a tap dancer, for crying out loud. What is Sterling expecting me to say here?
“Bedrock, Centennial, and Silverman are all interested in our system. And you’re joining us for the groundswell.”
Phillip just mentioned the three biggest investment companies in the United States. I doubt they’ve ever heard of the idea I’m kicking around.
“When do you believe your system will be ready for testing?” Ahmed asks.
All three men are looking at me like I have an answer, but there’s no answer to the question. I’m in the planning phase. I don’t yet have final parameters which means I could as easily pull a white dove out of a hat as give them a reliable schedule.
“Testing is scheduled to begin October first.” Phillip’s brilliantly white teeth flash, his smile pointed directly at me.
I’m not a dumbass. I get that he’s counting on me to play along, and if Tweedledee and Tweedledum buy this bullshit act, then a part of me feels like too bad, so sad. They’re probably loaded with oil money. A vision of Mr. Headscarf going full Oprah, bopping between offices and saying, “And here’s a billion for you…and a billion for you,” entertains me enough that the smile on my face becomes semi-real.
“Well, Daisy, I know you’ve got to get to it.”
“Yes, that deadline is approaching.” I smile, taking the hint to skedaddle as Phillip’s assistant rushes down the corridor, pushing a cart loaded with catered food.
Sterling’s grin lingers in my head like a warning light—too bright, too confident.
Investors. I should look into them, but I can’t remember the last names. I doubt I’d get the spelling correct even if I remembered.
I shoot off a text to Phillip’s assistant, asking for the men’s names and contact information so I can send a follow-up email.
What is Phillip up to? Maybe nothing. Maybe spinning bullshit is how corporate America works. I never understood what the hell someone graduating with a business degree actually learned in college. I mean, finance and accounting, yes, I get that. But those are different degrees. I suppose business is another word for sales, and Phillip Sterling is the epitome of a salesman.
Wasn’t there a play about that? Yes. Death of a Salesman. It was one of those I was supposed to read but opted for the CliffsNotes version. Willy chased the American dream and was shit to his sons. And what did my teacher say? Arthur Miller highlighted a capitalist system that values profit over people.
Yes, that’s why Phillip Sterling is making me think of a play I never read. He’s truly the epitome of a salesman. I settle back at my desk, fingers automatically finding the familiar weight of my rings to twist while my mind processes what just happened upstairs. Sterling’s performance was masterful—and completely fabricated.
An October first deadline for a system that exists only in my head? Approvals from Bedrock and Centennial that I know damn well don’t exist? The man just sold a fantasy to two potential investors like a snake-oil salesman at a county fair.
The question is: what happens when October first rolls around and I’ve got nothing but empty promises to show for it? More importantly, what kind of person lures investors with elaborate lies? My stomach churns as I realize I’m not just witnessing unscrupulous business dealings—I’m actively participating by sitting in that room and smiling like a trained seal. An alert flashes on my phone and I read the subject line of the email: Autopsy results.
My finger hovers over the email for three heartbeats before I tap it open. The formal letterhead of the Los Angeles County coroner’s office fills the screen, all official seals and bureaucratic font choices.
Decedent: Alvin Michael Reed Case Number: 2024-ME-3847 Manner of Death: Suicide Cause of Death: Acute digitalis toxicity
Suicide? I have to read that line twice.
Digitalis. I know that name from somewhere.
My fingers are already flying across my laptop keyboard before my brain fully processes what I’m looking for. The search results populate instantly: Digitalis purpurea. Foxglove. Cardiac glycoside. Highly toxic when ingested.
The email continues with a clinical detachment that makes me want to hurl my monitor:
Toxicology analysis revealed digitalis concentration of 22.7 ng/mL in cardiac blood, well above therapeutic range (0.8-2.0 ng/mL). Consistent with intentional ingestion of concentrated extract. No evidence of trauma or foul play observed during external examination. Given decedent’s documented history of depression and recent financial difficulties, manner of death determined to be suicide by poisoning.
I lean back in my chair, the words blurring as my vision tunnels. Financial difficulties. Depression. They think they knew him.
But I knew him.
Uncle Alvin talked to me about guns. At first to tell me to never touch one. Then later, he let me hold his handgun. Taught me how to load it and unload it. “Every soldier’s got a preferred weapon, Daisy girl,” he’d said, adjusting my grip, showing me how to hold it, just in case I ever needed to know for defense. “Mine’s never let me down.” That gun lived in his bedside drawer, cleaned and ready, until the day he died. I know because I helped him move that nightstand once and removed the drawer to do it.
