Chapter 6
Mary
It’s ten minutes to five, and I’ve had about twenty cups of water—give or take a few spilled ones—because apparently, mixing instant coffee with a wine hangover is a chemical experiment in stomach homicide.
My stomach does a slow roll of protest, and I swallow hard, trying to keep the acidic aftertaste of red wine from clawing up my throat.
God, what was I thinking last night?
No, wait. I know exactly what I was thinking.
Nothing. I was thinking nothing. Because if I’d paused for even a second, I wouldn’t have ended up half-naked in Jasper’s apartment, wrapped in a throw blanket like some unhinged burrito, drunkenly monologuing to a six-foot-something death stare in human form.
And I definitely wouldn’t have—oh God—stroked a stranger’s dick like it was a stress ball and I was filing a workplace grievance.
Jesus. I touched it. Not by accident. Not a brush. A grip. Firm. Intentional. Lingering.
And he let me.
Why did he let me?
Scratch that. Why did I do it?
And now I have to live with the fact that I definitely touched a stranger’s penis like it was my constitutional right. No hesitation. Full contact. Like I’d done it a hundred times. Like I meant it.
What’s worse? I did mean it.
Who even am I?
I’m not this person. I’m the responsible one. The spreadsheet queen. The meal prepper. The type who brings Tupperware to family barbecues and knows her credit score down to the decimal.
But last night? Apparently, I’m the kind of woman who gets wine-wasted, mistakes a six-foot murdery stranger for her best friend’s boyfriend, and gets handsy like it’s a Black Friday sale on bad decisions.
Thank God, I’ll never see him again.
Seriously. That’s the only thread holding my sanity together. He’ll disappear. I’ll never know his name. And no one will ever speak of this again. Not even me, to myself, in the dark, at 2 AM.
The fluorescent lights above buzz like they’re mocking me, and I glance up at the clock. Almost out. Just ten more minutes and I can catch the 5:15 bus, sit in the back with my earbuds in, and stare out the window for thirty-five stops until I get to Grandma’s place.
Dinner tonight was supposed to be meatloaf. Our tradition. Mine’s not as good as hers, but she’ll still close her eyes and say it is, and then I’ll tuck her in and rub her knees with that weird lavender oil she swears works better than Tylenol.
She just turned seventy-three. And even though she still insists on sweeping the porch and folding her own laundry, I know she’s slowing down.
The dizziness, the off-balance mornings…
It’s getting worse. She’s been working her whole life.
Raised me from three years old when my mom died.
Took care of me while my dad threw himself into work and remarried a woman who thought I was just a speed bump on her way to a beach house and a new last name.
Ping.
Outlook inbox. Subject line:
URGENT: Need You to Complete the Quarterly Client Summary. Sender: Dave Thornton
Urgh. The Human Clog In My Life Arteries.
I stare at it.
Then I click the refresh button like it’s a magic eraser. Once. Twice. A third time, just for spite.
Nope. Still there. Like herpes.
My jaw tightens. A slow exhale pushes through my nose as I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling tiles as if they might have answers. One’s stained. Looks like a coffee splash or maybe a roach massacre. Fitting, either way.
Fine. Deep breath. Keep it together, Mary. Don’t scream. Don’t cry. Don’t throw your monitor through the nearest window.
Fighting the twitch in my right eye, I click the email, hoping—praying—it’s a mistake.
It’s not.
Hey, Mary,
Can you finish populating the Q2 Summary spreadsheet for me tonight? Janice had to leave early (again), and I’ve got a dinner thing. It’s mostly copy-paste from the client ledger to the reporting template. Real simple stuff. You’re great at this.
Appreciate it, Dave
Sent from my iPhone (while probably drinking a martini and patting himself on the back for delegating.)
Attached: Quarterly_Client_Summary_2025_Q2.xlsx And another attachment: Master_Client_Transactions_FY25.xlsx
My right eye twitches more.
It’s his job. His and Janice’s job.
You know, Janice—the secretary who suddenly started wearing stronger perfume and always leaves with him right at five on the dot like they’re clocking out of a sitcom. The one whose lipstick mysteriously smudges exactly where his collarbone would be.
But hey, none of that is my business. I don’t care what corporate soap opera they’ve got playing out in the shadows.
What I do care about? This is the fourth time in two weeks. And I’ve been here for seven years.
Seven years of smiling through chipped mugs and toner explosions.
Seven years of working Saturdays while Janice “recovered” from her latest eyelash lift.
Seven years of being the person who knows where everything is—because I put it there.
Seven years of 2% raises and zero promotions while girls like Stephanie breeze in, blink twice, and get handed a manager title because they know how to say “synergy” without gagging.
And now I’m doing this. Data entry for a report I wasn’t hired to touch.
The spreadsheet opens like a punishment. Tab after tab of client names, account types, year-to-date spending, flagged anomalies. I’m supposed to match them to the summary breakdown, checking totals against the template so Dave can forward it to corporate and pretend he actually lifted a finger.
I exhale and crack my knuckles. My neck already hurts.
God, I was supposed to be at Grandma’s by now.
I shoot her a quick text.
Me: Work emergency. I’m sorry, Grandma. I’ll come first thing tomorrow. Don’t get up too much tonight, okay?
Also me, mentally: Please don’t think I forgot you.
My fingers hover over the keys for a second too long.
Because I need this job.
Because rent doesn’t pay itself.
Because my business degree came with a side of lifetime debt. Thanks, Sallie Mae.
Because my credit card statement reads like a horror novel.
Because Grandma needs groceries and meds.
And because, apparently, I’ve got the kind of face that says, “Yes, dump all your unfinished shit here.” I can’t afford to screw this up.
Still, I sigh so hard my soul tries to escape through my nostrils.
My phone buzzes less than a minute later.
GramCracker: It’s okay, sweetie. Work is more important.
I bite the inside of my cheek. No, it’s not.
Work is not more important than meatloaf night or the way she saves the last slice of peach pie for me, like it’s a sacred ritual. Not more important than the only person who’s never once made me feel like too much or not enough.
But I’m doing this anyway. Because I need the job.
Because Dave’s one email away from making my life a frozen, paycheck-less hellscape.
Because if I rock the boat, there’s always some fresh-faced finance bro in line to take my place.
One who doesn’t have a grandma or a wine hangover or anxiety that punches like a linebacker.
I crack my knuckles again, roll my shoulders, and mutter, “Alright, fatty, focus up.”
Yes, I call myself fatty.
It’s fine.
We’re friends.
I glance down at my stomach and whisper, “Don’t give up on me now, girls. You and I are in this together.”
It ripples like rising bread dough in protest. Traitor.
But I can’t eat until I finish this, and at this point, my stomach’s threatening to abandon ship and crawl into the break room vending machine. It’s a war of willpower. I’m losing.
I drag the folder toward me and start cross-checking rows of numbers and names in the client portfolio. My fingers are stiff, the office air always two degrees colder than humanly necessary, and my eyes feel like someone scrubbed them with sandpaper.
I blink. Rub. Lean closer.
And then— Something pops.
W.R. Holdings LLC — $148,000 withdrawn last Friday. No contact number. No recent activity. No assigned banker. And the address listed? A PO box.
Weird.
I scroll back.
Wait. That same PO box is tied to three other accounts. All opened within the same two-week window. All inactive. All listing “urgent operating disbursement” as the transaction memo. And all approved under the same regional manager: Dave Thornton, the walking LinkedIn profile in khakis.
My frown deepens. I check the dates. The amounts. The routing numbers.
Every single wire went out in round numbers. Clean tens and fives. No cent breakdowns, no invoice tags, no withdrawal slips.
I scroll again. Another account. Another Russian-sounding name: Viktor Rezhnov. No profile. Just a shell? Like it was created to exist for a single purpose—and then vanish.
I stare at the screen, my fingers frozen on the mouse. The hum of the fluorescent lights above turns sharp. My stomach, wine-soaked and furious, forgets about food entirely.
This… this isn’t just laziness.
It’s not a clerical error.
This is bad.
I highlight the W.R. entry and snap a quick photo with my phone, fingers trembling now. Just in case.
Just in case what, Mary?
I don’t know. But I press my fingers to my temples and shut the file, saving a copy under a new name. The twist in my gut has nothing to do with wine or caffeine withdrawal anymore.
Whatever this is, I wasn’t supposed to see it.
Three hours later, my eyeballs are dry, and my spine feels like it’s fusing into the shape of this ergonomic nightmare they call a chair.
I send the final file with an overly professional subject line that I absolutely do not mean:
Subject: Q2 Client Portfolio + Quick Note on W.R. Holdings
Hi, Dave. Attached is the updated summary, as requested.
Let me know if anything else is needed. Also, just flagging one entry I came across for W.R.
Holdings LLC. It stood out due to the PO box, missing linked account, and similar naming to a few others within the same timeframe.
Could be a duplicate or placeholder? Just wanted to check.
I sign it off with a “Thanks!” that tastes like blood in my mouth, click Send, and immediately knock my forehead against the desk.
Once. Twice.
Stupid.
I should’ve left it alone.
Should’ve highlighted the number, circled it in red, and mentally yeeted it into someone else’s responsibility folder. But no. I just had to be the responsible one. Again.
I lean back and glance toward the tall windows at the front of the bank. The glass reflects more of the harsh office light than anything outside, but beyond the glare, Vegas at 8 PM looks like a neon migraine having a meltdown.
The sidewalks are alive. Fake Chanel heels and limp cigarettes. Bachelorette tiaras glinting beneath billboards. Everyone chasing something—money, escape, dopamine, validation. Whatever keeps them vertical.
Me? I’m just trying to get home with enough energy left to microwave leftovers and not cry into my rice.
I force myself up. My knees crack like popcorn, and my lower back is one wrong movement away from betrayal. I roll my shoulders, stretch my arms over my head, and then look down at my stomach.
“Alright, you fussy bread loaf,” I mutter, patting it like I’m negotiating with a toddler. “There’s cold kung pao chicken in the fridge. You’ll survive.”
My stomach growls like it knows I’m lying.
Leftover Chinese takeout means I won’t have to spend money, which means I can maybe pay off that stupid impulse mascara I charged last week because my eyes looked tired and I needed a win. It also means I don’t have to stop anywhere. Which is good, because I don’t have a car.
Bus it is.
The night line is awful, but it’s better than walking the twenty blocks in these sad ballet flats that have lost the will to live.
I reach for my tote, slinging it over one shoulder, and glance toward the main doors out of habit—
Then freeze.
There’s a shape outside. A man. Or something tall and broad-shouldered in the half-light.
He’s not moving.
Just standing there. Still. Too still.
My pulse stutters. Maybe it’s someone waiting for a cab. Or maybe it’s just a reflection of something else, something off.
But then—
He takes a step forward.
Slow. Purposeful.
The automatic glass doors stay locked after 6 PM, but I move, anyway—fast—toward the light switch, flipping off everything but the hallway emergency bulbs. The banking floor drops into shadow.
I duck behind the partition by the teller line, crouching low as I peek through the narrow vertical slit in the blinds.
He’s still there.
Not moving. Not shifting.
Just standing.
I can’t see his face; the shadows outside are too thick, but his frame is hard to miss. He’s big. Wearing a dark jacket over a white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Slacks. Leather shoes that look too expensive for a guy who’s not doing anything but loitering.
He’s not scrolling on a phone. Not checking his watch. Not pacing like he’s waiting for someone.
He’s just… watching.
Facing the glass.
Facing me.
Oh, my God.
The chill that races down my spine has nothing to do with the air conditioning.
It feels like something cold and damp is dragging its nails across my back, pressing into every bone.
My stomach twists. The Chinese takeout I was fantasizing about ten minutes ago now feels like a distant hallucination.
I’ve stayed late at this branch plenty of times, and nothing’s ever felt like this. Like something’s off.
My hand moves before my brain catches up—instinct driving me as I reach down, fumbling through the bottom of my bag for my phone. Lip balm, receipts, a crumpled protein bar wrapper— Where the hell is it?
My fingers close around the case just as—
BANG.
A loud, sudden thud cracks against the glass doors.
I scream. Actually scream.
The phone clatters to the floor as I jerk upright, slamming my elbow into the side of the partition. My heart punches my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and I’m this close to peeing myself.
Eyes wide, I look up.
But he’s gone.
No shadow. No silhouette. Nothing but a smear of condensation on the outside of the glass.
And then—movement.
Someone slumps against the outer wall, just out of range of the door sensors.
A guy in a stained hoodie and mismatched sneakers, sliding down to the sidewalk with a groan and a plastic bottle in his hand.
One of the local drunks, muttering to himself as he sags against the bricks like gravity finally won the fight.
I stay frozen for another ten seconds. Maybe more.
Still no sign of the man in the jacket.
But the chill in my bones?
That doesn’t go anywhere.
What the hell just happened?