2. Sloane
2
SLOANE
L unch doesn’t provide me with the break I need. When anxiety is stuck to me like a conjoined twin, I can find little in the way of relaxation. Cleaning is the only thing to do the trick. And that’s not my job most days.
Not at work.
Sighing into my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I cringe through the chunky bits of peanut. I grabbed this jar instead of the smooth, and Reese will not let me hear the end of it. Too bad we didn’t notice until I opened it.
Now, I can’t return it, so we’re stuck with it until the jar is gone.
Oh, the joys of having no money. Of having the next paycheck already spoken for and not a penny to waste. Of not wanting to explain that to my six-year-old daughter.
Peanut sticks in my teeth, and I huff.
If only it were the biggest problem in my life…
My mind turns back to those serial numbers. If I hadn’t looked and just checked off the contents based on the description, no one would have noticed. How many times have I not noticed?
The itching gets worse and I rub my scalp, willing my ever-present headache away. I should really go to the clinic to grab some ibuprofen. I’m overdue for a check-up. That’s another rabbit hole I don’t need to fall down.
Wiping my hands down my pants, effectively brushing crumbs off, I march back to the office. Those serial numbers won’t let go of me.
I don’t like mistakes.
Sliding behind my desk, I dig into the records, checking for other anomalies, other errors. I highlight as I go, printing when I find one for my physical records—something I feel better having. Electronic records can be erased. And sure, paper copies can be lost, too, but I like keeping backups.
I enjoy the visceral feeling of highlighting the page.
As I collect more sheets, something pops out at me that I didn’t catch on the screen. Another bonus to having both forms… one of the helpful lessons I learned from Alistair… is that the eye catches on different things.
The name on the forms with the mistakes are all the same, and it’s not someone I’m familiar with.
Caspian Vorn.
I pride myself on at least being familiar with the names on my manifests. Why have I never seen this one before if he’s on so many of the forms?
Only two of us handle the inventory manifests.
And speaking of the devil, Edmund is lurking by the end of his desk, not quite hovering at mine, but it’s odd just the same. He usually stops to chat or waves on his way by, but he never lingers.
“What are you working on? You’ve got a bit of that manic energy you get when you’ve found a mistake.”
Oh, so that’s why he’s being nervous. “Just a few mismarked crates. An unfamiliar name. Nothing to worry about.”
Although I have a feeling the more I dig, the more I will find.
This doesn’t seem to ease him. That pings my radar, but I don’t have time to think about it too hard. Our last delivery is due to arrive any minute.
I lock my computer and stuff the papers I’ve printed off under the new manifest. Edmund makes his way behind me, and I double-check behind him, which has him eyeing me.
I really can’t help it. Not now that I’ve found discrepancies. Offering him a friendly smile, I tuck my clipboard under my arm and help put away what I can.
Back at my desk, I input everything into the computer and approve it, but when Edmund taps absently on his keyboard, I’m primed with the need to dig deeper into the mistakes I’ve found. I didn’t mean to make him as anxious as I am.
Another of my not so great traits, I guess.
Once I’ve input my usual inventory report, I save everything, lock my computer, and go to Warren. It’s not enough to record everything. I don’t know if anyone actually reads my reports. That’s why telling my boss is the best course of action.
Knocking on his open door, I wave when he looks up. He gestures me inside but turns back to his computer, so I perch on the end of a seat opposite him and wait for him to finish whatever he’s working on.
My fingers twist together in my lap. Warren doesn’t make me nervous, but bothering him with something like this always cranks my heartrate up.
It’s a few long minutes before my boss turns back to me. We make eye contact for a couple of heavy seconds before he inquires, “Specialist Montgomery?”
Pressing my lips together, I nod. “I found something odd this morning with our inventory—some of the serial numbers are off. One crate was mislabeled as nonessential equipment but was filled with tear gas. I’ve put in an inquiry and return order, but that got me thinking…”
Warren’s dark brow raises. It’s made more stark by contrast to his graying hair. “That’s never good for my bottom line.”
I bite back a smile. He’s always argued that I’m worth every penny of overtime and that he’d never have to come in if he had five of me to run this place. At least I can take pride in my work.
“I won’t stay late investigating. I promise. But I did go looking for other mistakes or anomalies. Most of the wrong serial numbers I found were otherwise labeled correctly, which is why I don’t think anyone’s paid much attention to it before. You know, if we’ve got what we need, why kick up a fuss?” I let that thought trail off because obviously, I’m kicking up a fuss.
I can’t help it.
“Why don’t you show me?” Warren stands, and I follow his lead, bringing him back to my desk.
I click my mouse a few times to bring up my locked screen and sign in. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who locks my computer every time I step away from it, but when you’re provided with so little privacy, you cling to what you’re given.
Bringing up the files, I sit back and let him take over my mouse, scrolling through my highlights and pausing to read what items are being misnumbered. After a few minutes, the screen flickers, making him pause.
“Print those out and leave them on my desk before you leave. Okay?” His warm hand pats my shoulder gently—it’s almost not a touch. Warren isn’t a touchy-feely kind of boss.
“Got it.”
He nods and marches back to his office, and I send the printer to whirring out pages.
I collect the papers after each print. It’s a habit, and yes, it’s a bit anal, but I’d rather be sure each batch is correct and not missing anything before moving onto the next.
Edmund twists in his chair, eyeing me and my progress before donning his jacket and shutting his machine off. “You staying late?”
I look up at him and shake my head. “No. I’m out of here as soon as I’m done with this. Shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”
He nods, hesitating.
“You go on. I know your mom’s waiting on you, and you have a ton of stuff to do at home.” I wave him on, and after another short hesitation, he wishes me a good evening and heads out.
Warren is back, eying my stack. “I’ve got to run an errand. Lock up my office once you’re done.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And try to relax when you get home. Enjoy some quality time with Reese.” The knowing look in his eyes humbles me a little.
“I will, sir.”
His knuckles knock on the edge of my desk before he marches out the door without a backward glance.
I have four more documents to print, and it does, indeed, take me another fifteen minutes to gather it all together, binder clip the stack, and set them neatly on the boss’s desk.
When I swing the door shut, gently ensuring that the lock engages, I turn to a sharply dressed man stepping into the main office. He’s in a black suit jacket and pants. The crisp white shirt is bright for the end of the day. His shoes are shiny and black and more expensive than I’m used to seeing on base.
Pale skin and slicked-back hair give him an air of authority that comes with money.
I step back to my desk. “Hello. Can I help you?”
“Yes, Specialist Sloane Montgomery, I suspect?” He strides up to my desk, and that authority amplifies.
I straighten my spine. “Yes, sir. And you are?”
“Caspian Vorn. Come with me.” He gestures toward the door to the warehouse.
My heart kicks up, but I grab my keys—with my self-defense stick and pepper spray on it—and follow him.
The moment we’re through the door, Caspian’s hand closes around my bicep, and he swings me into the corner beside the storage room where we keep our office supplies.
Doing my best to regulate my breathing, I give him a hard stare. My finger finds the button of my pepper spray, but his touch drops the moment my back meets the wall.
This is one of the few blind spots in the building. I fill my lungs to scream or attack, but he leans in closer, taking away what little leverage I have.
“You’ve been poking around in things above your pay grade.” His voice is low and dangerous.
The smart part of me is quaking, knowing that I’m pretty much here alone and no matter how hard I fight, I’m not likely to win. That won’t keep me from taking my own ounce of flesh.
“I’m doing my job.”
“Stop looking into my supply orders, Miss Montgomery.” His dark eyes flash. “Drop it. Or there will be consequences.”
We hover there for a moment, me breathing heavily from anger or terror, I’m not really sure. And he catalogs my demeanor before smiling in a not-so-friendly way.
When he lurches forward to whisper, “I mean it,” in my ear, I jerk and move to shove him away, but he’s already backing up. We don’t break eye contact until he’s out the door, and I’m left shaking against the wall beside the storage room.
This kind of intimidation doesn’t work on me, so unfortunately for Caspian Vorn, he’s sparked the exact opposite reaction from me.
I’m going to find out what that guy is up to.