Chapter 25
Mary
My heart is still hammering from Stephanie’s little performance when I slip away from the front desk. The coffee run was just an excuse; everyone knows the break room is right next to Dave’s office. Perfect cover.
I check my watch. Eleven forty-seven. Anton said to check in at noon, but if I’m going to do this USB thing, it has to be now while Stephanie’s distracted with her latte and Janice is on her smoke break.
My palms are sweating as I walk down the hallway. The expensive silk blouse Anton bought me suddenly feels like a costume; too nice, too obvious, too much like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not. Which I am.
Fake it till you make it, right?
God, I hate how weak I sounded saying that.
The USB drive feels heavy in my pocket, even though it weighs nothing. Anton made it sound so simple this morning. Just plug it in. Download runs automatically. Two minutes.
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one about to commit what’s probably a felony.
Dave’s office door is closed but unlocked; it always is during business hours. I glance around once more, then slip my hand around the handle.
“Okay,” I whisper, so quietly I can barely hear myself. “Going into Dave’s office now. Gonna try the USB.”
The words feel strange leaving my mouth, knowing Anton’s listening. Knowing he can hear every breath, every heartbeat. It should make me feel safer.
Instead, it makes me feel exposed.
I turn the handle and slip inside, quietly shutting it behind me, and move toward the monitor.
But then—
Click.
The handle turns.
I freeze.
No. No, no, no, no—
My stomach drops so fast I nearly puke on Dave’s rug. What are the odds? What are the actual odds? I thought I had ten minutes. Five. Something.
The door swings open behind me.
I don’t turn around right away; my back is still to the door. My hand hovers over the mouse. My brain screams run, but my body? Nope. It’s gone full statue mode.
Then—
A voice. Smooth. Casual. Male.
“Mary Sullivan.”
I turn. Slowly.
And—
A stranger.
Tall. Mid-thirties, maybe. Clean-shaven with that barbershop fade men pay actual rent for. His suit fits like a second skin. Not off-the-rack—bespoke, which is just rich people code for “you can’t afford this.” His shoes are shiny enough to see my own panic reflected back.
He stops as he looks at me. Smiles.
“I can call you Mary, right?”
And I… I just blink at him, waiting for my body to catch up. Waiting for my brain to process how the hell this man knows my name.
“Can I help you?” he says.
“Sorry! Hi… sorry,” I stammer. “I was just looking for… uh… extra printer paper. Dave keeps it in here sometimes.”
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “In the desktop tower?”
Shit. My hand’s still hovering near the USB port.
I force a laugh. It sounds like a dying balloon.
“Right. That was dumb.” I take a step back as quickly as I can. “I- I’ll get out of your way.”
He doesn’t move. Just studies me, like I’m a curiosity on a lab slide. His eyes are the color of roasted hazelnuts.
“I’m Caleb,” he says, offering a hand I don’t take. “I’m from corporate. Flew in from New York this morning when we heard the news.”
My breath catches.
I’ve never seen him before; not that I know everyone from HQ, of course. But something about him feels… wrong.
“I have to say,” he continues, stepping further into the office, “it’s such a tragedy what happened to Dave. So sudden. He always struck me as…” He tilts his head. “Well. Ambitious.”
My skin prickles.
He’s not talking like someone mourning a colleague. He’s talking like someone admiring a cautionary tale.
I stay put. Halfway between leaving and bolting. And then I ask, because I can’t help myself:
“How did you know my name?”
I catch the shift in his body; subtle, but deliberate. His gaze drifts over the desk, the monitor, the keyboard. Like he’s taking inventory. Like he’s checking what I touched. What I might’ve seen.
“Actually, I was hoping you could help me,” he says smoothly. “You’re Mary Sullivan, started here seven years ago? Personal Banking Associate. You’ve had consistently positive feedback from clients. Dave mentioned you often.”
My blood turns to ice.
Dave talked about me?
What about?
“Nothing bad, Mary,” he says quickly, like he read the panic off my face. “Quite the opposite, really. He thought you were dependable. Precise. Thoughtful.”
That last word sounds… pointed.
He moves past me now, circling the desk. One finger trails along the edge, slow and deliberate, like he’s sizing up the space. Or me. Then he settles behind it. Sits.
“This will be my desk for the time being,” he says, folding his hands like this is all perfectly normal. “Just until we get the position filled permanently. I’ll be coordinating with internal forensics, making sure everything’s in order. Standard stuff.”
“Hm.” I force the noise out of my throat.
His smile doesn’t waver. But his eyes…
They’re dissecting.
“Well,” he says, “I should let you get back to work. I’m sure this is a difficult time for everyone.”
“Yes. Very difficult.”
I back toward the door, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
“Mary?”
I freeze again, hand on the doorframe.
He leans forward slightly, voice lower now. “If you think of anything—anything at all that might help us understand what Dave was working on before he passed—you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
It’s phrased like a question. But it doesn’t sound like one.
“Of course,” I whisper.
Then I’m out the door, closing it behind me with hands that are shaking so badly I can barely grip the handle.
I make it three steps down the hallway before my knees give out. I lean against the wall, pressing my palm to my chest, trying to slow my breathing.
Breathe, Mary. Just breathe.
That was bad. Really bad. My first attempt, and I already blew it.
God, Anton’s going to—
I glance up.
The breakroom blinds are half open, facing the hallway. And there, just outside—
Caleb.
Leaning against the wall like he’s waiting for someone. Watching me.
His smile is still there.
But it doesn’t reach his eyes.
It never did.
I drop my gaze and turn my body away, pretending to dig through the drawers for coffee filters that probably expired in 2009. It’s all I can do to keep the panic at bay.
I press my hand against my thigh, lips barely moving.
“I’ll try again later,” I whisper, just loud enough for Anton to hear.
Because Caleb’s still watching. Listening. Filing me away.
And the worst part?
He knows exactly who I am.
Not the version I try to be. Not the scared girl pretending to be helpful. He saw right through all of it.
My face burns.
He knows I’m the kind of woman who laughs when people mock her. Who doesn’t speak up. Who plays nice. Who’s easy to overlook.
A pushover.
There’s this moment—right before Stephanie speaks—when I know I should walk away.
But I don’t. Because my drawer’s open, I’m balancing $940 in cash, and I need a supervisor override.
Also, because I hate myself a little, apparently.
“Cute blouse,” Stephanie says, not even looking at me. “Didn’t realize that brand went up to… you know. Those sizes.”
I blink. Smile. Tight. Like my molars might shatter.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say, because what else do you say to a woman who thinks every interaction is a runway roast?
She shrugs, still typing. “I mean, confidence is confidence. Not everyone can pull off horizontal stripes.”
It’s not even stripes. It’s ribbed. White. But sure, let’s keep inventing flaws.
I stay silent, even though my skin’s gone prickly and hot under my sleeves. I feel like a Pillsbury can someone’s about to pop.
Janice snorts from two stations over. Just loud enough.
And I swear to God, somewhere in the back of my skull, I hear Anton’s voice. That low, controlled, too-close whisper: “Tell me if anyone bothers you.”
Right. Sure. Let me just radio the mafia every time my coworkers act like Regina George with a LinkedIn.
I count the cash. Twice. Then shove the drawer shut before I can throw it at someone’s head.
Stephanie leans in and lowers her voice to a fake whisper. “Oh, and heads-up? HR’s doing surprise evals next week. So you might want to… smile more.”
Smile more.
Okay.
Sure.
Let me just add that to my list. Right between stop sweating through anxiety and suddenly become conventionally hot with perfect boundaries.
“Thanks,” I mutter, scribbling something on the log sheet that might be a number. Might be the word murder in cursive.
A client approaches. I straighten. Plaster on the customer service voice.
“Hi there! How can I help you?”
My hands are still trembling.
Stephanie walks off, satisfied. Janice follows, like a poodle who’s learned to heel.
I don’t look at either of them. I just focus on the screen. Focus on the numbers. Focus on breathing through my nostrils and not snapping my pen in half.
Because if I snap now?
If I actually say what I’m thinking?
This entire building’s getting televised.
I’m mid-deposit when I feel it.
That weird… atmospheric shift. Like the air pressure dropped three degrees and the drama gods said, “You’re welcome.”
Someone walks in.
I don’t look right away. Because I’m busy typing like my life depends on it, which, I guess, is technically true now. But I see the reaction ripple out across the room.
Janice straightens. Stephanie tugs her blouse down. Even that one loan officer with the neck tattoo and permanent gym odor sits up like he suddenly believes in deodorant.
And then I look.
And I freeze.
Because for a split second—just one—I think it’s him.
Anton.
My stomach flips. My spine does that thing where it tries to stand straighter out of fear or arousal or both.
But no.
It’s not him.
It’s the other one.
All black. Aviators indoors. Smirking like he just read my internet search history and is going to use it in court.
Lev.
Of course it’s Lev.
He walks in like a Bond villain on Casual Friday. Hands in his coat pockets, chewing gum, nodding at the security camera like it owes him money.