Chapter 13
Daisy
Phillip Sterling stands inside the lobby like a modern-day overlord; his bespoke pinstripe suit and silver tie a symbol of his superiority over the minions scurrying past to clock in for the day.
The marble floors amplify every footstep, creating an echo chamber of corporate ambition.
The morning rush streams around him—badge swipes chirping, elevator chimes dinging in rapid succession.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t check his phone, just watches as if he’s running facial recognition software on every person who enters his domain.
Jake’s spidey sense must have detected his presence. That’s why he kissed me. He’s concerned about this place, just like Rhodes, so he’s digging into his protector role. And meanwhile, for a split second there, I thought it was real. And maybe it was, I mean, minutes passed—right?
I offer a polite nod in Sterling’s direction, catching Ms. Weaver’s eye as I do. She’s in the middle of a conversation with the person at the front desk. I aimed to get here early, but apparently I’m not the only one arriving well before the official nine a.m. start time.
Ms. Weaver barely acknowledges me, as I’m just one of the peons in her midst. Of course that resentful attitude is probably the reason I fly through jobs as quickly as sand absorbs water.
If I hadn’t come across Rhodes, who gives me ample leeway, I’d be following in my mother’s footsteps.
That thought has me rubbing an uncomfortable spot on my sternum before stepping into the elevator with two suited colleagues.
The elevator cabin smells like coffee and nervous sweat, that peculiar scent of Monday morning anxiety.
The brushed steel walls reflect distorted versions of the three of us—me, in my black dress, looking like a glitch in their beige-and-navy corporate matrix.
One of my companions drums manicured nails against a leather portfolio; the other stares at the floor numbers with laser focus, as if willing the elevator to move faster through sheer concentration.
The inclination to hit the fourth-floor button threatens to override caution, but I have no reason to go to the fourth floor, and besides, I already know Jocelyn isn’t there. The question I have is how quickly will word spread that she’s dead? And how will people react? What will they say?
As I flick on the overhead light to my office, I hear a cubicle dweller say, “I heard it was suicide.”
So, not long at all.
I still, just inside the door frame to my office, straining to hear. I recognize the voice. It’s Ned. I met him briefly last week. He’s a marketing assistant, and I’d guess he’s in his mid-twenties.
“Please. Suicide doesn’t add up,” a woman’s voice responds.
“Jillian said that she received a voicemail from her on Friday asking her to reschedule her one-on-one meeting on Monday. Why bother changing the time of a Monday meeting if you’re planning on killing yourself?
She also worked late on Friday. On a summer Friday.
I mean, why? If you’re that depressed, why would you care about adjustments to the second-quarter report?
Why come into work at all? It had to have been some freak accident. ”
“She was always a little odd, don’t you think?” Ned asks. “I mean, did you see the photos of the costumes she put her cat in?”
“Pet costumes are fun. And support my argument. If you’re that depressed, do you do something fun like deck your cat out in an American flag hat and T-shirt on July Fourth?”
Laughter sounds from someone nearby.
“I’m serious,” the woman adds, and she means it.
“Did you guys hear about Jocelyn?” This is a third, male voice.
Apparently, the cubicles outside my office are where it’s at. They know I’m here, maybe not hovering by the threshold, but my office door is open, so they aren’t actively trying to prevent me from hearing. I guess the lone Doc Marten-wearing newbie isn’t intimidating. Which means…
I exit my office and step closer to the conversation, coffee still in hand.
“What happened to Jocelyn?”
Three sets of eyes stare at me like I’m shining a spotlight on them and am about to hand one of them a karaoke mic.
“I overheard.” I point at my ear as if they don’t know what I mean. “Suicide?” I ask, pointedly tilting my voice upward and doing my best water-cooler gossip position, likely coming across as freakishly weird.
“Actually,” a male twenty-something in a khaki suit and scuffed loafers, says, “reports are saying it was a gas leak. Massive fire. Like, can you imagine? You’re sitting in your home, thinking you’ve maybe had one too many glasses of whatever you’re drinking and that’s why you’re lightheaded, you light a match for candle ambience, and then whoosh, flames. ”
“That’s how they’re saying she died?” Where did they hear this already?
“Yep,” scuffed loafers says, thrusting his hand out to me. “I’m Toby. I’m in sales. Like these guys.”
“Sales?” I ask. “Oh, you mean, like telemarketers?”
“Well, I’m a marketing assistant,” Ned interjects. “I don’t want their job.”
“Oh, why?”
“Cold calls,” Ned says, making a face.
“Because writing scripts and email copy is so much better,” Toby says.
“It is,” Ned smiles. “I have the power of AI.”
I have to give it to Ned. If forced to choose between the two jobs, and by forced I mean like my choice for my next meal was to do their job or to sell my body on the street corner, I’d go for Ned’s job.
“What did Jocelyn do?” I ask, and scratch at a nonexistent itch, hoping my conversational transition back to death wasn’t too awkward.
Toby gives me a what-the-hell look that flusters my socially awkward self.
“I’m Daisy. By the way,” I say, wobbling my head back and forth like a bobblehead. “I’m a programmer.” My hand gestures down my black sleeveless dress that this morning I thought was office-y but these three have me second guessing the office attire algorithm.
“I’m Gilda,” the woman says. “Jocelyn was a comptroller. Financial reports and what not. I’m glad it wasn’t suicide,” she says, directing the conversation to Toby.
“Valerie didn’t come in today. She called me this morning, crying, worried that she should’ve seen the signs, that she should’ve done something.
Instead, she skipped lunch and ducked out early.
She’s got this crazy guilt complex that if she’d stayed for lunch, maybe Jocelyn wouldn’t have…
” she blinks, and revises what she was saying.
“Anyway, this is good news. I’m going to go call Valerie. This will make her feel better.”
I can’t help but wonder who is spreading the news? How did Gilda learn about Jocelyn’s death? I’ve seen nothing in the media that assumed suicide, and I’m actively monitoring.
I file away each piece of information like variables in a dataset: Jocelyn worked Friday (data point 1), scheduled a Monday meeting (data point 2), cat costume photos (personality profile). I agree with Gilda. The suicide-narrative math doesn’t math.
And of course it doesn’t. These three don’t know that someone hauled a body out of the building in the dead of night, set her up in her getaway weekend mountain cottage two hours away from here, and that someone else must have lit the match. Last I checked, ghosts can’t light matches.
“I suppose I should get a fresh cup of coffee before I start my calls,” Toby announces.
“You literally spend your entire day making cold calls?” I ask, a little bothered on his behalf. What a horrible life.
“Gotta prove your abilities on the phone, then you get to travel,” Toby says.
Now that’s interesting. “Travel means what? You go knocking on doors selling into the crypto fund?” That question earns me an inquisitive expression. Probably too direct.
“Well, it’s a lot of education. But yes, you get a territory.”
“And then you knock on those doors,” Ned says.
Toby breathes in a dramatic, deep breath to insinuate Ned causes him pain, then he holds out his balled-up hand to fist bump me. “Good to meet you. Love the boots.” His gaze skates to my Doc Marten’s. “My sister wore those all the time in high school.”
Was that an underhanded dig? I squelch the urge to show Toby how great these boots are for kicking and return to my office.
The salesman aspect of this business explains the cluster of investors in Los Angeles.
The theory had been that Uncle Alvin was the one selling it to his contacts to get the referrals, but maybe an eager-beaver telemarketing salesman hit up the neighborhood—or weaseled his way into a Gamblers Anonymous meeting.
I step into Ned’s cubicle and bend my legs, leaning closer to show I have a private question.
“So, I’m working on this idea. Concept if you will,” I say.
“For the program they want you to write?” Ned asks. “That’s what you’re here for, right?”
“Yeah.” I shared the gist of my job when we met last week.
“These sales guys? Are they targeting—” I swallow, realizing the moment I utter the word targeting how that sounds, “How do they identify prospective clients? Do they get lists from somewhere?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “We buy lists from all over. That’s part of what I do. Write marketing messages customized to specific lists.”
“What do the lists target?”
“Investment accounts,” he answers matter-of-factly. “There’s no point in going after someone if they don’t have any money.”
“Right. Do you think… Could you take me through what data points you have?”
He looks at his darkened screen, and then his wrist. “We can schedule a meeting later, maybe?”
I twist the silver ring on my index finger, processing this information. If they’re targeting investment accounts, that’s a data-driven approach I can map and analyze.
“After lunch?” he asks. “I have meetings all morning.”
“That’d be great,” I say.
“Why don’t we grab lunch? I’ll get you after my last meeting ends.”