Sterling’s Fortune

Chapter 22

The storm drain smelled of wet concrete and old rain. It was pitch black, save for the faint, greenish light filtering down from the street grates far above.

Elodie scrambled over slick pipes, her bare feet numb, the flannel shirt damp with sweat and sewer mist. She clutched the leather notebook to her chest like a shield, or a weapon.

The Variable must be human... pure chaos...

The words burned in her mind. Every kiss, every shared coffee, every moment of vulnerability, was it just him collecting data? Was the "Love" just a variable he needed to plug into his machine to save his company?

She stopped. A sob ripped through her throat, echoing loudly in the tunnel.

"Stupid," she whispered, wiping her eyes with dirty hands. "Stupid, stupid girl. You fell for the suit. You fell for the fairytale."

She leaned against the curved concrete wall, sliding down until she hit the ground. She was done. She couldn't run anymore. Let Arthur find her. Let the Trust take her. Her heart was already broken; what did the rest matter?

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Footsteps.

But not the heavy, militaristic boots of Arthur’s security team.

These were sharp, rhythmic taps. Dress shoes.

Elodie froze. She held her breath.

A light flickered on. Not a blinding tactical flashlight, but a soft, warm glow. Like a lantern.

Standing ten feet away, in the middle of a filth-strewn storm drain under Queens, was a man.

He was wearing a pristine, three-piece grey suit. A red silk handkerchief was tucked into his pocket. He had a neatly trimmed white beard and eyes that twinkled even in the gloom.

He was holding a vintage brass lantern in one hand and a thermos in the other.

"Mr. Winter?" Elodie gasped. It was the name he had given her in the alleyway six months ago. The man who gave her the fortune cookie.

"Elodie," he nodded politely, as if they were meeting for tea at the Plaza, not in a sewer. "You look like you’ve had a rough night. Tacky dress, by the way. Very un-seasonal."

"Who are you?" Elodie scrambled to her feet, backing away. "Are you with the Trust? Are you a hallucination?"

"I'm a concerned third party," the man said. He unscrewed the thermos. Steam poured out, smelling of rich, dark chocolate and peppermint. "Cocoa?"

"I... no!" Elodie shouted. "I don't want cocoa! I want answers! My boyfriend is a criminal, my life is a lie, and I'm currently running from a private army!"

"Your husband is an i***t," Mr. Winter corrected gently. "But he is not a criminal. And your life is not a lie."

He gestured to the notebook in her hands.

"You're reading the first draft, my dear. Never judge a story by the first draft."

"He wrote it down!" Elodie shook the book at him. "He called me a 'Subject.' He said he needed a Variable to hide the code!"

"Turn to the last page," Mr. Winter said.

"I did. It’s blank."

"Look closer."

Mr. Winter stepped forward. He didn't seem to walk; he just sort of arrived closer. He held up the lantern. The warm light hit the leather notebook.

"Between the back cover and the binding," he whispered. "He hid the final entry. He ripped it out because he didn't want the Trust to know he had failed."

Elodie looked at the book. With trembling fingers, she felt the lining of the back cover. There was a slit in the leather.

She pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was wrinkled, stained with coffee rings.

She unfolded it. The handwriting was Alistair’s, but it was messy, hurried.

Date: December 24th. (The night of the Gala. The night they kissed).

Entry: FINAL.

I cannot run the simulation. I cannot use her.

The equation works. If I bind the algorithm to Elodie, the data is safe. But the process requires me to treat her as an asset. To manipulate her probability field.

I looked at her tonight. She was wearing that ridiculous velvet dress. She was laughing at my tie. And I realized that if I use her to save the company, I will lose the woman.

The math says I should proceed. The probability of ruin is 100% if I stop.

I don't care.

I am destroying the Probability Engine tonight. I am deleting the code. I would rather lose the billion dollars than lose her smile.

Project Variable is terminated. Project Elodie is just beginning.

Elodie read it twice.

He had stopped. He hadn't used her. The "Luck" that happened over the last six months wasn't his manipulation; it was real. Or it was just life. He had chosen her over the algorithm.

And because he destroyed the code, he had nothing to give the Trust. That’s why they framed him. He took the fall to keep her out of it.

"He loves me," Elodie whispered. The tears came again, but they weren't angry anymore. "He really loves me."

"Desperately," Mr. Winter agreed. He took a sip of cocoa. "It’s quite inconvenient for his shareholders."

"But he's in jail," Elodie panicked. "They have him. And I have nothing. The bracelet is gone."

"Oh, pish-posh," Mr. Winter waved a hand. "The bracelet was just jewelry. Tacky jewelry, at that."

He reached into his pocket.

"You need to clear your name, Elodie. And you need to save him. But you can't do it with luck anymore. You used all that up."

"Then what do I do?"

"You use the Truth," Mr. Winter said. "And a little bit of Christmas spirit. Even in the summer."

He pulled out a small, rectangular object wrapped in silver paper. He handed it to her.

Elodie took it. She unwrapped it.

It was a cassette player. An old-fashioned Walkman. And a pair of headphones.

"What is this?"

"You have the tapes in your pocket," Mr. Winter pointed to the bulge in her flannel shirt. "His father’s tapes. The evidence. But you can't just play them for the police. The Trust owns the police."

"Then who do I play them for?"

Mr. Winter smiled. His eyes crinkled.

"You play them for the people who can't be bought. The Board is meeting tomorrow morning. An emergency session to liquidate the company."

"I can't get into the Boardroom," Elodie said. "I'm a fugitive. The building is surrounded."

Mr. Winter reached into his other pocket. He pulled out a small, silver item.

It wasn't a key. It was a Snow Globe.

Inside the glass sphere was a miniature replica of the Sterling Tower.

"Shake it," he commanded.

Elodie shook it. The little white flakes swirled around the tiny tower.

"When you get to the tower," Mr. Winter said, "shake this. The doors will open. The cameras will blink. Just for a minute. Just long enough for a Variable to slip through."

"Why are you helping me?" Elodie asked. "Are you... magic?"

Mr. Winter laughed. It sounded like sleigh bells.

"I'm just a silent partner, Elodie. I like good returns on my investments. And I invested in a romance, not a tragedy."

He turned away, lifting his lantern.

"Go to the surface, Elodie. Go to your old studio in Long Island City. It’s unlocked. There are shoes there. Better shoes."

"Wait!" Elodie took a step toward him. "Thank you."

Mr. Winter looked back over his shoulder. He was already fading into the shadows of the tunnel.

"Don't thank me yet," he twinkled. "You still have to get past Bianca. And she really hates you."

The light flickered.

And he was gone.

Elodie stood alone in the dark. But it didn't feel dark anymore.

She clutched the Walkman in one hand and the Snow Globe in the other. She touched the pocket where Alistair’s love letter lay hidden.

She wasn't a victim. She wasn't a math problem.

And she was going to crash a meeting.