“What do you want?” he asked.

“So many things,” she said with a hard laugh.

Silence again, as the truth seeped into her consciousness. The truth was a pain in her heart. “What do I want? Don’t. Don’t take him from me. Don’t send your bugs into me, and don’t cut the wires, and don’t find his last biot and take it from me.” Tears had already rolled down her cheeks. “It’s all I have of him.”

SEVEN

A short elevator ride for two billion dollars.

“Sadie. It’s good to see you,” Stern said. He shook her hand firmly.

Her hand was not empty. His eyes barely flickered as he palmed the

note.

“Same, Mr Stern,” she said. “This is my friend, Keats.” She stumbled over the word friend. They weren’t exactly friends, were they?

They barely knew each other.

“My friend,” she repeated, as if needing to emphasize it. Stern was head of McLure security. He’d sat by her bed when she

was recovering from injuries following the assassination of her father

and brother, and as far as Plath felt she could trust anyone, she trusted

him. He gave Keats the same dubious, sizing-up look her father would

have.

The lawyer, Don Jellicoe, was an older man, tall, spare, with

a hovering grin and an open collar. He rose to shake her hand as

well.

The office was a corner, with windows that looked out on the Empire State Building and, beyond it, at the Tulip—Armstrong cor

porate headquarters.

She had been there, seen it from the inside. She had watched her

wiring take effect on Benjamin Armstrong. She almost flinched,

thinking they could see her now.

She stared, probably too long, then looked with exaggerated and

unconvincing calm around the room and turned her back on the

Tulip and the memories.

A younger lawyer sat discreetly in a corner. The remaining person in the room was Hannah Thrum. Thrum was middle-aged but

looked younger, expensively but conservatively dressed. She had a full

face and somewhat droopy eyes that seemed at odds with the wellcoiffed businesswoman look.

Thrum was the interim chairman of the board of McLure Holdings, the parent corporation of McLure Labs.

“Can I get anyone some coffee? Water? Tea? We have it all,” Jellicoe offered, very genial. Keats asked for coffee, Thrum ordered

a sparkling water, and the younger lawyer raced off to get both.

“So,” Jellicoe said. “We have copies for you, Sadie, and for you, Hannah.” He handed iPads to each and tapped his own to bring up the document. “We have the small matter of two billion dollars.” He grinned. “Give or take a dime.”

That drew only tense stares. Jellicoe sighed, a little deflated. “As you can see, it’s quite a long document. But I wondered if we could dispense with a literal reading of every single word and you would allow me to summarize?”

Keats surprised everyone by speaking up. “Of course Pl— Sadie would get a full copy?”

“Yes, of course,” Jellicoe said, and seemed amused.

“Go ahead, Don,” Thrum said. Like this was her meeting.

“Well, the long and short of it is that Sadie is the sole surviving heir. She inherits the bulk of the estate. There are some bequests for some of Grey McLure’s friends, relations, employees, and charities. All told those bequests are quite substantial, amounting to something on the order of two hundred million dollars in McLure stock and cash.”

Keats whistled, then apologized.

“It’s worth whistling at,” Jellicoe allowed. “So is what’s left to Sadie.” He looked at Sadie, raised his Saruman eyebrows, and said, “You inherit the rest of your father and brother’s shares of McLure. Added to those you already own, you hold fifty-five percent of the company. At today’s prices, as I said, that’s just a hair under two billion dollars. Of course the share price has dropped quite a bit since your father and brother died so tragically. But if the company is well managed, the stock value will bounce back.”

“And you won’t need to worry about that: managing the company is the responsibility of the board,” Thrum said with what she hoped was absolute finality.

“The company belongs to its stockholders,” Plath said levelly. She had not come here to be bullied.

“Yes, of course,” Thrum said. “And your shares will be voted by your executor.” She turned to Jellicoe, whose expression was unreadable.

“Here it comes,” Keats said under his breath.

“Executor?” Plath asked, already knowing the answer. It would be interesting to see how Thrum responded.

Jellicoe sighed. “It is usual practice to assign an adult executor in the case of a minor, a wise, trusted older friend or lawyer.”

Keats made a wry face.

“But in this case,” Jellicoe went on, “Grey McLure specifically declined to do so. In fact, he directed me to take such measures as would ensure that his daughter not only inherited his company, but, in the event of her brother’s death, should run it.”

“That’s absurd,” Thrum snapped. “That can’t be legal.”

“Ah, but it is,” Jellicoe said. “Grey emancipated his daughter. And with some effort—many, many billable hours, I’m pleased to admit—I was able to enact his wishes.” He dropped the grin. “I think Grey, who was my good friend for twenty years, expected to die, you see. I heard it in his voice. I saw it in his actions. He expected to die.”