Page 40 of Escape Girl

Bravado mostly evaporated, I swallowed hard. “I’m here to see Jo.”

Curiosity lit her eyes like an azure candle. “She’s grabbing coffee with her fiancé, but you can come in and wait if you want.”

“Fiancé?” I sputtered but recovered quickly. “A real one this time?”

The blonde burst out laughing. “Good one!”

Continuing to cackle, she gestured me into the loft office. The space was…great, actually. Exposed brick walls, framed posters, a cool green velvet sofa in the corner near a kitchenette. Ed Sheeran was playing at low volume, and the room smelled like cinnamon tea. The vibe was warm and cozy, more like a home than an office.

But it was certainly a place where work was getting done. Six desks were scattered throughout the large room, all of them supporting multiple computer monitors. Two of them were currently occupied by young brunette women wearing headphones and speaking intermittently, as though on video calls.

Both women looked up as the door closed. One of them glanced at me, confused, and raised an eyebrow at the blonde, who shrugged. The other one, who wore two buns on top of her head and looked like she was still in college, reacted very strangely. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. If I wasn’t mistaken, she mouthed “oh shit.”

Had she recognized me? How? Why would I be “oh shit” scary? Maybe it was the specter of my father.

“I’m Sloan,” said the blonde. Of course she would have an ultracool rare name. I’d never met anyone else named Sloan.

“Emily.” There was nothing wrong with the name Emily, but it had been super popular for decades and there were just so many of us running around.

Sloan the Scammer. I wondered what name she’d used when she introduced herself to Bobby. “You can wait on the couch if you want.” Sloan headed for one of the vacant desks. “I’ve got to hop on a call in a bit.”

One of the brunettes—the one who didn’t look scared of me—pulled her headphones off her ears and frantically waved Sloan over to her desk. “Help! I’ve got a call with Alan Crown coming up. He’s only going to give me five minutes, and I’ve totally lost focus.”

Pretending not to eavesdrop, I lowered myself to the sofa and rummaged through my purse, trying to look busy. Were they were talking about Alan Crown, the hedge fund manager from Seattle? I’d met him a few times when I lived there and my father visited. Although he was outwardly genial, always smiling and shaking hands, I’d never been comfortable in his presence. There was something reptilian about him.

“I’m so glad this isn’t an in-person meeting,” the brunette said to Sloan, with a little shudder. “He’s got snake eyes.”

I suppressed a smile and scrolled through my phone without seeing anything. She was spot on; hedidhave snake eyes. My father admired Crown’s portfolio, but not the person. “He’s more ego than man,” he’d grumble.

My own impression was that Crown was not only an egomaniac but that he was also desperate to still be young and therefore relevant. Although he was only ten years younger than my father, certainly pushing sixty, I remembered him saying things like: “Men of my generation have different priorities thanyours, Sven.” He invested heavily in crypto, wore six-thousand-dollar sneakers, and his fourth wife was younger than me.

Sloan perched on the edge of the brunette’s desk. “This is your third call with him, right? He must be willing to give something, Heather, or he wouldn’t bother.”

Oh right. Poise, LLC was classified as a fundraising business. So this Heather was trying to solicit a donation from Alan Crown? For what cause?

Heather pulled a mirror on her desk closer to her face and applied a little mascara. “I know I can get a little something. But damn, I really thought I had him for a big chunk.” She waved the mascara wand. “Last week, I hinted that if he cut a sizable check, we’d do a big press release. Jo even whipped up a draft for me to show him, and he ate it up. It was all about how his deep concern for future generations inspired him to invest in a better online environment for children. He loved the idea of playing up his altruistic side to the media.”

Yeah, that tracked. Ego, ego, ego.

“What changed from last week?” Sloan asked.

“This!” Heather pointed at something on her screen. “Cover article from yesterday’sSeattle Times. Rumor has it that he’s going to donate a building to the University of Puget Sound.” Her shoulders slumped. “Crown is not the kind of guy to give away a single penny more than is good for him for tax purposes. That building is where his charity cash is going this year.”

I nodded to myself. She had his number all right.

Sloan squeezed her shoulder. “That sucks, dude. Just get what you can and move on to the next. Lots of other whales in the sea.”

Heather smiled at her in the makeup mirror. “I know. Thanks.” She sighed and muttered, “Really wanted this one though.”

“What are you raising money for?” I asked, unable to stem my curiosity.

She blinked at me and looked to Sloan, who shrugged. “This is Emily. She’s here to see Jo.”

Heather stretched her arms over her head. “We’re raising funds for a nonprofit organization dedicated to tackling social-media-related dangers. Everything from cyberbullying to hate speech and human trafficking.”

Admirable. Those were serious problems in the modern world. Aha! Themodernworld.

I snapped my fingers. “That’s your angle! Crown does not want to be thought of as old. Frame the college building thing as something an elderly person would do. Laugh at the idea with him as if he’s in on the joke. As though you couldn’t possibly believe that someone as ‘in the zeitgeist’ as he is would even consider that old fogey way of donating money.”

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