Chapter 14
Daisy
After picking up sandwiches from the closest deli, Ned steers me away from the elevator to the stairwell.
“We take the stairs. Technically, we’re not supposed to access the second floor. But, really, it’s our space. We’re paying rent. There’s no reason it can’t be used.”
The stairwell door opens onto a dimly lit floor.
Half the overhead fluorescent fixtures are dead, leaving pools of shadow between doorways.
I follow Ned down the hall, past offices where Ethernet cables dangle like dead vines from ceiling tiles, and abandoned desk phones sit unplugged.
I count the empty desks and cubicles as we pass.
Twelve. Fifteen. Twenty. Personal items still scattered on some desks—pens, coffee mugs, a knocked over black plastic trash can. Like people just...disappeared.
“Layoffs?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“Bloodbath,” Ned corrects. “I’m sure you heard about the fund that cratered?” He looks at me like I’m a dumbass. “You researched the company before you took the job, right?”
“Of course,” I answer. “I’m a programmer,” I say defensively, as if programmers always research thoroughly.
“Well, it wiped out thirty percent of our employees. Shitty days,” he mutters, continuing down the hall. “But now we have our own floor, at least until the end of the year. They could give us all offices, but no, they’d rather pay for an empty floor instead of giving dignity to the lowly.”
The usual office hum is absent. No printers whirring, no keyboard clicks, no muffled phone conversations. Just the whisper of air conditioning pushing stale air through the space.
He turns into a conference room.
Toby and Gilda sit at a round table with their lunches before them, and there’s a third man with a receding hairline at the table too. Despite the thinning hair, I’d still peg him as late twenties or early thirties.
A whiteboard hangs haphazardly from one nail, as if someone abandoned it rather than finish unscrewing it from the wall. The mismatched chairs and too-small-for-the-room table tell me these guys must’ve scrounged remnant furniture.
“Hey guys. I’ve got Daisy with me. Daisy, you remember Toby and Gilda, and this is Carson.”
“Did you work with Jocelyn?” Carson asks.
“No.”
With that one-word, he dismisses me and continues his conversation with Gilda and Toby.
“Did you check the link I sent you to Roanoke Daily? She was at her mountain house. Sherry said that she’d told her she was staying home this weekend.
She said she’d be around. Something must’ve happened.
Why else would she go away to the mountains to be alone? ”
“Who?” I ask, playing dumb and wanting to get looped into the conversation.
Toby answers, “Jocelyn. That’s what you’re talking about, right?”
Carson gives a slight affirmative nod and wipes his mouth with a napkin.
“She changed plans,” Gilda says. “We’ve all changed weekend plans.”
Carson’s phone buzzes. He glances at it and snorts. “Darryl from accounting is asking if anyone knows what the guys in suits were doing on four this morning.”
Gilda looks up from her salad. “What guys in suits?” Her fork pauses midair; a chickpea slides off and drops back into the bowl.
“Security consultants, probably,” Toby says. “I saw them too.” He leans back like he called it first, but his knee jitters under the table.
Ned leans forward. “You think it’s because of—” He flicks a glance at the door, like the walls might be listening.
“Don’t,” Gilda cuts him off, glancing at me.
The silence that follows tells me I am the untrusted one.
I unwrap my sandwich, dropping my gaze, as if by not looking at them, they’ll forget I’m here.
“Here? For us?” Toby verifies.
“Yep,” Ned confirms. “Darryl mentioned it. That’s why I think more’s going on.
Like they received threats or something.
I mean, think about it. First, we have a fund go under.
People are pissed. One of our employees mysteriously dies, and now they’re getting security.
I mean, for the executives, obviously. Not us, but…
I think one of those people who lost their shirts is coming after us. ”
Carson interrupts, elbow on the table, fork pointed between Ned and me. “Daisy, bear in mind, this is pure conjecture. We know nothing.” He flips his phone face down but keeps a thumb on it, waiting for the next buzz.
“They’re hiring security but only for the fourth floor? Are you kidding me?” Gilda asks, completely disregarding Carson.
“Would you expect anything else? Like they give a shit about anyone outside of the C-suite,” Toby spits. He looks angry, until his gaze falls on me, and he looks like he might choke. Gilda’s napkin bunches in her fist; she smooths it flat without looking at me.
“I’m not the C-suite,” I say, holding up both palms.
“Clearly,” Toby says. “Anyway, if they only get security for the top floor, it’ll show how stupid the old guys are. If someone comes in with a bomb or obliterates a floor with an AK-47, it’s not like they’re safe. We’re on the floor below them.”
“I could be off on this, but I don’t think they’re afraid of either of those scenarios,” Gilda says.
“Oh. You think they’re thinking someone’s going to come in with the goal of taking out the CEO or something? Something more targeted?” Toby asks.
“Honestly, I don’t know what they’re afraid of.” Gilda swirls her fork through her bowl of chickpeas and lettuce. “I really hope you’re wrong with your bomb theory.”
“I wasn’t thinking bomb,” Ned says. “I was thinking more like targeted killings. Of the people with faces on the website.”
I stare at him, thinking about Jocelyn’s absence on the website. Ned’s theory is nonsensical.
“You don’t agree?” Ned asks me.
I shrug. “You only start a kill list at the bottom if you need intel to climb it.” They all stare at me with bugged out eyes. “What? Didn’t you watch the Terminal List?”
Carson lifts his boba drink and aims his wide-mouthed straw in my direction. “I like her.”
Eager to tell Jake about lunch and the wild theories floating through the office, I unlock the door to the condo and am greeted with a tantalizing scent, but no one’s in the kitchen.
“Jake?”
“Out here,” he calls from the balcony.
I drop my bag by the kitchen island, toe off my clunky boots, and step out in socks onto the balcony to find Jake standing before a small grill pushed up against the wall. Sliced peppers and onions sizzle on a tray and two raw seasoned filets sit on a plate to the side.
The sun hangs low over the skyline, painting everything in honey and amber.
Jake’s golden highlights catch the light as he leans over the grill, and the smoke rises in lazy spirals.
Below us, the urban sprawl stretches out in a grid of glass and shadow, and the lingering sun’s rays twinkle against the office windows.
The sounds of an exodus of commuters drifts from below—distant traffic humming like white noise, the occasional car horn, the rumble of a train somewhere in the distance.
A siren wails briefly and fades. It should feel impersonal, but somehow it makes our small balcony feel like a private island floating above it all.
“Smells good,” I say, taking it all in. Whatever’s on the grill has been marinated in something with garlic and herbs—rosemary, maybe thyme. It’s nothing like the sterile, climate-controlled air inside the building. This smells like...home. Like the kind of home I never had.
“Perfect timing,” he answers with a smile over his shoulder.
“Are you allowed to grill out here?” I mean, I haven’t seen any signs telling us not to, but I’m pretty sure back in LA we weren’t allowed to grill on our balcony, but then again, we were renters. Maybe if you own, you’re given more leeway, but I doubt it. A fire risk is a fire risk.
“Who’s going to turn us in? This place is a ghost town after work. Haven’t you noticed? The parking garage is mostly vacant. I’ve never run into anyone in the elevator.”
I suppose he’s right.
“Grab a beer and take a load off. Don’t worry. If someone says something, we’ll beg forgiveness.”
“Ask forgiveness, not permission? That’s your motto?”
“One of many.” He smacks his lips and grins.
“You want a beer?” I ask, noticing he doesn’t appear to have one.
It’s summer, and we’ve still got hours of daylight left, but the temperature’s descent from the muggy height of the summer day has begun.
“I’ll take one. Was holding off ‘til you got home.”
I bring out two long-neck beers from the fridge, and he clicks his glass against mine before taking a swig. The beer is ice-cold, bitter, and refreshing.
I kick back on a chair and watch as he forks a filet, checking the underside.
The breeze carries just enough coolness to make the warmth from the grill feel perfect against my skin.
I peel off my socks and curl my bare toes against the concrete, still warm from the day’s heat.
The metal chair is cool against my back through the thin fabric of my dress.
“I could get used to this,” I say.
Since getting here we’ve eaten out every night, and Jake’s paid, saying it’s on KOAN, but having someone cook for me at home is nice too.
He moves around the small space with economy, no wasted motion. The grill tools are positioned like weapons in easy reach. Even relaxed, he maintains awareness—his eyes scanning the street and the offices across the way.
I watch the muscles in his forearms flex as he works the grill tongs, the way his T-shirt pulls tight across his shoulders.
The evening air carries his scent—something clean and male and distracting.
I force myself to look away, focusing on the horizon instead, and then a thought occurs to me. “Was that grill here yesterday?”
“Nope. I’m good on the grill, but not so much in the kitchen. Walmart’s not far. And we have to celebrate.”
“What exactly are we celebrating?”
“Yours truly got a job offer today.”
My thoughts go back to lunch. “They offered you a security position?”