Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
LANGSTON
The key card reader beeped as I swiped my way into the building. I preferred being the first one in, setting the tone for the day before anyone else could disrupt it.
I hung my suit jacket on the coat rack inside my office door, rolled up my sleeves, and loosened my tie. There were no clients to impress at this hour. It was just me and the mountain of Westridge background checks that needed my personal attention before today’s deadline. First, I needed coffee.
The thought of Aven surrounded by old paperwork sitting in the dusty basement yesterday sent an unexpected pang of guilt through my chest. I’d meant it as a test. No one lasted more than a few hours before begging to be reassigned or quitting outright.
The last temp only lasted exactly two hours before claiming a sudden onset of claustrophobia.
“She’s gone, probably halfway back to wherever the hell she’s been for the past fifteen years,” I muttered to myself, pouring coffee into my mug.
And yet, as I took the first sip of bitter black coffee, I couldn’t help but remember the determination I’d seen flash in her eyes before Tamika had led her downstairs.
The familiar stubborn set to her jaw that once convinced a sheriff she was telling the truth when every word was a lie crafted to save my ass.
I paused, coffee halfway to my lips. The basement door was ajar, light spilling out into the hallway.
The cleaning crew didn’t bother with the basement.
Part of their contract exempted spaces not regularly used by clients or staff.
And I’d given strict instructions that no one was to help Aven with her assignment. This was between her and me.
As I pushed the door open wider, the unmistakable scent of fresh coffee, better than the break room sludge I was currently drinking, wafted up the stairs.
Music played softly from somewhere below, not like a phone speaker but something richer with actual bass notes that vibrated subtly through the stairwell.
I descended slowly, each step revealing more surprises.
The sickly fluorescent lights had been replaced with what looked like three mismatched floor lamps, transforming the concrete dungeon into something almost…
cozy. The dripping pipe had been wrapped in some kind of insulating tape, silencing its persistent drip.
And then there was Aven herself.
She’d replaced the card table with a decent-sized desk I vaguely recognized from our storage closet upstairs, a forgotten piece of furniture from when we’d upgraded the office three years ago.
Her back was to me as she typed away on the ancient computer, which now had a second monitor connected to it.
She wore a yellow dress which seemed to generate its own light in the basement gloom.
The color was so vibrant it almost hurt to look at.
She hadn’t noticed me yet, too absorbed in whatever she was doing. The area was cleaner, fresh with Pine-Sol instead of mildew and neglect.
“You’re here early,” I acknowledged, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
Aven jumped, swiveling in her chair to face me.
Aven gasped, then caught herself, straightening in the chair. “Jesus, Lang! Wear a bell or something.” She laughed, clutching her chest.
Up close, the yellow dress was more striking. It was the same sunshine shade as the sundress she’d worn the day she’d lied to the sheriff for me. Her hair hung around her shoulders.
“Morning, boss. Coffee? It’s Brazilian. Way better than whatever you’re drinking.” Her voice held none of the resentment I’d expected. Instead, it was almost teasing.
I glanced down at my own mug, then back at her. “How long have you been here?”
“Since six. Jet lag has got me all twisted up. Figured I might as well be productive.” She turned back to the computer, saving her work before giving me her full attention again.
“Since six, and you’ve been… cleaning and redecorating?” I repeated, trying to process she had beaten me to the office by a full hour.
She shrugged, the movement causing the yellow fabric to shift across her shoulders.
“Just making the space functional. I hope you don’t mind; I borrowed a few things from upstairs.
The lamps were in the supply closet collecting dust, and this desk was literally being used to store broken office chairs. ”
I took a cautious step further into the room, taking in more details. A sizable number of files were now organized into neat stacks, each with a color-coded label.
“You did all this in an hour?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief from my voice.
“I organized most of the files yesterday, but I’m efficient when motivated. And trust me, spending eight hours a day down here is motivation enough to make it habitable.” She flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
The implied critique stung more than it should have. Yes, I’d deliberately put her in the worst possible workspace, hoping she’d quit rather than endure it. Yet here she was, not only enduring but transforming.
“The pipe… How did you fix it?” I’d been meaning to get it fixed.
“I didn’t fix it. That would require actual plumbing skills. I muffled it with some waterproof tape and repositioned the bucket. You know, you could cut your water bill down if you called a plumber.”
“Right,” I agreed.
She rose from her chair, moving to the coffee maker. “Sure you don’t want some? It’s got notes of chocolate and cherry. Way better for your blood pressure than the tar you’re drinking.”
Aven replaced my mug with an empty one and filled it with coffee that smelled like heaven compared to the break room brew. Our fingers brushed during the exchange; a momentary contact that shouldn’t have registered but somehow sent an electric current up my arm.
“Thanks,” I managed, taking a sip to cover my reaction. The coffee was indeed excellent, smooth and rich without being bitter.
“I’ve cataloged about thirty percent of the backlog already. Your filing system needed some tweaking, hope you don’t mind, but it’s much more intuitive now. I could show you how it works if you want,” Aven said, nodding toward the computer.
I blinked. This couldn’t be the competent, cheerful woman who had stormed into my office yesterday, demanding employment. The disconnect was jarring.
“That’s… good progress, but don’t overdo it. Normal hours are eight-thirty to five,” I clarified, “Unless previously authorized.”
She looked at me, and a flash of the old Aven, the one who saw straight through my bullshit, appeared. “Why, Langston Black. Anyone would think you cared about my well-being.”
The use of my full name, so casual and familiar, knocked me off balance.
No one called me Langston anymore except my mother.
I was Mr. Black to my employees, Black to my few close friends, and simply “sir” to most clients.
Hearing my name in Aven’s mouth was an unexpected intimacy I wasn’t prepared for.
“I care about labor laws and overtime I haven’t authorized,” I replied, retreating behind professionalism.
“I’ll have the first batch of digitized files ready for your review by lunch,” she said over her shoulder. “Unless you need them sooner?”
“Lunch is fine,” I said, already backing toward the stairs, coffee mug clutched too tightly in my hand, the Colombian blend lingering on my tongue like a reminder. Aven Compton had never been easy to categorize or control, and apparently, fifteen years hadn’t changed that one bit.
The Westridge background checks were on my desk, demanding attention I couldn’t seem to give them.
I’d read the same paragraph about their CFO’s property holdings four times without retaining a single detail.
My mind drifted to the basement to Aven in the yellow dress, unbothered by my punishment.
Nine forty-five. Too soon to make another appearance downstairs without seeming obvious.
And yet, my fingers itched to invent a reason.
I forced myself to focus, scribbling notes about the suspicious timing of the CFO’s divorce settlement and property transfer to an offshore LLC.
The work usually absorbed me, allowing me to find things others missed, as well as the inconsistencies that revealed truths people wanted to keep hidden.
Still today, each keystroke was disconnected from the satisfaction I typically found in uncovering secrets.
By ten thirty, I’d convinced myself checking on the archival organization was a legitimate use of my time. The Westridge case could wait fifteen minutes. After all, if Aven was revamping our filing system, I should understand her methodology. That was good business sense.
I moved down the hallway, nodding at Martinez as he headed out for his rescheduled surveillance. The office was productive for a Tuesday morning. No one paid particular attention as I veered toward the basement door. Why would they? I owned the building. Every inch of it was mine to inspect.
The door was open, and the music had changed to something with a Latin beat, not loud enough to be disruptive, but present enough to transform the basement’s atmosphere. I descended the stairs more confidently than I had earlier. This time, I was prepared for Aven’s presence.
She sat with her back to me again but in a different position than before.
Now she was on the floor surrounded by open file boxes, creating a sorting system which involved color-coded sticky notes.
She’d taken off her shoes, her bare feet tucked beneath her as she leaned forward to examine an old file, and the yellow dress pooled around her like spilled sunshine.
“How’s it coming along?” I asked, stopping in for a visit, keeping my tone neutral.
She glanced up. “My predecessor had a... unique approach to documentation.”
I moved closer, curious despite myself. “Predecessor?”