Chapter 30 Marcus

By the time Friday rolled around, I had come to terms with two revelations:

The first: Cass Pierson had a mind as stunning and remarkable as her body—and that was a feat.

The second: Cass Pierson was head over heels for me—and every morning, eighteen-year-old Marcus was smiling at me from some parallel universe and applauding me for being the absolute legend I was.

With exactly two weeks left to go before the end of due diligence, the time she and I spent together at work had tapered down. My documentation had long been submitted for auditing, and Cass was spending more time managing the teams of in-person auditors who worked in the on-site data room. Normally, I would have been downright annoyed she wasn't six-feet away from me at all times in the fishbowl, but I could lean on the reassurance she spent most nights in my apartment. In my bed.

That Friday morning, Cass was meeting with a team of lawyers, so I took a call in the fishbowl. At Libra we had our own team of auditors, who had managed our financial accounting records for close to a decade. My primary contact, Eliza, had been working with me to investigate the "mystery deposits"—as we had started to call them. For a couple of weeks, Eliza and I had spoken on the phone as we reverse-engineered the trail—only to come up cold. Today, she was following up with me on what she referred to as, "a compelling lead."

"Just so you know, Fitz, I feel like a private detective at this point," she said when we started the call. "The phone tree you've sent me on to figure out the origin of these transactions is…well, anyway. How are you?"

Hearing this, I frowned as a sense of foreboding tore through me. Call it business instincts or call it experience; I knew something was off. "Good, Eliza." After a long pause, I continued, saying, "I've had enough rocky conversations about finances to know you don't have good news for me."

Like any good financial analyst, Eliza was careful to stay neutral. "I'm not going to pass judgment on this news, good or bad. I'm just going to tell you what I've learned."

"Shit," I murmured softly. "Sorry—shoot. Oh no, that was annoying. I really regret saying that. ‘Shoot?' What am I, a soccer mom?"

Eliza chuckled lightly, not because I was funny, but because I was rich. "Relax," she recommended. "Let me give you the facts and then we'll go from there."

"Sounds good."

"So you have recurring transactions documented in your ledgers under a ‘general funds' account. The vendor is listed as ‘Transaction balance,' which is obviously nonsensical, and the credits for these transactions range. You knew all this already, of course, but here's what I thought was interesting: There's a positive correlation between your accounts receivable and the amount of these transactions."

"Hold on," I cut in. "Can I just sit with that for a second?"

"Sure."

The amount deposited to our account was higher when accounts receivable was higher. That meant there was a positive relationship between the money owed to us by customers, and the money we received from this mystery account. I tapped my fingers on the flat shell of my laptop, wishing Cass were with me. I needed someone to help me think this through, and Eliza clearly wanted to stay in an all-facts-no-conclusions-zone—which terrified me from a legal perspective.

Financial analysts kept their mouths shut because it was too easy for them to accidentally give financial advice—and then it was a slippery slope to white collar crime and an inevitable Netflix documentary that would feed the country's potent desire to eat the rich. For Eliza to be this cagey meant she thought something was very wrong here.

"Eliza," I said once I had thought about this information for a couple of minutes, "have you ever seen this kind of transaction on any of your other clients' ledgers?"

"That's the thing. Per confidentiality, I can't tell you about any of my other clients' financial structures. Therefore, I can't tell you which companies have the same mystery transactions," she responded. "But I can tell you I have two other clients, both fintech."

Fintech. Financial technology.

Eliza didn't have anything else to share with me, so we ended the call. Minutes later, I found myself staring at the note I had typed out for myself:

Correlation between accounts receivable and the transaction amount.

I stared at that note for at least an hour, frowning at it, tugging on my hair, and chugging another coffee. It wasn't until Cass walked in that I finally stopped. When I did, I realized my eyes stung because my contact lenses had dried from staring at my screen for so long.

"What's wrong?" she asked, concern crossing her face as she saw my expression. She put her laptop down on the table. "I only have a couple minutes before I have to get back to the meeting, but if you need to talk…"

I took a deep breath. "Cass, if you saw a positive correlation between a transaction amount and accounts receivable over a long period of time, what would you think about that?"

"What would I think about that?" she asked. For several seconds, she hummed as her gaze drifted to the side. "Well, that's easy. Accounts receivable is the amount of money you receive via in-app purchases—the money owed to you from customers."

"Exactly."

"Your financial model is straightforward," she went on, "because you have paying customers and non-paying customers."

She was right: either customers used the free version of the Libra app, or they paid just under two dollars a month for a premium version.

"So, when accounts receivable goes up for you, it's an indication that you're either getting brand new customers, or you're converting free customers into paying customers." She leaned against the table, balancing on the edge of it. "Now, to answer your question about the relationship between accounts receivable and a given transaction amount…the transaction is a credit, right?"

"Right," I confirmed. "All credits and no debits." A credit meant we had regularly received money from these transactions and hadn't lost any money (where a debit would have indicated money expensed or lost).

"Oh, this is easy," she said. "I would treat accounts receivable as a proxy for total number of users. So, if you pulled up your MAU data, my guess is you would see an increase that also correlates with those transaction amounts."

She saw me hesitate as I struggled to keep up with her line of thinking. Patiently, she turned to face me.

"Think of it like this," she explained as she took a seat. "If you're making more money on accounts receivable, it's because you're getting more customers. So, your MAU data—your monthly active user data—is higher. Those two things: users and accounts receivable, are going to move together. If the number of users goes up, so will accounts receivable. Likewise, if the number of users goes down, so will accounts receivable."

"I follow."

"So, that mystery transaction—that's what I assume you're talking about, right? That mystery transaction probably represents a payment to you as you increase your MAUs."

"Someone is paying us on a per-user basis," I concluded, working through the logic of her reasoning aloud.

Cass nodded simply, totally oblivious to the fact that she just took a mere three minutes to solve a problem I had agonized over for an hour. "Listen, I have to go, but do you want to keep talking about this?"

I shook my head as a lump started to form in my throat. Quickly, I forced myself to steel my expression. I couldn't let her see I was about to descend into a panic.

Six-second reset.

"No, I'm all set. Thanks, Cass," I managed to say.

"No problem." Cass stood and smiled, looking so pretty I didn't know if I could handle her leaving me right now. "Are we hanging out tonight?"

"Oh, I have to…" My mind was racing and I couldn't come up with anything. "Can I call you later? I just have to…"

She paused by the door to the fishbowl, noting my expression once again. Fuck . She could see right through me. "Marcus, what happened?"

"Nothing." It was an obvious lie. "Nothing happened. I just have to go."

Luckily, up until a couple of weeks ago, Cass had been the queen of caginess. That used to frustrate me, but now it was a goddamn relief. She was willing to give me the space to leave it at that—even though there was clearly something on my mind. She didn't ask questions and she didn't object when I hastily gathered up my belongings and exited the fishbowl at the same time she did.

I emerged from the office to a bright Friday morning, and paused in a half panic attack with my phone clutched in my hand. I could have called a car, but for some reason it made more sense to go on foot—to let the fresh air envelop me as the tightness in my throat grew.

My heart was beating faster and I could feel my hands beginning to shake. And fifteen minutes later, when I pounded on the door to Alex's apartment, I realized I was hyperventilating.

"What the actual fuck?" Alex said when he yanked open the door.

He was standing there in workout clothes like he was on his way to the gym (even though it was a Friday morning and he should have been at work). His blue eyes scanned me up and down, taking in my wild expression and my heaving chest.

"Are you okay?"

"I am obviously not okay," I snapped as I shoved past him into his apartment.

His unit was too big and too polished to make any sense. It had two more bedrooms than he would ever need and I was willing to bet he hadn't used most of the appliances in his kitchen. It was one of those scenarios where he offered a blank check to an interior designer and let her run with it. She ran an extra zero for no reason, in my opinion.

I made a beeline for his kitchen, where I dropped my backpack onto one of the counter stools and began to unzip it with shaky hands.

Alex strolled over, frowning, as he watched me. "What the hell is happening?"

"Look at me," I snapped, working so hard to keep my voice from breaking. I managed to open my laptop. "Look at me and tell me the truth: Did you know anything about those mystery transactions on our ledgers?"

"This again?" he asked, almost laughing. "Marcus fucking Fitz, you've hit a new level of paranoia, buddy. I really think you need to—"

"Alex!" I finally shouted, eyes wide.

Startled, he furrowed his brow as he looked at me. "Did you just scream at me?"

I never shouted. Ever. In fact, it was probably one of the first times—if not the first time—that Alex had ever heard me raise my voice.

Without another word, I slammed my laptop on his counter—much harder than I would normally ever throw anything, let alone my professional lifeline. "What the fuck is this?"

Alex focused on my laptop screen, his expression stony. It stayed that way. And after thirty seconds, he still hadn't said a word. When he finally looked back at me, his poker face remained. "What do you think it is?"

"I think it's a fake account. I don't think that—I know that." Involuntarily, one of my hands went to the top of my head and I tugged on a handful of my hair. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Alex took a step back from the counter and he looked at me with cold blue eyes. I knew that look. I knew that look exceptionally well, but I had never been on the receiving end before. For ten years, I had watched Alex look at other people with those piercing eyes. The first time I witnessed it, someone in our freshman dorm had stolen the little white board I had hung next to our door. Within two hours, Alex had tracked down the whiteboard and the culprit, and had dragged him to our dorm room by his shirt collar to apologize to me.

"What do you know?" he questioned. He canted his head to the side. "I can tell you've drawn conclusions already. If you have a theory, just say it."

Six-second reset .

"You did a really fucking good job covering this up," I responded, speaking softly now that I was able to breathe evenly. "You did such a good job that literally nobody but me would have all the right puzzle pieces to put it together."

If I were correct, he gave me no indicators. He was a gray rock.

"We've been receiving money," I went on, watching him carefully. "The more our monthly active users goes up, the more money we get. I thought that was weird, because we don't have a single funding source that compensates us on a variable basis."

Alex pretended to look at my laptop, but I knew he only did it to break our eye contact. I could see him shifting, growing steadily more and more uneasy as I watched him. He kept his eyes on the screen for a few more seconds before he looked up at me and cocked an eyebrow. It was the first time I had ever seen him so quiet.

"I was trying to figure out why we would ever receive a variable compensation from someone. That's when I realized: It's not compensation, it's a sale. You sold user data, didn't you?"

Once I said the words, there was no taking it back. And for people in our industry, in a space where millions of people had provided us with information of the utmost security—loan terms, credit scores, salaries, tax filings, and so much more—selling user data was nothing short of a betrayal. And from a legal perspective… shit. Hell was going to rain down on me in a cresting wave of fire and lightning and probably some jail time, frankly.

"You did, didn't you?" I pressed. "That's what you were talking about in that Forbes article I managed to kill. You think people are too protective of their personal data, so it makes sense that you would sell it to someone."

"Marcus—"

"I would trade my soul right now to hear that I'm wrong," I murmured. "God, Alex, please tell me I'm wrong."

Alex let out a sigh and shook his head. Immediately, bile rose in my throat.

"To who?" I demanded. "What the—" I took a few steps away, nausea setting in. Was I sweating? I was definitely sweating. I collapsed into one of his armchairs a few feet away and leaned forward, head between my knees.

"Hey," he said as he walked over. "I can explain."

"We are so screwed," I said, daring to look up at him. The look on his face only unsettled me more. He was mildly concerned, probably because I was about to vomit on one of his imported rugs, but aside from that…nothing.

"Why would we be screwed?" he inquired. "Who else knows about this?"

"Nobody. Just me and Cass."

"Cass? As in Cassie? Well…" He shrugged. "If we keep it that way—"

"Nope. I'm not asking her to lie for you. And motherfucker, I am not going to a federal prison for you."

"Why would it come to that?" He tightened his brow even harder. "Are you going to report me to the FTC? Jesus. I made tens of millions of dollars doing this—millions you were able to reinvest into the company."

"Stop," I snapped as I got to my feet and darted behind the armchair, putting it between us like a shield. "I actually can't listen to this anymore. I can't." I shook my head.

"Relax."

"You are so out of your depth," I bit as I backed towards the kitchen. "We're going to be skewered for this, and the company is going to burn to the ground. You know that, right?"

"This is so dramatic," Alex insisted with one of those classic, nonchalant waves of his hand. He began to walk towards me, but I held up my hand.

"Stop."

"Are you serious?"

"Stay the fuck away from me. I don't want to know who you sold it to or why . Not until I get a lawyer."

He had the audacity to roll his eyes. "Don't be such a little bitch about it. I just worked with a data firm in Copenhagen that—"

"Shut the fuck up," I hissed, and I repeated it two more times as I pulled my backpack over my shoulder. "Don't contact me again."

"Don't do that," he ordered as he followed me to the front door. "This isn't at all what you think it is."

"What is it?" I demanded, pausing with my hand on the doorknob. "Tell me how the hell I'm supposed to be okay with this, when we promised users we would never, ever sell their data?"

"It's not a sale , it's a partnership," he tried to say. "It's a partnership with a data broker that can provide us with billions of different user personas to better market our product."

I paused, taking in the way Alex was standing there in his stupid workout clothes, holding up both hands like he was trying to convince me to buy something as banal as an air fryer. "If it's a partnership to our benefit, why are we getting paid? Have you even considered that? Why wouldn't we be the ones paying this firm in Copenhagen?"

Alex hesitated, but he was quick to catch his footing. "I mean, our data is valuable—"

Before he could embarrass himself, I shook my head. "Look, every internet and tech company sells user data—this is a fact. But we're not a regular company. We're a fintech company, Alex. Financial technology—and we are bound by the same fucking federal regulatory guidelines for consumer protection as financial institutions and credit bureaus. If we sell data, it's probably a felony ."

The way he froze made my nausea even more acute. He clearly hadn't thought about this the right way at all—one of the pitfalls of me being the mitochondria of the company.

"Don't contact me again, not until we get lawyers involved," I warned as I turned to leave once again.

"Fucking hell, Marcus, are you going to sue me?"

I pulled my face into a frown. "Are you joking? This is not a problem between friends, buddy . This is the end of our careers. This is the end of Libra. You can kiss the deal with Davenport-Ridgeway goodbye, but really that's the least of our problems."

"Wait," he pleaded. "Can we talk about this more? You're not going to tell anyone yet, are you?"

At that moment, all I could do was breathe out. I shook my head. "I need to think," I responded. "Just stay out of my way and don't ruin my fucking life—just for once, Alex."

When I left and slammed the door behind me, he didn't follow.