13. Ophelia
OPHELIA
Two mornings later, I wake up, still reeling, still hating my boss for… well, being my boss and keeping me in line.
Watching him give himself a hand job was pure torture, but the torture is never ending. Every time I close my eyes, I see his hands moving over his cock.
I can still taste him on my tongue, even though I’m vigorously scrubbing my tongue with my toothbrush now, trying to remove said taste.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing myself.
I usually treat morning routines like sacred rituals, taking my time, applying skincare, lotions, before moving onto makeup.
The whole process is therapeutic as I stand in front of the mirror, creating the dream version of myself, one eyelash strip at a time.
I like looking hot, lusting after myself in the mirror every morning.
After my mother died, I learned to be my biggest supporter.
Of course, she’s still cheering me on from Heaven, being my biggest cheerleader, but there is only so much you can do from the sky to support someone.
Her body is gone. I have no one to hug, nobody to vent to about my problems, other than Sapphire.
It was me and her from day one, and my heart still breaks sometimes when I realize she is never coming back.
Grieving her made me love myself more. I poured all my energy into myself, but now I feel as though all the energy has been sucked out of me. The dark bags under my eyes this morning certainly make me look like a walking corpse.
And this all started when I saw that damn crow tattoo.
Perhaps Mr. Moretti is right. Maybe some things are better left unsaid.
This could be his way of protecting me. But as much as I want to believe he cares, I also know that the whole “I’m protecting you ordeal” benefits the other person more as they keep dangerous truths hidden, truths that could destroy them.
Mr. Moretti is only looking out for himself and the business.
And still, despite all of that, my heart still gravitates toward him. He steps into the room and my chest immediately opens, ready to receive his warmth… like the guy is such a ray of sunshine.
What the hell is going on with me?
A question for another day.
I spit out the toothpaste, rinsing the white paste away. I watch it spiral down the drain, disappearing without a trace.
My phone rings, interrupting me from my session of feeling sorry for myself.
“Hey,” I say to Sapphire, answering her call.
“He’s dead.”
“Salvatore?”
“No, dumbass,” says Sapphire down the phone. Machines beep in the background, letting me know she picked up a shift at the hospital this morning. “Lenny Foster—the man who Salvatore Moretti beat up.”
“Salvatore didn’t beat him up.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked him.”
“Straight up?” scoffs Sapphire. “You’re playing with fire, babe.”
As I keep getting told…
I sit on the foot of my bed, running a hand through my hair. “The dude died from a broken nose? Is that even possible?”
“In rare cases, yes. But Lenny’s injuries were relatively minor,” explains Sapphire. “He experienced some blood loss, and was advised to stay overnight in the hospital due to being on blood thinners, but there’s no way he could have died from this incident alone.”
“What was the cause of death?”
“It says here that he died from his injuries. The blood thinners, along with some underlying health issues, caused him to go into cardiac arrest. Nothing is adding up, Phee,” says Sapphire, her voice full of concern.
“A thirty-two-year-old male stands a pretty good chance of being resuscitated, but the resus team were unable to save him. I’ll investigate, find out who was working on him.
But I have to say, all of this seems too… convenient.”
“You think somebody killed him?”
“Perhaps,” says Sapphire. “The person who did must be stinking rich because the doctor confirmed their death in writing.”
“Could his body be sent to a coroner?"
“There’s no information written down about this.”
“What about the family?”
“Uncontactable,” says Sapphire. “A friend is down at the next of kin, but the number goes straight through to voicemail.”
“And nobody has contacted the hospital?”
“According to these logs in my hand, no,” says Sapphire, her tone turning serious. “Nobody has reached out or expressed any concern…” Silence extends between us for a beat. “The only person who expressed some interest in Lenny was Salvatore Moretti.”
My stomach churns. “You don’t think he—?”
“Think about this logically, Phee,” says Sapphire, her tone dropping. The beeping disappears as she shuts herself away in a private room. “The guy is not only stinking rich but was involved in organized crime when he was a teenager. We both know those groups do more than commit petty crimes.”
“Mr. Moretti wouldn’t—”
“Salvatore,” corrects Sapphire. “Why should we say his name respectfully when he murders people?”
“We don’t know that for sure.” I sigh down the phone. “Besides, how would he even kill a patient?”
“When you pay the right people enough money, you can get away with anything.”
I scratch my head. This weekend is kicking off to a great start.
“Look, I’m not saying he definitely did this, but he paid Lenny a visit in the hospital the other day. As we discussed the other day, that is very out of character for him.”
“True,” I say, interrupted by a notification on my phone.
I take the phone away from my ear, reading the notification that has just come through,
“Holy shit.”
“What is it?”
“A memorial service is being held next week.”
“For Lenny?”
“No. For a man in sales who passed away.”
“You know this person?”
“No, Moretti Global is a big company…”
Silence rings between us as I open the email, scrolling through three very heartfelt paragraphs, detailing Wilson’s life and how valued he was in the team.
“How did he die?”
“It says here from a heart attack.”
“Phee…” panics Sapphire. “You don’t think this has something to do with—?”
“Don’t say it.” I swipe off my emails. “Look, I have to go. I’ll speak to you later. There’s somewhere I need to be.”
“Not a booty call with your boss, I hope.”
“Never in a million years. Answering to that man five days a week is already enough. The weekend is for me.”
“Great,” says Sapphire, unlocking the door, the beeping starting again. “My shift finishes in four hours, and then I’m hitting the gym. You should join me. Lifting weights will make you feel better.”
“I feel fine.”
“Hm,” says Sapphire, ending the call, not convinced.
I drag my ass out of bed, throw on some clothes and do something productive… something Salvatore will probably kill me for.
I head to the subway and tap my card on the reader, pushing through the turnstile. When my train arrives, I hop straight on.
“Deep breaths,” echoes Mr. Moretti’s voice as I focus on my breathing, trying to calm myself down as the train approaches Queens.
First Lenny, then I hear about someone in the company passing away. Could this be related? Or am I reading into this too much?
I tap my foot anxiously on the floor. Wearing sneakers outside of the gym feels weird, but I need to blend in. Sapphire is right. Heels announce my presence. I need to glide through the streets without being caught.
I take my exit and leave the subway, following directions on my phone. Of course, the self-storage units are tucked down a side-street, far away from everything.
I glance over my shoulder before taking a short-cut through an alleyway. Rats scurry along pipes, raiding forgotten dumpsters. I pinch my nose, holding my breath, wondering what business my mother would have had around a disgusting place like this.
The label on her blue dress somehow links to the zip code Salvatore scribbled down on that missing sheet of paper. Everything about this feels uncanny. The smell of rotting rats is definitely a sign for me to turn back, but I keep moving forward.
I soon see the garage doors, each one painted orange.
My sneakers scrape against loose gravel as I step closer.
A fence carries off into the distance, tipped with barbed wire.
An abandoned bus yard has been separated from the rest of the street.
I narrow my eyes, looking through the wiry fence.
Buses have been left to rot, tires littered across the yard.
For a city where everyone is fighting over space, this feels wasteful.
I shake off the thought, setting my eyes on the orange doors. Glancing over my shoulder, making sure the coast is clear, I step closer.
A sign reading: “Privately owned,” captures my attention. “Trespassers will be prosecuted."
Seems a little extreme. We’re dealing with self-storage units on the outskirts of Queens, not a gold mine.
I take one step into the corridor when I hear a car approaching.
I peer over my shoulder, hoping my mind is playing tricks, but the black Toyota sedan parked across the street is definitely real.
I bite my lip, not sure where to go from here. My body fills with fear, my legs seizing up. I can’t bend my knees. I can’t do anything but stare at the vehicle ahead and hope the driver will leave me out of their drama. I don’t have time for it today.
A window rolls down. I stare through the gap, trying to see the driver, but it’s too dark.
A slip of paper falls out, sailing to the ground. By the time I look back up, the car is already moving, driving away down the next street and disappearing.
I stare at the sheet of paper, my heart thudding as I wonder if this belongs to Salvatore—the sheet that went missing from the cabinet.
My legs carry me over to the piece of paper, suddenly working again. I grab the single sheet of paper, flip it around and read.
Unfortunately, this sheet of paper is not the one I found in Salvatore’s cabinet, but it does pique my interest, especially when I see the words: Mike Myers, Investigative Journalist scribbled at the bottom of the page below the address.
I look up, staring at the car as it disappears down the next street, out of sight, but not out of mind. My head spins with questions.
Perhaps this journalist can answer these questions for me, since my boss is refusing to.