Chapter 23
“And the reports for the last quarter are on your desk,” Everett said.
“Perfect. I’ll check them out.” Simon waved goodbye to Everett with the folder in his hand and entered his office. “Stanley Kowalski, it is?” he said to the wide-shouldered man, waiting on a chair in front of his desk.
Kowalski twisted around, issuing a polite nod. “Sir.”
Simon sat down, checking the folder with his resume. “A decade working at various security companies. Five years at Safeguard. They’re a good company—why did you leave?”
Kowalski gave a barely perceptible shrug. “Lunch was always the same.”
“Well, you have an impressive line of recommendations, Mr.—can I call you Stan?”
This time, he gave a barely perceptible nod.
“You are impressive, but if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem to be trying your best to impress me,” Simon said.
From how these things usually went, he’d expected more butt-lickery.
Oh, Mr. Montague, I’d love to work for you.
Your company is the best in the business, and you’re my greatest idol.
“I don’t have to,” Stan said. “You can read my resume. The rest is up to you, not me.”
“You don’t say much, do you?”
“Bodyguards don’t need to. I’m good at tackling, though.” He said it in a serious tone, without a hint of a smile.
But Simon did smile—even if he’d been annoyed at Everett pressing him to hire a bodyguard for months. “Well, Stan.” He reached over the desk to shake hands. “Welcome to Aries.”
***
Under the veil of the night, Simon and Chris approached the darkened quarters of Aries Tech.
“Here.” She handed him a black rag; upon examination, he realized it was a balaclava.
“I’m not dressing up as a criminal,” he protested.
Never mind that the Feds already assumed he was.
Or at least they thought the man traveling with a stolen passport was.
“Take that off.” He snatched Chris’s own balaclava off her head.
“We’re visiting my own company after hours.
There’s no crime to be committed here. And where did you get these, anyway? ”
“I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you’re wondering.” She sighed. “At least wear these, then.” She put a pair of sunglasses on his head.
“I’m not wearing sunglasses inside like an idiot.” He tucked them into his shirt instead. “Let’s go.”
Simon activated the camera jammer in his pocket, eyes peered at the few spots around the main entrance where he knew the surveillance cameras to be.
Fine, so maybe he was a bit of a criminal, but only because Everett forced his hand.
And was it really a crime if he was jamming his own security feed?
Hunched down, they sneaked past the massive chrome sign with the company name and down the driveway to the building complex. Simon punched in the front door’s code.
The screen flashed red, starting to count down twenty seconds.
“What did you do?” Chris’s whisper was accusatory, like he was a toddler found playing with poop in the park.
When would it finally stick in his mind that three years had passed?
They changed the code every six months. “It’s fine, I’ve got it,” he said, racking his brain for the current one.
The changes followed an algorithm, so he should be able to figure it out.
Three years—six changes, plus the seventh one, which would have been a month ago.
He murmured the numbers under his breath, punching in the new code.
The countdown stopped. A short bleep let them know the door was unlocked.
Inside, all was quiet. The lobby looked exactly as he remembered. The polished wooden and glass reception desk with a tasteful, stylized mural of the Golden Gate Bridge behind it. A few plants, light gray sofas, a sensor-based water cooler … it was like he had never left.
“This way.” Simon led Chris down the hallways toward his office, quietly moving from shadow to shadow.
The offices appeared abandoned so far, but one never knew if they’d installed additional security, or somebody was pulling an all-nighter.
He glanced nervously toward the surveillance cameras peppered along the hallways, hoping the jammer was doing its job.
How did criminals do this? It was way too stressful.
And to think he’d brought Chris along, too …
He didn’t want to endanger her with more questionable activities, but she’d insisted on accompanying him until he caved in. He could use someone to watch his back, and he admitted it felt less daunting coming here with a partner.
California Girls started playing from somewhere—muted, as if far away, or … in Chris’s pocket?
She pulled out her phone and canceled the call. “Sorry,” she mouthed.
“Turn that off just in case, yeah?” A thought about the song nibbled at the fringes of his memory, but he couldn’t remember what it should be.
He shook his head and led them up the staircase, then further down the hallway, until they reached his office, with his secretary’s desk looming in the half-darkness outside.
“Here.” He pressed on the doorknob.
It didn’t give in.
“Are you sure you’re smart enough to have started your own company?” Chris said.
“In my defense, I’m not used to being locked out of it,” he argued in a whisper.
Chris only shook her head, as if disappointed in him, and pushed him out of the way. She kneeled down, took off her cross earrings, and got to work on the lock. A minute later, she opened the door.
“I won’t even ask,” Simon said. “Will you keep a lookout? I’ll check the computer.”
“Sure, boss,” she responded in her flat tone.
Before he could get to the computer, though, Simon paused, taking in the office.
That bastard. He’d switched his sofa! And he took down the pictures on the wall.
He wasn’t sure whether it was Everett or his impostor, but he assumed Everett, in preparation for his takeover.
Simon didn’t mind the obnoxious magazine covers gone, but the rest of the pictures were with his dad at graduation, and Simon in front of the first Aries building …
He slid his fingers over the empty wall, the lighter spots of where the pictures used to hang still visible.
He pressed his mouth into a firm line. Everett didn’t know it yet, but these were his last days of freedom. Simon was getting his office back.
He sat down at the computer. This time, he wasn’t too surprised his old password was wrong; it had undoubtedly been changed at least a few times.
But who’d have done it last—Everett, or Simon’s impostor?
Everett, surely, if he’d also rearranged the office.
Simon guessed possible passwords for five minutes until he remembered that stupid password Everett once told him about.
He wouldn’t. Surely not …
But he typed in 4EVERett anyway.
The computer unlocked.
“And that’s why you’re not the CEO,” Simon whispered.
At least, while changed, the files on his computer were still neatly organized.
If only he knew what to look for. Everett might have bad ideas for passwords, but he still wasn’t dumb enough to leave evidence lying in the open.
Simon checked various company files first to reassure himself Everett hadn’t been messing with the finances, but everything looked in order.
Then he switched to emails; through this computer, he could monitor the employees’ emails, including Everett’s, but if Everett had done anything suspicious there, he deleted his traces well.
Simon swung back in the chair. “What did you do, Everett?” he murmured.
“Hey,” Chris barked. “Someone’s coming.”
Simon scrambled out of the chair. He put the computer to sleep, then ran to Chris, who turned and bumped into him. “No, no, into the office,” she hushed, and closed the door behind them. “Hide!”
She darted for the sofa, disappearing behind it. Simon gazed around in panic, finally taking the only other available hiding space—underneath his desk.
The door opened.
Simon caught his breath, putting a hand over his mouth.
Long, heavy steps approached. The chair creaked as the man sat down, his polished black shoes nearly touching Simon’s legs as he pulled his knees to his chest.
“Hmm,” a voice grumbled. The man stopped for a moment, perfectly still, making Simon wonder if he could somehow sense the two burglars hidden in the room.
And then the chair creaked again, and a wide face with a shiny bald head appeared below the edge of the table.
For the longest few seconds, Simon and the man who’d come to ruin his plan stared at each other.
“Mr. Simon?” the man then said.
Simon dropped his hand. “Hello, Stan.”
***
The day spent working alongside her mom was a unique kind of torture for Shanna.
Bella seemed like a wonderful, warm person.
She small-talked with customers, petted dogs (who she had no problem with entering her store), and praised Shanna every time she did something right, be it advise a customer on the correct crystal selection or sort out the shelves after an eager young witch-to-be left them a mess.
And each time, Shanna’s heart lifted into the sky, then slammed back onto the ground when she realized the praise wasn’t that of a mother to her daughter, but a shop owner measuring up her possible successor.
Mom made no more mention of Shanna’s strange behavior the previous day. Either she’d forgotten about it, or she decided to let it slide and ascribe it to Shanna being stressed out.
As they closed up in the late afternoon, Mom said, “Come. Let’s go eat, and we’ll talk.”
They went to a seafood restaurant by the lake. As twilight descended, Shanna watched an old steamer sail out with tourists and the seagulls landing on the pier afterwards, squawking as they fought for breadcrumbs.
“You did well,” Mom said. “And you’ll say one day isn’t enough to measure a person, but as a witch, you’ll also know I don’t only need the data. I feel it—your zest, your passion. You enjoy doing this.”