Kyle felt a rush of heat to his cheeks but managed to maintain an air of calm. “I’ve heard he has the proof but no one will listen. He’s convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was a deliberate act to destroy his company.”

Rebecca Geary shrugged. “I don’t know. Let’s say he’s right. Let’s say Arrival, or some other company, got into the Gandalf network and introduced a virus. Shouldn’t Kyle have anticipated that? Shouldn’t he have had safeguards in place?”

“So, blame the victim.”

“Not saying that. But if you’re, I don’t know, Target, and someone hacks into your database and gets credit card info on all your customers, who do you get mad at? You get mad at the company, because they were supposed to protect you from that kind of thing. What about all these firms getting hit with ransomware attacks? A lot of them never took the threats seriously until it was too late.”

“Hmm,” Kyle said.

“The corporate world is cutthroat. Bad things happen to good people, and good companies. Some great inventions get overtaken by something else. VHS killed Betamax, although that was Sony that took the hit, so it’s hard to shed a tear for them. They’re doing just fine, thank you very much. But then, look at BlackBerry. They made a pretty damn good phone, but then the iPhone came along, and they took a beating. And now, well, if all your money’s invested in the gas engine or premium unleaded, you might want to rethink that. History marches on. The thing with Brandon Kyle is, he and his Gandalf went off the rails.” She laughed. “Or off the cliff, I should say.”

Kyle found himself unable to feign a chuckle.

“I guess,” he said. “Where’s your camera guy?”

She tipped her head toward the cabin. “Carl’s at the buffet stuffing his face. Listen, nice talking to you. Probably see you at the presser.”

“Sure,” Kyle said.

She headed for one of the many outdoor benches set up on the deck with a view forward.

Kyle could feel the engines starting. The ship began to vibrate. Moments later, the ferry began to move out from the dock.

I hope she’s one of them, he thought. I hope she’s one of the first.

Three

“I think our friendly neighborhood serial killer was at it again last night,” said Archie Montrose.

Sandra’s twelve-year-old son was sitting at the kitchen table, ignoring the cereal he’d poured himself as he stared at his phone, playing a game. Any other morning, she might have told him to put his phone away, but she needed to save her strength today for bigger battles, should they come up.

But she did ask, as she filled a mug with coffee, “What are you talking about?”