Free The Doomsday Equation by Matt Richtel Page B

Jeremy hasn’t had a chance to furnish the place; at least he tells himself he hasn’t been able to afford the time, but it’s more that he can’t afford the cost of the things he’d like. He takes his furniture as seriously as his haircut. He likes things just so. And now they’re ransacked.
    The TV hangs askew. Someone looked behind it. The stuffing in his one couch unstuffed, jigsaw lines cut through the leather. And the knife, his own knife, lies on the throw rug. The implement of destruction, one of a set of three matching Wüsthofs, black riveted handle, razor edge. “To cut to the truth, and also for food prep,” Evan had joked about his housewarming gift, back when Evan didn’t fully grasp that Jeremy had no problem cutting to his version of the truth.
    Jeremy picks it up, sees the leather-bound notebook, open to a middle page, lying beside the fireplace. Eyes ahead to the hallway and bedrooms, he kneels, glances at the notebook, flips. It’s a backup system, phone numbers, scribbling of ideas. A page is torn near the front, torn but not torn out. He glances at the phone numbers.
    Evan; Andrea; the guys at Intrinsic Investors; a few old friends from grad school; a hacker Jeremy likes who started a travel price-comparison web site acquired for hundreds of millions of dollars; Nik; two women Jeremy met at cafés, identified only by their initials so Emily wouldn’t see them; Emily’s brother, in case something ever happened to Emily—written in her loopy cursive—and, of course, Harry.
    He pats his iPhone, pulls it out of his pocket. He’s still holding the knife. He looks at the phone numbers. Already knows where he’s starting, knew it hours ago, actually.
    He’s got to call Harry.
    He’s got to swallow his pride, or appear to, and hear what’s in Harry’s voice. Were Jeremy even half honest with himself, he’d admit he doesn’t really suspect Harry; Harry might be tough and ticked off, but he’s likely not malicious. And were Jeremy fully honest with himself, he’d admit he’d like Harry’s help. But he’s not—honest. He won’t ask for help. He’s going to ask Harry what the hell is going on, and then go from there.
    He fingers the number into his iPhone, hits send, stands, begins walking to the back of the condo. The phone rings. He peeks into the bathroom. It’s largely intact, but the medicine cabinet is opened and the handful of prescription medicines are uncapped.
    The phone rings again.
    Obviously, Jeremy thinks, an intruder left no bottle unturned. But also made, apparently, no effort to hide the intrusion. Unless the woman was somehow interrupted. Why, he wonders, does he think it was a woman?
    He’ll have to ask the building manager. That guy notices anything with a vagina. Rumor has it that the cops once got called and hassled him about whether he had a weird habit of lurking around the underground parking garage when a particularly attractive young woman would come home at night, and offer to help her carry her things upstairs.
    The phone rings. C’mon, you duplicitous motherfucker, Jeremy thinks, making his way to the bedroom.
    Ring.
    More of the same. The mattress sliced open, presumably with the same knife Jeremy’s holding. The closet tossed, and the bathroom.
    The phone picks up. “You’ve reached Professor Harry Ives . . .” Jeremy clenches his teeth; he’ll have to try another number.
    Before he can hang up, it picks up; a voice comes onto the line.
    “If it isn’t James the Seventh.” Harry’s powerful lecturer voice booms over the phone. It causes Jeremy to withdraw the phone from his ear, and raises an image of the wizened professor, the sagacious codger, the scraggly gray beard and unkempt curls pasted onto his forehead with a light perspiration. He’s doubtless clad in a checkered red flannel vest over a long-sleeve blue T-shirt, baggy khakis. He always looks like he spent the night somewhere other than a bed.
    Jeremy feels an instant of pity and a