CHAPTER 9 — We Will Buy Your Goodwill

“Sign here and you can reopen the relief center.”

The contract the woman handed Leila bore the Valois Group logo. Leila read the name of the woman sitting across from her.

Claire Valois. Head of public relations. And Étienne Valois's wife.

“There's a clause allowing you to use my face in advertisements.”

“It's part of a campaign about overcoming the crisis. At times like these, showing people working together matters.”

“People lost their jobs because of a video showing my face.”

“That's the misunderstanding we're offering to correct.”

“You need an advertising contract to correct a misunderstanding?”

Claire pressed her lips together. Her fingernails whitened against the edge of the papers.

“Ms. Haddad, you're having trouble using the relief center building right now, aren't you? The refrigeration equipment is broken too.”

“How do you know that?”

“We assess the condition of facilities we may support.”

“Then you must know where our medicines were moved.”

“That's outside my responsibilities.”

Leila pushed the contract aside.

“My job is feeding people. If you're offering to let me do that only if I give you their names, the price is too high.”

Claire's smile disappeared.

“We can negotiate some conditions. But you must also address what you said about our chairman in public.”

“If he answers my question, we can address it.”

“Do you want to meet him in person?”

“No. I want an answer to the question I already asked.”

Leila set two bowls of soup Samira had prepared on the table. Claire stared at hers, then drew back her hand.

“You don't have to eat it.”

“No, that's not... It's warm.”

Claire wrapped her palms around the bowl. For a moment the woman who'd spoken as though calculating figures looked ordinary. Then her phone rang. Without answering it, she turned the screen facedown.

“We helped when the relief center first opened.”

“I know.”

“Then why can't you trust us now?”

“Because help we received back then doesn't mean I have to sign everything you put in front of me without asking questions.”

Claire's gaze returned to the contract. Leila picked up a draft advertisement. It read:

A WARM SUPPER FOR OUR NEIGHBORS. THURSDAY MENU: LENTIL SOUP AND FLATBREAD.

Leila frowned.

“Who told you our menu?”

“Our research team must have confirmed it.”

“Only the volunteers know Thursday's menu. We haven't posted it on the website.”

“The support coordinator may have received a call.”

“Then tell me who took that call.”

Claire said nothing.

Her wedding ring tapped against the contract. Leila covered the field requesting residents' names with one finger. A box of bread wasn't worth selling out her neighbors.

Claire looked out the window too. A jobless driver was dividing a loaf with his young son. The boy reached for the larger half in his father's hand, then stopped. Claire watched a moment before another notification drew her eyes back to her phone.

Leila turned to the last page. Under JOINT STATEMENT TO RESTORE MUTUAL TRUST was a clause requiring her to refrain from criticizing the company's future aid. There was nothing to say who would decide whether she was stating a fact or making a criticism. She marked the line in pencil, so she wouldn't forget why she had refused to sign.

Gabriel's voice came from outside. He'd arranged to meet Adèle to take a company employee's statement. When Leila opened the door, they came face to face.

“Officer, do you know our Thursday menu?”

“No.”

“Well, the company's PR team does.”

Gabriel examined the draft she showed him. Claire rose.

“Can a private advertising draft really be evidence in a criminal investigation?”

“I can examine whether it's relevant. Will you tell me where the information came from?”

“Submit a formal request to the company.”

“I will.”

As Claire folded the papers into her envelope, Leila saw the tight line of her mouth. Claire left a small business card behind.

“Call me if you change your mind.”

“Change the contract and I'll read it again.”

“You're more difficult than I expected, Ms. Haddad.”

“I'm responsible for other people's meals.”

After Claire left, Gabriel indicated the contract.

“May I request a copy?”

Leila looked at Adèle. The night he'd put her in handcuffs, he hadn't asked permission for anything.

“You're asking me?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can have a copy. I'll keep the original.”

“Understood.”

She remembered that he'd asked for permission before reaching for anything. That made her angrier. If he knew how to make that choice, why hadn't he made it on the first night?

That evening Leila reread the draft Claire had left. At the bottom was a tiny note identifying the source of the text:

PREPARED USING LOCAL TRUST ASSESSMENT DATA.

Leila folded the sheet with Thursday's menu.

The words she'd written to feed people had become data for someone else's surveillance.