50. West
West
A few days later, I trudged into the office, Ember behind me. We drove in together, and she stopped to talk to a coworker in the hallway. I went ahead, wanting to get my day over with before it even started. I entered the main office floor paused.
The atmosphere was off. Hushed chatter came with rapid-fire typing. I frowned, slowing down as I headed to my desk. A few coworkers look up at me, with pity if I didn’t know better.
My stomach churned, and I felt like I was back in high school again, walking into class with yet another black eye. I ignored them. I was reading too much into things.
Alice, a nice beta woman who occasionally showed me pictures of her Maine Coon cats, patted me on the shoulder as she passed by. “I’m so sorry. We’re working on getting it down.”
“What?” I frowned, glancing around the office again. Dread coiled in my stomach. Something was wrong, and my skin crawled at the sensation of having so many people looking at me.
My instant reaction was to run and hide in my nest.
Alice gestured at the computer screen. All of them, if the identical white screens on the desktops were to be believed. “We can’t get it off. Someone hacked the system. It’s been up for an hour.”
Greg walked over to me, a frown pulling his chipmunk cheeks into a weird grimace. “I’m so sorry. We’re working as hard as we can, but whoever did it was good.”
I took a step toward the closest computer, squinting to read the small print.
With a wave of nausea, I realized what was plastered all over every computer at work.
My juvenile record. I stared at my mug shot, looking at fourteen-year-old me, and it was like looking into a fun-house mirror. I had a black eye and a split lip, and I stared out at the world with a mixture of rage and resignation.
I hadn’t even told my pack what had happened yet. But my sordid past was plastered all over every computer in small black-and-white print.
The lines detailed evidence of sexual assault and history of abuse. I read the report like I hadn’t been there, having those things done to me.
In smaller type at the bottom was another line, this one saying I was charged for assault with a deadly weapon. I’d snapped and went after my stepfather with a knife.
I hadn’t been convicted. The evidence supported what I told the police.
As if looking down a long tunnel, I realized my assault record was on every computer. All of my coworkers knew about it, without the context. Not that the context mattered.
I went after that asshole with a knife because I was tired of him touching me. They said I snapped, that anyone would have, but I knew exactly what I was doing. I was clear-headed when I picked up the knife out of the butcher’s block and hid it under my mattress, waited for him to come after me.
This place full of strangers knew every detail. Another wave of nausea, coupled with violation, washed over me. I didn’t give anyone permission to know these secrets about my life, and yet somehow it was out there.
“What the fuck?” Ember’s sharp voice knocked me out of my daze.
She was glaring at the computer monitors with such vehemence it was like she could take away those images through sheer force of will.
Greg started muttering the same platitudes he had given me, but Ember shook her head. “Where’s Mr. Arnold? This is illegal. Those records are sealed.”
The look she gave me was filled with protective rage.
I shook my head. I had to get out of here.
Ember picked up the phone, and I knew she was calling our pack. Ben and Rian could be here in minutes, Alejandro a half hour if he broke all traffic laws. And he would, to get to me.
I needed time before any of that happened. I needed a quiet moment to put space between the boy I was and the man I had become.
My heart pounded, and another wave of nausea rolled over me.
I turned on my heel and headed back out the way I came in. I would sit in the car and have a nice, well-deserved nervous breakdown.
I left, the door slamming shut behind me even as people rushed to reassure me they would fix it.
But there wasn’t any fixing this.
It was already broken.