“Provided that Tom behaves.”

“Why do you say that? About Tom? I . . . I don’t mean to pry, but you told me to watch my back with him in Stanford. You . . . don’t like him?”

He sighed. “It’s not that I don’t like him—even though I don’t. It’s more that I don’t trust him.”

“Why, though? Adam told me about the things Tom did for him when your adviser was abusive.”

“See, this is where a big part of my mistrust comes in.” Holden worried at his lower lip, as if deciding whether and how to continue. “Did Tom intercede to save Adam’s ass on numerous occasions? Sure. It’s undeniable.

But how did those occasions come about to begin with? Our adviser was a piece of work, but he was not a micromanager. By the time we joined his lab, he was too busy being a famous asshole to know what was going on in day-to-day lab business. Which is why he had postdocs like Tom mentor grad students like Adam and me and de facto run the lab. And yet, he knew about every single minor screwup of Adam’s. Every few weeks he’d come in, tell Adam that he was a failure of a human being for minor stuff like switching reagents or dropping a beaker, and then Tom, our adviser’s mosttrusted postdoc, would publicly intervene on behalf of Adam and save the day. The pattern was eerily specific, and only for Adam—who was by far the most promising student in our program. Destined for greatness and all that.

Initially, it made me a bit suspicious that Tom was purposefully sabotaging Adam. But in recent years I’ve been wondering if what he wanted was something else altogether. . . .”

“Did you tell Adam?”

“Yes. But I had no proof, and Adam . . . well, you know him. He is stubbornly, unwaveringly loyal, and he was more than a little grateful to Tom.” He shrugged. “They ended up becoming bros, and they’ve been close friends ever since.”

“Did it bother you?”

“Not per se, no. I realize I might sound jealous of their friendship, but the truth is that Adam has always been too focused and single-minded to have many friends. I’d have been happy for him, truly. But Tom . . .”

Olive nodded. Yeah. Tom. “Why would he do this? This . . . weird vendetta against Adam?”

Holden sighed. “This is why Adam dismissed my concerns. There really isn’t an obvious reason. The truth is, I don’t think Tom hates Adam. Or at least, I don’t think it’s that simple. But I do believe that Tom is smart, and very, very cunning. That there probably is some jealousy involved, some desire to take advantage of Adam, to maybe control or have power over him.

Adam tends to downplay his accomplishments, but he’s one of the best scientists of our generation. Having influence over him . . . that’s a privilege, and no small feat.”

“Yeah.” She nodded again. The question, the one she’d come here to ask, was starting to take shape in her mind. “Knowing all of this. Knowing how important Tom is to Adam, if you had proof of . . . of how Tom really is, would you show Adam?”

To his credit, Holden didn’t ask what the proof was, or proof of what. He scanned Olive’s face with an intent, thoughtful expression, and when he spoke, his words were careful.

“I can’t answer that for you. I don’t think I should.” He drummed his fingers on the podium, as if deep in thought. “But I do want to tell you three things. The first you probably already know: Adam is first and foremost a scientist. So am I, and so are you. And good science only happens when we draw conclusions based on all available evidence—not just the ones that are easy, or that confirm our hypotheses. Wouldn’t you agree?” Olive nodded, and he continued.

“The second is something you may or may not be aware of, because it has to do with politics and academia, which are not easy to fully grasp until you find yourself sitting through five-hour-long faculty meetings every other week. But here’s the deal: the collaboration between Adam and Tom benefits Tom more than it does Adam. Which is why Adam is the main investigator

of the grant they were awarded. Tom is . . . well, replaceable. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a very good scientist, but most of his fame is due to him having been our former adviser’s best and brightest. He inherited a lab that was an already well-oiled machine and kept it going. Adam created his own research line from the ground up, and . . . I think he tends to forget how good he is.

Which is probably for the best, because he’s already pretty insufferable.” He huffed. “Can you imagine if he had a big ego, too?”

Olive laughed at that, and the sound came out oddly wet. When she raised her hands to her cheeks, she was not surprised to find them glistening.

Apparently, weeping silently was her new baseline state.

“The last thing,” Holden continued, unbothered by the waterworks, “is something you probably do not know.” He paused. “Adam has been recruited by a lot of institutions in the past. A lot. He’s been offered money, prestigious positions, unlimited access to facilities and equipment. That includes Harvard—this year was not their first attempt at bringing him in. But it’s the first time he’s agreed to interview. And he only agreed after you decided to go work in Tom’s lab.” He gave her a gentle smile, and then looked away, beginning to collect his things and slide them inside his backpack. “Make of that what you will, Olive.”

Chapter Twenty

She had to lie.

Again.

It was becoming a bit of a habit, and while she spun an elaborate tale for the secretary of Harvard’s biology department, one in which she was a grad student of Dr. Carlsen’s who needed to track him down immediately to relay a crucial message in person, she swore to herself that this would be the last time. It was too stressful. Too difficult. Not worth the strain on her cardiovascular and psychophysical health.

Plus, she sucked at it. The department secretary didn’t look like she believed a word of what Olive said, but she must have decided that there was no harm in telling her where the biology faculty had taken Adam out for dinner—according to Yelp, a fancy restaurant that was less than a tenminute Uber ride away. Olive looked down at her ripped jeans and lilac Converse and wondered if they’d let her in. Then she wondered if Adam would be mad.

Then she wondered if she was making a mistake and screwing up her own life, Adam’s life, her Uber driver’s life. She was very tempted to change her destination to the conference hotel when the car pulled up to the curb, and the driver—Sarah Helen, according to the app— turned around with a smile.

“Here we are.”

“Thank you.” Olive started getting out of the passenger seat and found that she couldn’t move her legs.

“Are you okay?” Sarah Helen asked.

“Yeah. Just, un . . .”

“Are you gonna puke in my car?”

Olive shook her head. No. Yes. “Maybe?”

“Don’t, or I’ll destroy your rating.”

Olive nodded and tried to slide out of the seat. Her limbs were still nonresponsive.

Sarah Helen frowned. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I just . . .” There was a lump in her throat. “I need to do a thing. That I don’t want to do.”

Sarah Helen hummed. “Is it a work thing, or a love thing?”

“Uh . . . both.”

“Yikes.” Sarah Helen scrunched up her nose. “Double threat. Can you put it off?”

“No, not really.”

“Can you ask someone else to do it for you?”

“No.”

“Can you change your name, cauterize your fingertips, enter the witness protection program, and disappear?”

“Um, not sure. I’m not an American citizen, though.”