In the entryway of my apartment, I pulled the white paper away from the dark mahogany picture frame. The photo had been taken several weeks ago, during my Washington visit. It had the markings of an official White House photo, though it had been routed through my staff for framing before it reached me.

  The memory of the moment was still fresh in my head; it was a simple photo, though nothing was simple about the subjects. I stood on the left, wearing my black gown and jewelry, shaking hands with President Al Gore, who was dressed as formally as I was. He had a proud, engaged look on his face, and the expression on my face read as demure and reserved. I’m still not sure how I managed to look so collected meeting the newly-elected leader of the free world.

  “I can’t believe that you actually met him,” gasped Catherine. “What does the note say?”

  There was a small card inside of an officially embossed White House envelope, which I read aloud. “To Maya – With deepest gratitude for your vision, Al Gore.” It was hand-written.

  Catherine shook her head. “It’s surreal, Maya. What happens next? Do you get some sort of private phone line to the White House? Are you a member of the cabinet now?”

  “I haven’t heard anything from the White House, and I don’t expect to. This photo – hell, the entire inauguration – was meant as a reward, but also a signal. They know me, even if no one else does, and they want to keep me close. I have a designation, even if it’s unofficial. They’ll come to me when it suits them.”

  “I suppose that’s a show of strength on their part.”

  I sighed. “But not unexpected. Pushing them over the finish line was no small thing, and someone like me is a variable they’d want to control. But they also know that they can’t buy me, and that at least for the moment I am aligned with them.”

  Catherine shivered. “That’s a little scary, Maya.”

  I gave a breathless laugh. “Just be lucky you only work for me. It’s a lot more fun than being me. What do we have today?”

  Catherine pulled out her agenda folder. “Building management informed us that the water pipes will be serviced tomorrow afternoon, along with the service elevator. Karen passed along forms for the new analysts we recently hired; just review and sign and they’ll start their onboarding. There was also a request for scheduling for March; Karen has the details. And lastly, there’s a new report which Mr. O’Toole sent over, your eyes only. You can review it on the way to your meeting with Mr. Thorne.”

  She handed a manila envelope to me. “Thanks, Cat. I’ll see you tonight; have a good class.”

  We shared a friendly hug, and Cat entered the elevator. I liked having Catherine in my life; it felt normal somehow. Granted, the older version of Catherine that Matthew was married to was far different from the college-aged version who was employed by me. If anything, she was half work-wife and half roommate. The fact that Karen was taking her under her wing and introducing her to the world of corporate wealth management seemed to be giving her that sense of purpose she had found too late in Matthew’s timeline.

  My driver pulled away from the entry landing of my building and pulled down Michigan Avenue towards the Loop. I opened the envelope from O’Toole, which was a surveillance report I had requested of the Sun Times building. Coincidentally, it was on our right as we crossed the Michigan Avenue Bridge.

  “Robert, turn right here and follow Wacker along the water. Take your time.”

  He complied, and I gazed out across the river at the long, rectangular eyesore that was the Sun Times building. It had recently announced it was going on sale; a prime piece of Chicago real estate flush with the Chicago River. I knew the eventual fate of the plot of land, which was confirmed in the report O’Toole had sent this morning. According to him, several associates from New York City had been scouting the property, though he wasn’t able to confirm specifically who they were representing. He didn’t have to; I knew already.

  They were executives representing the property mogul Donald Trump.

  If Matthew had hated George Bush in his timeline, he despised Donald Trump. The powerlessness he felt as Trump warped the media in the 2010s made Bush seem reasonable by comparison. What made it worse was the property on Wabash Ave, which eventually became the Trump Hotel Chicago. It was a beautiful building, but in the height of the Trump presidency, all of Chicago was forced to watch as he hung his name in bold letters overlooking the busiest intersection of the city.

  Matthew saw his name towering over his beloved city on the train to work every morning. Much like everything else in his presidency, it led to a hollow rage that permeated everything.

  Now, in 2001, it remained simply the squat, mostly abandoned former site of the Sun Times, and Trump himself was a third-rate celebrity as well as a joke among business circles. I felt Matthew’s anger as fresh as I would my own as I stared at the site as Robert proceeded down Wacker Drive. Having just spent the last few years of this new timeline successfully removing the Bush presidency, the odds were that the Trump administration would never exist.

  But that wasn’t good enough for me.

  It could remain a little flex of mine, to neutralize him now so that he couldn’t rise a decade from now. I had influenced the presidential election after all; why not take down a greedy, third-rate business man as well?

  I was still simmering by the time we turned left on Lake, past the Chicago Theater, and onto Monroe. Robert parked in front of an older building, a mere green canopy decorating the exterior of the University Club. He opened the rear door for me, and as I approached a doorman bowed slightly and showed me through to a wood-paneled reception desk. The host regarded me for a moment, and coldly waited for me to speak.

  “Maya Peterson, to meet with Julian Thorne.”

  Without a word, the host nodded and checked his leatherbound ledger. With a gesture, he summoned an attendant who appeared from nowhere. “Maya Peterson, guest of Mr. Thorne. Sixth floor, dining area.” A staff member swooped in, quietly helping me out of my coat and leading me to the elevators.

  After a short ride up, I was guided through a dining lounge with scatterings of men in business suits, buried in newspapers or in quiet conversations. Near one of the windows sat Mr. Thorne, immersed in documents and wearing his trademark flower on his lapel. When he noticed me approaching, he immediately stood up.

  “Thank you, James,” said Thorne, dismissing the attendant coolly. He quickly pulled out the chair opposite of him for me to sit down. “How are you today, Ms. Peterson?”

  I sat, allowing him to push me in. “An interesting change of venue for our biweekly strategy meeting, Mr. Thorne. I don’t think the staff said two words to me.”

  “I apologize, Ms. Peterson,” Thorne said, retaking his seat. “The University Club tends to be procedural to guests of members. At worst, they probably thought you were family, or one of my staff. I doubt anyone would suspect that it is I that works for you.”

  “It is quite a view,” I replied, glancing out the window at Michigan Avenue below. The area just north of the Art Institute was a mess of railroad tracks, construction, and of course a fresh layer of Chicago snow.

  “I admit it’s dismal for February,” Thorne opined. “If they ever manage to get this Millennium Park project finished, it will be far more pleasant.”

  I waved him off. “I’m sure it will. Let’s go over the usual business.”

  “Of course,” Thorne said, his pen ready. “Is it time for us to look into our tech buybacks? The NASDAQ has been looking positive in the last few weeks.”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid it’s not time yet. It’s just going to be another regression. Rest assured, the time will come to buy back our positions when the price truly bottoms out.”

  Thorne nodded compliantly. A year ago he would have argued about my directives, but he knew better. He merely waited.

  “I would like increased scrutiny on energy holdings. I’d like to track corporate debt spreads closely – In particular, keep an eye on Enron. But absolutely no movements. Just monitor.”

  “Understood.” Thorne quickly made a note. He seemed disappointed; it must have been jarring that this cash liquid account was so utterly motionless.

  “Speaking of construction,” I said, gesturing at the bulldozers and cranes working below us, “I have a non-financial matter I’d like to discuss.”

  A small smirk formed on his face. “Is this…Washington aligned? You know we’ve been getting inquiries about the principal of Butterfly Capital; some junior congressmen, some D.C. insiders, even a senator. We have deflected them, as per your instructions, but there has been a growing interest in a ‘Maya Peterson’ of Chicago.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Well, it’s nice to be wanted,” I laughed softly. “No, this has nothing to do with Washington. New York, actually.”

  Thorne stroked his chin, attempting to conceal an even wider smirk forming. “I’m all ears.”

  “I have a report from O’Toole; apparently some executives have been scouting the Sun Times building. New York connections, though I can confirm they were working for Donald Trump.”

  Thorne raised his eyebrow. “Trump’s looking for an entry into Chicago? I feel sorry for whomever does business with a C-List hawker like that.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. Tell me, have you heard of his dealings with his contractors in New York?”

  “Not much. He has a history of labor disputes. A project ends, and he has a bad habit of disputing the final payments. They call it the ‘Trump Discount’ and it’s why he’s so risky that no bank in the U.S. will lend to him.” He leaned closely. “You’re not…considering working with him?”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Thorne. It’s my personal belief that that man is antithetical to good business, and I don’t want him near Chicago. Consider it something to do while we wait for the tech sector to rebound.”

  He stroked his chin. “What do you have in mind? I assume this is all above-board.”

  “Naturally,” I assured him. “What I’d like is to empower a firm based in New York. One that specializes in labor and contract disputes. I’d like to direct them to seek out claimants with open cases against Trump; claimants who are burning through their cash in their attempts to take him to court before he leverages his position to force them to settle. They would represent them free of charge; should they win in court, the firm would collect their fees plus ten percent.”

  “And if they lose?”

  “We cover it. But I doubt they would. He expects that a lumber or cement company wouldn’t have the funds to continue long-term court disputes. He counts on them to bankrupt themselves, which is why he has dozens, if not hundreds of cases that crumble against him.”

  “How much would you like to empower this firm?”

  “Around five million. Less than I spent last summer.”

  Thorne considered for a moment. Being confused by my directives was nothing new to him.

  “I could bring this up with Vance. Likely we would have to set up a shell company through Delaware to transfer the funds, so as not to trace it back to Butterfly Capital. I’m no lawyer, but as long as we’re not directly profiting it’s not considered champerty. May I ask, what would the purpose be, Ms. Peterson?”

  “Well, justice. It’s unfair that these smaller companies are strong-armed into accepting partial payments for their work. I’m not a fan of bullies, Mr. Thorne, and if I can keep him in litigation hell, it’s worth it.”

  “I suppose everyone needs a hobby,” remarked Thorne. “It could just as easily be yachts and Porsches with your funds, Ms. Peterson.”

  “Well, I’m not one for yachts.”

  “Of course, Ms. Peterson. Also,” pivoted Thorne, “did you receive the photo? I took the liberty of having it framed.”

  “It’s beautiful, Mr. Thorne. Thank you very much.”

  “I truly appreciate allowing me to help you prepare for the inauguration last month. If I may,” Thorne suggested, “I was wondering if you would allow me to help you continue in your professional growth.”

  “How so, Mr. Thorne?”

  He interlocked his fingers. “Ms. Peterson, your growth has been exponential. I admit, when I was given your account, I was hesitant to take on a client so young with such a meteoric rise. But I can truly say that you are a prodigy, Ms. Peterson. And so disciplined for one your age. What I would like is to continue mentoring you on presenting yourself not only as a professional, but as a leader.” He gestured to the storied hall we sat in. “What do you think of this establishment?”

  I glanced around. “Honestly, it seems full of men twice my age.”

  “It does indeed, Ms. Peterson, and you would be right. But institutions like this are where one in your position should be. You are self-made, worth a third of a billion dollars, and have the ear of the president – and you’re not even twenty! What comes next is inducting yourself into the institutions of this city. To learn how to navigate them, to work within them.”

  I considered his words, once again looking out at the construction site which would one day become Millennium Park. I couldn’t help but compare it to my own situation.

  “This is something I have thought about.”

  “As well you should,” confirmed Thorne. “If I may suggest, there’s another organization known as the Executive’s Club of Chicago. You would require sponsors from current members – obviously, another executive at Northern Trust and myself would oblige – and I can promise you it is an excellent place to begin for someone your age.”

  “I would be interested,” I agreed. I then gestured to the environs. “And the University Club as well?”

  Thorne shrugged. “This club is particularly difficult. To qualify you would need to actually graduate, of course, and there is a limited roster and waiting list. And you were correct to point out the demographics,” he said quietly, and paused for a moment. “However, it’s not inconceivable. But it would take some time.”

  “As you know, Mr. Thorne, I am patient.”

  ***

  The rest of my sophomore year did not have a fraction of the worldwide effects of the previous year. I took Thorne’s advice to heart; I had the impression that he genuinely enjoyed professional mentoring, and a man as polished and genteel as Thorne was a great asset. He was right of course; I needed to learn how to conduct myself in a more authoritative and, dare I say, elite manner. To that end, I began meeting Thorne face-to-face weekly, and became his regular guest at several functions.

  It was an odd dynamic, when we attended various club events around the city. Thorne made introductions to his contacts in his role as mentor, yet anyone who was paying attention saw the deference that he paid to me. I may have been the wunderkind boss, but he was a well-established operator.

  Thorne also made it clear that my time at university was just as important as my executive training. After all, I was only nineteen and needed the grounding that my campus provided. I relished my time with my band and with my classmates, and the adrenaline that performing on stage as well as the trysts afterwards was addictive. Powerful chords and casual sex made a perfect counter to luncheons and cocktail receptions, especially since I couldn't even legally drink.

  In March, I was extended an invitation to attend the Brookings Institution Policy Conference in Washington, which coincidentally happened to fall on Spring Break. I suspected someone from the Gore administration had their hand in my inclusion into this policy-driven roundtable event. My title was innocuous: Private Sector Observer, whatever that meant. It was almost an entire week of attending economic presentations and working group sessions, though I was careful to mostly observe. Most of the attendees took a passing curiosity at the exceptionally well-dressed young woman quietly listening to policy debates.

  Returning to Chicago after a week of socializing with DC policy makers was fairly jarring. I began having the same feelings I had in high school; like I was forced to play checkers when I was thinking about chess. Learning about fiscal policies in class after discussing it with Treasury officials seemed like a downgrade. At times, it felt like the only time I was truly engaged on campus was when I was hooking up with someone after a gig.

  It didn’t help that my mind was fixated on the horrors of the upcoming September. As per their instructions, my investigators had been keeping close tabs on the individuals they had located the previous summer, and every so often there would be expansions onto the surveillance. O’Toole had been confused at first, monitoring Saudi nationals in flight schools in 2000, but the deeper he dug the more insidious the circumstances were. Using his law enforcement contacts, the rabbit hole of foreign funding and criminal connections deepened, and by my twentieth birthday O’Toole was worried.

  “Ms. Peterson,” he stated at our May face-to-face in the Northern Trust boardroom, “I’ve connected the persons of interest to at least a dozen organizations. Their funding seems limitless, and their backgrounds are all eerily…zealous.” His voice had an uncharacteristic tinge of anxiety.

  “You’ve compiled everything?”

  He nodded. “The resources you’ve given me have allowed us to tail every individual we’ve identified. We have hundreds of pages of reports on them. I know this began as a corporate investigation on Boeing,” he paused hesitantly. “However, everything I’ve seen points to a potential criminal plot; a terrorism plot the likes of which I have never seen.”

  This was the conclusion I had hoped O’Toole would come to, a direction I had been nudging him in for over a year. I knew nothing about the details of the 9/11 plot; only that it happened. I couldn’t very well warn the FBI about an attack that hadn’t happened yet, and despite my resources I didn’t know what to do. I hired O’Toole years ago because he would.

  Still, it gave me chills. “What are your recommendations?”

  O’Toole leaned forward. “We have our findings, and their movements. There’s no way to know if the FBI is as aware of them as we are, and unfortunately my influence goes only so far with the new administration. They need to receive our reports, so that proper actions can be taken, if they haven’t already. I also don’t need to tell you that if we have uncovered a terrorist plot, as private citizens it is our duty to disclose everything.”

  I nodded. “I completely agree. You’ve discovered something here, Mr. O’Toole, and they need to know.”

  “To that end,” O’Toole added quietly, pulling out an envelope from his folder, “As of yesterday, you’ve received communications from the White House. You’ve been approved for a position.”

  I reached for the envelope from across the table. “I’m not sure that I approve of you seeing communications directed to me before I do.”

  “With all due respect, it’s my job to assess any communications that are routed through Butterfly Capital.”

  “Fair enough,” I grumbled as I opened the letter and scanned it. I read it twice before I spoke. “According to this, they’ve arranged for what would officially be a summer internship. In the White House Chief of Staff’s office.”

  “Congratulations, Ms. Peterson.”

  “There’s a hand-written note as well. From Mr. Klain himself. Apparently, it’s ostensibly a cover for an unofficial position as an analyst and advisor. It would be odd if someone as young as myself had a title like that, having not even graduated college yet. The internship is a bit of misdirection on his part.”

  “Unusual, certainly,” said O’Toole. “But within his purview. Ms. Peterson, would you consider taking this role for the summer?”

  I pondered for a moment. I knew that I only had a few months to prepare for September, and I had hoped for an opportunity like this to present itself. I thought I had some time; perhaps to consider my next move for a few weeks in Paris, or Rome. As much as I would have liked to have spent the summer enjoying my wealth, rather than being held up in a government office somewhere, I knew it wasn’t possible. I had too many responsibilities, and 9/11 was coming closer every day.

  “Mr. O’Toole,” I said, “I assure you that your report will be read by the appropriate individuals.”