Chapter 27
Mary
My phone vibrates during the afternoon slump when I’m staring at spreadsheet cells that might as well be hieroglyphics.
Last task of the day: reconciling account discrepancies that make no sense and probably don’t matter.
The kind of busy work that exists purely to fill time between now and five-thirty.
Dima will pick you up after work. Grocery shopping. - A
I blink at the screen. Read it again. Then one more time, just to make sure I’m not having some kind of work-induced hallucination.
Right. “A” must mean Anton. I save the number in my contacts under his full name before my brain can talk me out of it, then immediately wish I’d added something snarky instead.
Grocery shopping? With Dima? The man who speaks in monosyllables and looks like he could bench-press a refrigerator?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I type:
I can buy my own groceries.
The response comes so fast that he must have been waiting for me to argue.
Anton: No.
That’s it. Just No. Like I suggested we rob a bank instead of buying cereal. Like the concept of me wandering through Safeway alone is somehow more dangerous than my current situation, which involves being surveilled by men who probably keep spare ammunition in their glove compartments.
I stare at my phone until the screen goes black, showing my own confused reflection in the dark glass.
My hair’s a mess. I have that glazed look people get when they’ve been staring at computers too long.
And somewhere in my eyes is the expression of someone who’s slowly realizing her life has been hijacked by people who text in complete sentences but refuse to explain anything.
When did my life become a place where Russian men dictate my produce purchases? When did I become someone who doesn’t argue harder about it?
The worst part? I’m kind of relieved.
My fridge has been making that weird humming noise again, the one that sounds like it’s plotting something.
I’ve been living off energy bars for three days, telling myself I’ll go shopping tomorrow, then tomorrow, then maybe this weekend, then definitely next week.
But next week keeps not coming. Meanwhile, my stomach’s been having philosophical debates with itself about whether expired yogurt counts as a meal.
So yeah. Maybe letting someone else handle the grocery situation isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me lately.
Though it’s definitely in the top ten weirdest.
I glance around the office. Stephanie’s at her desk, typing with the kind of aggressive finger-stabbing that suggests she’s composing hate mail. Janice is on the phone, laughing too loudly at something that’s probably not funny.
Dave’s door is closed. Correction: Caleb’s door is closed.
Nobody’s paying attention to me. Nobody cares that I just received a text that sounds like a kidnapping with benefits.
My phone buzzes again.
5:30. Employee parking garage. Level 2.
Another new number. I’m guessing this one’s Dima. I add it to my contacts, same as the others, because apparently, I’m collecting Bratva men in my phone like it’s some twisted loyalty program.
I stare at the message for a long moment. Then type back:
Ok.
Because what else am I going to say?
That I have other plans?
I’ve learned enough about these people to know that arguing gets me nowhere. And honestly? Following their rules has kept me alive so far. Which is more than I could say about my previous life strategy of winging it and hoping for the best.
I open a blank message. No name in the recipient field yet, just the blinking cursor and the knot in my stomach that hasn’t untied since yesterday.
I’m sorry I didn’t plug in the USB. He was already there. I panicked.
Delete.
I’ll try again tomorrow. I promise.
Delete.
I hover for a second, fingers on the keys, trying to come up with some version of that sentence that doesn’t sound like an excuse. Or an admission. Or both.
The back of my neck prickles.
“Everything alright, Mary?”
I jump so hard my knee bangs into the underside of my desk. My hands slam the laptop shut on instinct, like I’m thirteen and hiding a chat window from my dad.
It’s Caleb.
Standing behind me like some kind of corporate ghost, perfectly silent, perfectly groomed. Sharp suit, cedar-and-citrus cologne, that smile he wears like it’s been filed into place. His tie is still perfectly knotted. My blood pressure is not.
“I- Yes,” I say too quickly. My voice comes out higher than I meant it to, too light. “Just, um… end-of-day catchup stuff.”
His eyes flick to my screen. The closed laptop. Back to me.
“Hardworking,” he says. It’s either a compliment or a warning. I can’t tell which. “Do you have plans after work?”
It’s a normal question. People ask each other that all the time. But coming from him, it sounds like a test. Like the right answer might not be the honest one.
I swallow. “Groceries.”
That’s it. One word. Perfectly safe.
Except I don’t stop there.
“My fridge died a few days ago, and I’ve been meaning to go but I kept putting it off, and… Well, I figured tonight’s a good time to stock up, finally. Maybe get some yogurt. Not that you needed to know that. Sorry.”
Jesus Christ, Mary.
Caleb doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just watches me with that unreadable expression. Then, slowly, he smiles.
“Yogurt is important.”
I nod as if that’s a normal response. As if I’m not sweating through my bra right now.
Before he can say anything else, Janice swoops in from the side like she’s been lurking for the right moment.
“Mr. Whitfield,” she says brightly, stepping into view. I get the sense she’s been hovering five feet away this whole time. “I was just telling Stephanie how sharp your email was. That new regional rollout plan? So smart.”
Her voice is all sparkle and polish. She does this thing with her head—this little tilt—that’s supposed to look curious, but mostly just makes her look like she’s straining for relevance.
Caleb turns toward her, and just like that, I’m invisible again.
Thank God!
I watch Janice tilt her head more, laugh at nothing, and pretend like she wasn’t sleeping with Dave for at least six months. Like he wasn’t found dead two days ago, and we’re all just pretending the regional manager vanished into thin air without leaving blood on the floor.
I don’t get it.
How she can just… move on. How she can stand there, sparkling at Caleb like there’s not a ghost in the goddamn cubicles.
He’s dead. I saw it happen. I ran from it. And now she’s standing ten feet from me, acting like nothing ever happened, like yogurt and rollout plans are the only things that matter.
Maybe she never cared. Maybe she’s scared. Or maybe this is just how people survive things like this, pretending hard enough until it feels normal again.
I glance at the corner of my screen. 5:25 PM.
Five minutes to make it to the employee parking garage.
I turn off the monitor. My reflection flashes in the black screen.
I gather my things: wallet, keys, that mini deodorant I keep in case the AC dies again. The printouts I didn’t mean to bring home. And the USB.
The USB.
I stare at it for a second before tucking it into the zip pocket of my purse like it might explode if jostled. It feels heavier than it is. Stupid, slick little thing. Half the reason Dave’s dead. The reason I almost—
Nope. Not going there.
I zip the purse closed, stand, and glance once toward Caleb’s office.
He and Janice are standing just outside it now. She’s facing him too directly, standing too close, like her body’s already halfway through his HR file. One hand on her hip, one laugh too loud.
And he’s not even listening. His eyes are already on me.
I freeze.
Not dramatically, but just enough that I know he sees it. That flicker of something on his face. As if he’s about to say something. Or follow me. Or ask a question I really don’t want to answer.
He takes one step in my direction. Slow. Intentional.
Nope.
I pivot so hard it almost looks natural. Like I just happened to remember something important on the far side of the building. I don’t look back. Don’t give him a chance to call out to me. If he even was about to.
I take a slow breath.
Then another.
Groceries.
I’m going grocery shopping.
With a Bratva bodyguard who could crush my skull between his pinkies.
And right now, that feels like the safer option.
I head toward the exit.
Just before the stairwell door swings shut behind me, I glance down at the watch.
The one Anton gave me. The one he said he could hear through.
I hesitate. Then lift my wrist slightly, just enough.
“On my way,” I murmur, low and quick.
Then keep walking, annoyed at myself for saying it… and more annoyed that I want him to hear it.