Page 28 of Ruin
She doesn't hear me in the doorway.
I watch her for a moment. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's concentrating. The way her lips move slightly when she reads. The collar glinting above the neckline of a black silk blouse.
"You're staring," she says without looking up.
"You're in my building. I'm allowed."
She glances at me. "Your building, but my office. Wouldn’t you call that shared territory?"
"Everything is shared territory now." I lean against the doorframe. "What are you working on?"
"The import company's customs filings. There's a pattern in the inspection schedule. Every third shipment gets flagged, and it's not random. Someone at customs is being paid to flag them and then clear them. Which means someone at customs knowsexactlywhat's in those containers."
"That's been the arrangement for five years."
"And it's a terrible one, Cassius. One disgruntled customs agent, one audit, one new supervisor who doesn't take bribes, and your entire import pipeline collapses." She turns her chair to face me. "I can build a legitimate filing structure that passes inspection without needing a man on the inside. It takes longer to set up, but it eliminates the human variable."
I cross my arms. "The human variable is what keeps this business running."
"The human variable is what gets people caught. Ask Gerald Fink."
She has a point, and fuck, do I hate that she has a point.
"I have something for you," I say.
"A compliment? Those seem rare."
"A phone call." I pull out my phone and dial and put it on speaker.
It rings twice. A woman's voice answers—clipped, professional, slight Boston accent. "Dean Whitfield's office."
"Margaret. It's Cassius Wolfe."
The voice warms three degrees. "Mr. Wolfe. What can I do for you?"
"I need to discuss Selene Deveraux's enrollment status. She'll be continuing her degree remotely starting the fall semester. I trust that won't be a problem."
A pause.
The kind that involves mental calculation of exactly how much money I've donated to Harvard's endowment. "Of course not. We have several accommodations for students with...unique circumstances. I'll have the paperwork sent over this week."
"Send it to her directly." I look at Selene. Her face is carefully blank, but her eyes are sharp. Taking it in. Filing it away. "She handles her own affairs."
"Of course. Ms. Deveraux, if you need anything at all?—"
"I'll be in touch," Selene says. "Thank you, Margaret."
I end the call.
She stares at me. "You just arranged my entire academic future in forty-five seconds, without even consulting me."
"You have better things to do than sit in a lecture hall. But I'm not going to be the reason you don't finish. And don’t be silly, Selene, you knew after one year I would never let you out of my fucking sight."
Something crosses her face.
Quick. Complicated.
The kind of look that says she knows nothing from me comes free.
