Whistleblower (PALADIN Book 1)

“So what exactly did you do at your most recent position?”

Ronnie, the Chief of Human Resources at Redd Tech, questions me with a shit-eating grin. I hate the way he sits on the edge of his desk, one knee hiked up, and the sole of his sneaker scuffing his modern white desk.

“Is this really necessary?” I ask, glancing around the office. “You know what I do.” Or more accurately, what I used to do.

I swear… If he follows up this question with, “Where do you see yourself in five years…”

This interview—hell, this entire office—screams Silicon Valley. It’s meant to be energetic and casual. The embedded message is: we’re young, we’re fun, we’re tech badasses, and we care more about the invention than the presentation. Except, I know the truth. Ronnie’s anarchy t-shirt only looks casual, but it retails for over two hundred dollars. The sneakers, which he purposely left untied, are from a designer line that isn’t even available to the public. They have to be custom-ordered and cost about the same as a down payment on a brand-new Ford F-150.

Ronnie is wearing ripped denim blue jeans while conducting an interview for the Director of Personnel—a position with a salary in the low six-figures.

I think.

It’s been a while since I’ve had to negotiate my annual salary. I’ll ask for two hundred thousand, but the truth is, with my baggage, I’ll settle for one twenty, which is peanuts in this city.

Ronnie scoots an inch forward toward the edge of the desk, his left leg dangling. I shift in the weird, turquoise egg-shaped office chair I’m sitting in, and try to divert my gaze away from his crotch, which is uncomfortably close to my face

“Eden, play along. Please. It’s a formality.”

Filling my lungs to the brim, I let out an exaggerated sigh before I give the speech I’ve given hundreds of times before. “As you know, my doctorate is in organizational leadership and development. My role as a consultant has been to help data-centric companies scale their workforce without imploding from rapid growth.”

“Can you elaborate a bit?” Ronnie asks with a teasing smile. I want to slap him right now. He knows exactly what my expertise is because we went to school together. I pursued my doctorate, while Ronnie finished his master’s, but we shared a few classes. Not to mention, at one brief point, I was his boss. This entire interview is borderline demeaning.

“How so?” I ask curtly, forcing a clipped smile.

“The company you worked for most recently—Empress—what did they do? What did you do there?”

Now, I’m pissed.

What’s his endgame, bringing up Empress? This was supposed to be a job offer. Ronnie is a friend. I’m overqualified for the position I’m interviewing for. In fact, I’m overqualified for his position.

Still, I’m desperate. So, I bite back my irritation and answer his ridiculous questions. “As you’re well aware, Empress developed a ground-breaking app that secured half a billion dollars in its first round of fundraising. The algorithms they developed were like nothing else on the market.

“Empress would allow users to compile all of their social media platforms into one control hub. The technology was built to continuously evaluate all platforms, and compare them against the user’s content performance, engagement, and target audience to essentially create a tailored rapid-growth approach depending on the user’s specific goals. Their algorithm changed social media virality from a lottery system into a predictable pattern.”

“One algorithm to rule them all,” Ronnie jokes. What an ass. He knows what Empress did better than anyone. Redd Tech was their competitor—if you could call them that. Their developments paled in comparison. Empress’s tech cracked the code on all the other social media platform’s sneaky algorithms, but instead of hoarding it, they shared it, wanting to level the influencer and creator playing field.

Everyone deserves recognition. Everyone deserves a chance to be seen.

“Right. Something along those lines. As a user you could just create content and the app would predict the success of that content on various platforms based on your following, current trends, optimal posting time, etcetera. The predictions were unbelievably accurate. Empress could tell you almost down to a single digit what you could expect in likes, reach, and follows. It was basically a cheat sheet for the intricacies of content strategy. All you’d have to do is create content, and the Empress algorithm would monetize it for you.”

“Beautiful elevator pitch.”

“Thank you,” I sass. “Empress was wildly successful right out of the gate, they needed to scale—quickly. I was their lead consultant on growth strategy for personnel.”

Empress’s tech division went from five employees to nearly eighty within the span of a month. They built a U.S.-based customer service team from scratch. They needed analysts, legal, accounting, human resources—you name it. The founders of the company were in so far over their heads. Their genius was in tech, but they had no idea how to build a healthy corporation. That’s where I came in.

Ronnie nods along enthusiastically. “And you were successful. So successful, Empress offered you a full-time role as Chief of Operations?”

“Right.”

“Which you accepted.”

“Correct.”

“And were fired three days later?” Ronnie asks.

I suck in a sharp breath, surprised at his candidness. “Unlawfully.”

“Why?” Ronnie raises his eyebrows at me.

Why is he being so inquisitive? Empress’s demise was publicized. He knows exactly why I was terminated, but he wants to hear me say it. Again, what an asshole.

“I stumbled across some incriminating information about Empress during my first day as Chief of Operations. I reported it to the authorities. Empress terminated me and filed a frivolous lawsuit against me for corporate espionage, which never came to fruition. The company was dissolved and charged on several felony counts.”

“What counts?”

Shielding my face with my hands so Ronnie can’t see my eyes roll, I grumble. “Ronnie, you know what counts. The corporation, along with the founders, were found guilty of conspiracy as well as aiding and abetting. It’s public record.”

It was a highly publicized case. From the moment I reported my findings to the feds, almost a year ago to the day, it was a media shitstorm.

“I know what they were charged with, but between you and I…” He leans in closer and I can almost feel his warm breath against my face. It makes my stomach twist with discomfort. “What did you find?”

What did I find? Evidence that Empress was attempting to start a civil war—which I can’t say. I’m also not allowed to say that, in addition to charges that were broadcasted publicly, they were also charged with the felony of domestic terrorism. I’m buried so deep under NDAs, that if I were to even say the words civil and war in the same sentence, I’d have FBI agents breaking down my door so fast.

“Legally, I can’t say.”

“Come on, Eden. Give me something. Help me help you.” Ronnie leans backward to my great relief. I relish the space between us.

Redd Tech is my final option. It was bad enough I had to beg Ronnie for this interview, but now I have the sneaking suspicion that I don’t actually have the job, and this interview is far more than a formality.

“Help me?”

“I had to pull some serious strings to even make this interview happen. We have concerns. My boss has big concerns.”

“About what?”

“We don’t want to go through what Empress went through. Every company has some skeletons in the closet—”

“Are you dabbling in felonies?”

“Eden, between the IRS and SEC, it doesn’t matter if you’re trying to do everything by the book, you’re bound to accidentally screw up one way or another. All companies get nervous around a—”

He stops himself, with a pained expression, like he just ate something sour. But I know the word that’s on the tip of his tongue.

“Just say it.”

I watch his eyes, but he’s suddenly very interested in his shoes.

“Whistleblower,” he says reluctantly.

We whisper it like it’s a dirty word, because in the corporate business world, it is. When I exposed Empress’s illicit activity, I thought I was doing the right thing—saving lives. Preventing a lot of pandemonium and suffering. And perhaps that’s still the FBI’s narrative, except they’ve buried that narrative from the public in an attempt to “mitigate mass panic.” I believe that was the verbiage they used. What they were really saying is that they didn’t want the public to know that the only thing that kept any major tech or data collection company from exploiting a user’s social security number, home address, bank account information, or personal internet searches was adherence to the law.

So what happens when a company decides to be unlawful?

Scary…isn’t it? That our personal safety is heavily reliant on the ethical behavior of money-driven strangers. Of course, that’s not a tidbit that the CIA, FBI, or DOJ necessarily want to shout through a bullhorn.

So, I told the truth…

Then I was told to shut up.

The entire world thinks I destroyed a beloved company and app because of a little bribery and coercion, when the reality is far grimmer.

“You can’t offer me this job, can you, Ronnie?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“Then why even entertain this interview?” I finally ask.

Using his top teeth, he tugs on his bottom lip. “Because I wanted to see you. To know how you’re doing. You wouldn’t respond to any of my calls or texts. I was worried, I know it’s been a rough year.”

No, you don’t know. It’s been hell.

It was bad enough I lost my job, my credibility. I thought I had friends but it turns out I had colleagues, and after the ordeal with Empress they disappeared so fast you would’ve thought I had leprosy.

If that wasn’t enough, all the employees who were enjoying generous salaries, retirements, and company stock had a bone to pick with me for ruining their lives. It came out in the form of menacing letters and phone calls, graffitied profanity on my house and driveway, and a witch hunt on the internet. I couldn’t defend myself and tell them that maybe I saved their lives…their children’s lives. That minor detail probably would’ve helped calm their rage.

But thanks to the gag order the FBI put on me, as far as the laid-off employees knew, Dr. Eden Abbott, self-righteous snitch-bitch, single-handedly brought down Empress—the very company I busted my ass to help build. Their futures were ruined, and I was to blame.

I’m tired… I’m wary. The burden of doing the right thing is too damn heavy, and I’m about ready to give up. My dad would want me to fight. He’d tell me to pretend I’m brave until I actually am. I can almost hear the words in my head, exactly how he’d say them, “Fuck this guy, fuck this interview, fuck this city. Hold your head high because the righteous people always prevail in the end.”

But it’s been a year and it’s only getting harder.

Either Dad was wrong or I’m not as righteous as I think.

I suck in a deep breath, then blow out all the hope I had left. I really thought Ronnie might come through for me. “Well, thanks for your time.” I begin to rise, but he grabs my hand. I freeze out of pure discomfort.

“Have dinner with me.”

“Excuse me?” I ask in a dangerously low tone. “You’re married.” I glance at his left hand still holding mine. There’s a tan line, but no ring.

“Annie and I got divorced a few months ago. Look Eden… I had the biggest crush on you in grad school. Did you know that?”

Actually, I didn’t. Ronnie’s cute and sweet. He has chocolate-colored curls and soft brown eyes. I never found him sexy, but I would’ve obliged a date had he asked. Ronnie is intelligent and we talk the same language—have the same interests, similar goals. But he had ample opportunity while we were both single, yet never made a move. He’s only brave enough to ask me now because he’s no longer intimidated by me or my career.

Narrowing my eyes, I say, “You should’ve asked me out, then.”

He raises his brows. “Oh?”

“Yes, you should’ve asked me out, back then, instead of waiting until I was at the lowest point in my life and career. Did you really think you could lure me into a date, or whatever else is going through your mind, by taking advantage of my current desperation?”

Ronnie balks in surprise at my frankness. I force myself to smile so much that oftentimes, people forget I’m fully capable of being angry.

“Eden, I—”

“No, listen to me,” I say, snatching my hand back. “I don’t deserve this. Any of it. I did the honorable thing, and I was punished for it. Everything I’ve worked for? Gone. My reputation? Brutalized. I’m not even known as a martyr—just a traitor. I have nothing left except my own self-respect and it’s cruel that you’d try to strip me of that too.”

He opens his mouth then clamps it shut, unable to formulate a worthy response. I collect my handbag and rise, then point to the funky, modern chair.

“And by the way, this is a ridiculous chair for a HR professional’s office,” I say matter-of-factly. I release the angry breath I was holding and add, “Thank you for at least meeting with me. Up until I realized you were just baiting me with this interview to go out with you, it was actually nice to see you again.” I make my way to the door but spin around when Ronnie speaks.

“I’m sorry, Eden. I really am. Hang in there, I hope…”

“Hope what?” Tucking my hair behind my ear, I wait patiently for his response. I’m in dire need of some kind of profound message from the universe, even if Ronnie is the mouthpiece.

“That you get…I don’t know…revenge.”

“I don’t want revenge.”

“What do you want?”

Peace.

Rest.

It’s been the longest year of my life, and I am so fucking tired.

I pop my shoulders as if it’s no big deal. “Nothing. I’ll be okay,” I lie, then make my way through the office door, careful not to slam it behind me. I fly down the hallway past the rows of community desks and Bosu balls in lieu of office chairs, praying no one recognizes me, or worse, attempts to start a conversation. I’ve run out of fake smiles for the day.

I’m able to keep my composure until I see my car. Feeling the tears forming and the uncomfortable prickly heat in my cheeks, I hustle the last few steps to my SUV. My hurried footsteps echo loudly off the walls of the parking garage. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I mentally call out “safe.”

Despite a year of emotional torture, I make sure that no one ever sees me cry. Tears make a person look guilty. I’m not.

I’m not, I’m not.

But I sure as hell do a lot of crying these days. It’s to the point that I have a ritual. I fish through my purse, to find a small visual timer.

I used to teach this strategy to the leadership teams I worked with. Commanding groups of unmotivated and disgruntled entry-level customer service agents is no easy feat. It’s like trying to appease the chronically dissatisfied, but I always teach the companies I work with that good leadership is poised—quick to listen, slow to speak, and always gracious.

But let’s be honest…that shit can really wear you down.

I’d gather the entire leadership team and give everyone a visual timer and tell them to make room for their emotions. The more they bottled up, the bigger the explosion, and that’s how people end up jumping off building rooftops. So, I instructed them to always make time to feel angry, sad, frustrated, and vengeful. In private. Then when the timer goes off…

Let it go.

Getting comfortable in my driver’s seat, I turn the dial to ten minutes and it begins to tick… No, that was a really big blow. That interview was your last hope. You deserve a little more time… I twist the dial so the pointer rests on fifteen minutes.

Glancing around, I ensure there are no other cars or passersby on this side of the parking garage. I’m alone and I have exactly fifteen minutes to cry, melt, and completely fall apart. Afterward, I’ll put myself back together and trudge forward like I’ve been doing for an entire year now.

Thirteen minutes left. I picture the cold, callous courtroom and staring into the eyes of the founders at Empress while I confessed to the judge about what I had found. It was a very private hearing, but it felt like I was naked, on stage, at the Super Bowl halftime show. I forced myself to speak clearly, but I wanted to hide and disappear.

Eleven minutes left. I close my eyes and see the late payment notifications for the family home Dad left me. The home my mother wanted to come back to. This home is my history, the only remnants of my family remaining, and I’m about to lose it to the bank.

Eight minutes left. I shiver at the memory of a brick being thrown through my living room window. The note attached read: Die tattletale bitch. They set my garden on fire too. Luckily, my sprinklers are on the evening cycle or the little flames might’ve set my entire house on fire before the bank could snatch it back.

Six minutes—

The sound of a knuckle tapping against my driver-side window nearly sends me into cardiac arrest. I’m caught—blotchy-faced, huffing…pathetic. I glance at the man standing outside my window. He’s wearing dark-washed blue jeans with a neat black belt. His dress shirt is tucked in, covered by a black suit jacket.

He peers through the window and squints, reminding me how darkly tinted all my car windows are. Actually, they are well past the legal allowance for vehicle window tints. It was a small security measure I had to take. A brick through my living room window scared the shit out of me. A properly timed brick through the driver’s side window of my car could kill me.

Every fiber in my being is telling me not to engage with this stranger, who is wearing dark sunglasses in a parking lot enclosure. My hand creeps towards my car’s start button and I have every intention of peeling out of this spot, Tokyo Drift style, until he knocks again. This time, he subtly moves his suit jacket to the side, flashing me his shiny gold badge.

Dammit. I know that badge. I’ve had enough encounters with the FBI over the past year to recognize it.

“Dr. Abbott,” he calls out, then points his finger down repeatedly. Hesitantly, I roll down my window.

“Yes?”

His features are unremarkable. Not in an unattractive way, it’s just that the combination of his slim face, tan complexion, and neatly combed, dark hair makes him…quite forgettable. He blends. I don’t think I could pick him out of a crowd. It’s a perfect look for a secret agent.

“You saw my badge?”

“Yes.” Even if I didn’t, the fact that he called me Doctor Abbott is an easy tip-off that he’s an agent. They like titles. But Doctor sounds better for M.D.s. I prefer Eden.

“Can you unlock the door?” He points to the passenger side while examining my perplexed expression. “Let’s chat.” Circling the car, he makes his way to the passenger side. The very second he tugs on the door latch, my timer rings, screeching at the top of its lungs.

Ring, ring! It’s time, Eden!

It’s time to be okay.