Beating Ruby Read Online Free Page B

than four NYPD cars were stationed in the street, not far from the entrance, along with a black SUV that looked straight out of a government conspiracy. Indeed, I soon watched with increasing worry as a steady stream of policemen in uniforms and suited guys came in and out of the building, performing what could best be described as cop stuff: talking into phones and walkie-talkies, eating bagels, drinking coffee, and occasionally flashing their badges at the Kit Kat’s security officers.
    In the distance, I noticed two guys I knew from HFT entering the building, so I bunched my fists and took a few cautious steps toward the revolving doors as well. Just so you know, HFT stands for “High Frequency Trading,” aka the Ninth Circle—in charge of developing those trading robots that break Wall Street entirely with a bazillion simultaneous transactions once in a while. I heard they test applicants with holy water there, to make sure they have no soul.
    As I approached the doors, I was able to catch bits of the cops’ conversations. Jumper . . . west side . . . fifth floor. A suicide? Maybe it was someone important. But the fifth floor was the mainframe’s floor, basically a ten-thousand-square-foot clean room. No VIPs there, just a team of engineers maintaining EMT’s servers 24-7 in a climate- and static-controlled environment—while slowly turning into ghouls from the lack of natural light.
    Right after I had passed the security gates, I had to hand my tote bag to one of the security officers for searching. I watched him fumble with little conviction into my usual mess of keys, candy wrappers, and tampons before he let me access the lobby. I barely had the time to take a few steps on the granite floor and inhale the morning bouquet of coffee and detergent when I heard a breathless call from the other end of the hall.
    Sheltered behind a massive circular aluminum desk sat Prince Grimaldo, part of the Kit Kat’s morning security team, and to some extent my bro—he and I shared the sort of complicity only people whose parents named them at random can understand.
    I ignored the stares from the policemen guarding the elevators, ran toward him, and slipped behind the desk, a privilege I had earned after two years of undying loyalty. Prince’s ample body was sprawled in his leather chair, squeezed into a navy-blue uniform that was anything but flattering. He combed a hand through the shoulder-length black hair he had been reminded on numerous occasions was against company policy and looked up at me, eyes wide with apparent distress. I opened my mouth to ask about the commotion around us, but before any sound could come out, Prince struggled up from his chair and pulled me into an awkward hug. He was crushing me, and I was distracted by the smell of candy clinging to his jacket.
    “Thom is dead. They say he killed himself.”
    I think I didn’t hear him speak, or maybe I did but the words didn’t register. There was this buzzing in my ears. I felt numb, confused.
    He repeated the words, louder this time. “Island, he killed himself.”
    The hall spun around me, and for a few seconds, there was nothing solid, nothing tangible to hold on to anymore. The floor under my feet, Prince’s body, it all felt like warm molasses engulfing me. I squirmed out of his embrace and staggered back.
    “I need . . . I need a moment. I’ll see you later.”
    I saw his hand reach out, perhaps to help me stand, but I turned away. I could feel eyes on me, no doubt observing my reactions. I just wanted to be alone. I walked toward the elevators like a zombie, showed my employee badge to a woman apparently in charge of making sure no one would access the clean room until the police were done. It seemed to take ages for the car to reach the ninth floor—R&D, and therefore my floor. I remember that I pressed my palms against the metal walls because the cool contact made me feel a little better. The hallway and open space were plunged in an