Chapter 2 #2
With one nod, I head for my office before she can say anything else, then close the door behind me and let it feel like cover.
The morning goes sideways at 11:47.
I’m standing outside a dry cleaner in Queens called Sunny’s Pressed and Blessed, watching a man steam pants in the window, and the Anderson meeting starts in three minutes.
At the wrong address.
I call Elena.
“Patrick Aldera’s office. How may I—”
“You gave me the wrong address.”
Silence. Then: “What?”
“The Anderson meeting. The address you gave me. It’s a dry cleaner.”
“Oh god.”
“The meeting starts in three minutes. What’s the correct address?”
“Oh god, oh god, I’m so sorry—” I hear papers shuffling, something falling. “I must have written it down wrong—”
“Elena.”
“Yes?”
“Call Anderson’s office. Tell them I’m on my way. Apologize. Make something up. Just fix it.”
“I’m doing it right now.”
I hang up and get back in the car.
The drive to the real address takes forty minutes. By the time I arrive, the meeting is essentially over. Anderson is annoyed. His team is annoyed. The deal that was supposed to be a formality now requires three follow-up calls and a dinner I don’t have time for.
I spend the entire drive back rehearsing what I’m going to say to her.
Version one involves a detailed explanation of how she managed to sabotage my day with a pen and a basic motor skill.
Version two is the one I might actually use.
Calm. Professional. Words like “unacceptable” and “moving forward” instead of the ones currently trying to claw their way out of my throat.
Because I need her to last the week. One week. Long enough to replace her without committing a crime.
David drops me off at the entrance. I take the elevator up, jaw tight, patience nonexistent.
The doors open.
Elena is at her desk, eating chips and reading a book. One of my books. One of my first-edition, irreplaceable, hundred-year-old books.
With greasy fingers.
“What are you doing?”
She jumps, the book nearly flying out of her hands. “I was just, there was nothing to do, and I saw the books.”
“Those are collector’s editions.” I cross the room and take the book from her hand. Hemingway. First printing. I look at her other hand, still holding a chip. “They’re not for reading with greasy fingers.”
Her face goes red. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”
I set the book down carefully, making a mental note to have it professionally cleaned. “If you’re bored, find something productive to do. Organize the filing cabinets. Something that isn’t destroying hundred-year-old books or sending me to dry cleaners in Queens.”
She stands up, her chin lifting. “That was one mistake with the address—”
“One mistake?” I stare at her. “You sent me to a complete different borough. I was an hour late to a meeting with one of our biggest potential partners. Do you understand what that cost?”
“I know, and I’m sorry—”
“And now you’re reading priceless first editions with chip grease on your fingers because you were bored?”
“I didn’t know they were priceless. And yes, I was bored, because you didn’t leave me any instructions.” Her voice gets stronger. “You just said figure it out and left. So I’ve been sitting here with nothing to do because I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.“
We stare at each other. She’s right. And I hate that she’s right.She can't be more than mid-twenties, standing there with chip dust on her fingers and a better argument than I want to admit, and I hate that too
“Start with the desk,” I say, my voice clipped. “There are files in the bottom drawer that need to be sorted and archived. The calendar on the computer needs to be updated. If anyone calls, take a message. Don’t try to transfer them.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
I turn and walk into my office, closing the door behind me.
Inside, with the door closed, I can still feel the edges of it, her voice getting stronger, the way she held her ground. I open my laptop. Close it. Open it again.
By six, I give up.
The work isn't happening. I've read the same email four times, and every pass through it is just surface noise. What keeps breaking through is her, the moment she stood and decided not to fold, the defiance that lit up her face, that fire burning in blue eyes.
She looks up as I approach, already composing herself.
"I reorganized the files," she says, and all I register is that she's still here. "By year, I think. And I started the calendar, but I couldn't figure out the columns, so it's a list. With a lot of spaces."
I look at the desk. The files aren’t labeled so much as stacked in precarious towers. There’s a cup with pens, most of them capless, a small plant sitting in a coffee mug that definitely wasn’t there this morning.
“Where did that come from?”
“The break room. It looked lonely.”
I look at it for a second. "The files should be in alphabetical order."
"Oh okay."
I walk to the elevator. The doors open.
“Have a good night,” she calls after me.
I step inside and let the doors close.
I’m leaving before seven. I’m going to make it home before Erick’s bedtime.
And I didn’t receive a single phone call all afternoon.
Not one.
Which means either the entire world stopped needing me for six hours, or Elena figured out how to turn off the phones entirely.
I close my eyes.
God help me survive this woman.