8. Lourdes
Lourdes
Ipush open the crackled glass entrance door to the office with my shoulder, balancing the cardboard tray of coffees carefully in both hands. I’m greeted by chaos in the office and the overwhelming smell of cardboard.
For a moment, my mind refuses to process what I’m seeing. Marisol is at her desk, but it’s half empty. Dismantled. The framed photo of her two boys is even gone.
Was she fired?
But Benny is packing, too, tossing file folders into boxes.
Was he fired as well?
“What’s going on?” I ask, my voice shakier than I intend.
Marisol looks up at me, her dark curls hanging in front of her face. “We’re moving!” Her excited eyes calm me down.
I breathe in relief.
“Where, the third floor?” I recall Nathan mentioning something about moving to a smaller office.
“Out of state,” she says, like I should have known this. “We’ve been bought.”
“Bought? By who? And what state?” I ask brusquely.
A fragile and foolish hope perks up inside me that she’ll say we’re moving to Chicago.
“Elizabeth, New Jersey,” Benny answers without looking up. “We’ve been told to start packing.”
My heart sinks so sharply it feels like a weight dragging through my chest cavity and down into my stomach. “When?” I manage.
“Now,” Marisol replies. “Can’t you tell? Someone’s coming at the end of the day to move all our desks and files. The IT guy already shut down the network. It’s crazy, right? Just like that.”
Just like that.
The phrase echoes unpleasantly in my mind.
Nathan’s assistant sits at her desk outside his office, a headset pressed to her ear. She sounds like she’s giving directions to movers.
The floor goes wobbly under my feet. I set the coffees down blindly on the nearest flat surface, my hands shaking too violently to hold them for another second. Marisol no longer looks interested in the pricey latte I walked four blocks to get because it was my turn.
This can’t be happening. Not now.
I turn and stalk toward Nathan’s office, my legs stiff, my breath shallow.
“Nathan… We’re moving?” I ask and fall into the chair across from him.
A scent lingers in the air. Familiar. Expensive. It teases at the edge of my memory, but I can’t place it.
“Lourdes,” Nathan says with a near-apologetic tone. “Ah, I see you heard.”
“Yeah. But I can’t go. I can’t move,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can craft them into something less pathetic.
Nathan exhales, leaning back in his chair. “I would hate to lose you,” he replies, and I believe him. “You’re my best overseas admin.”
Guilt churns my stomach. I took advantage of his trust.
“I have stipends for everyone to relocate,” he adds, sitting forward again and going through papers. “Travel, temporary housing. The new owner is covering everything.”
I wonder who the new owner is, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything for me.
“I just can’t,” I repeat, softer now.
“Then I’ll need your laptop,” Nathan says after studying me, like he was trying to get what’s behind my refusal. “IT has to migrate all our data to new servers tonight.”
My entire body goes cold.
“My laptop?” I echo.
“Yes. We’re transferring the whole operation immediately.”
Everything is on that lousy device.
Not hidden amateurishly in files labeled with indiscriminate names. I created complicated-looking spreadsheets embedded in layers of encryption with hidden links leading to the shell account. To the thirty thousand dollars waiting for me when I’m ready to help Sandrine.
I didn’t back up the hard drive. There was nothing to back it up to. And I didn’t write down the account number. I was too afraid David would find it and demand an explanation.
Or worse! Take the money for himself.
“Can I work remotely for a week?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain level. “Or until I find something else?”
“No.” Nathan shakes his head. “I agreed to move everyone immediately. We’ve already pulled down the network.”
The network is already down.
I have no way to access my money.
“We’ll be up and running in New Jersey in a few days.” Nathan stands and starts packing up his desk.
“Okay.” I nod, though I haven’t agreed to anything.
“I’m sorry, Lourdes, really,” Nathan says, not sounding very sorry.
“Me, too.” I leave his office, anxiety churning my stomach.
I walk back into the main room and to my desk as if moving through murky water.
Around me, the office continues its dismantling, buzzing excitement mingling with the scrape of shipping tape and boxes slamming onto the ceramic tile floor.
I sit and stare at my laptop.
If I open it now, create a backup account, and begin copying files, it will look suspicious. If I resist handing it over, that will look worse. If I run with it…
What if the new owner hires a real auditor who will find discrepancies? I’ll be arrested. While a jail cell might seem preferable to living with David and his temper, it would not help me get my sister the care she needs.
When I finally carry the laptop into Nathan’s office and set it on his desk, tears build behind my eyes, and my hands feel numb.
The risks I took to build up that account. The care I took. All that money is gone. But what choice do I have?
“Here,” I say and tell him the passcode.
“Thanks, Lourdes.” He takes it from me and tosses it into one of the boxes.
I leave, not remembering what I said in return.
Since I’m not moving, I’m no longer employed here. After brief goodbyes to Marisol and Benny, I amble out into the afternoon sun. It’s dipped low enough to stain the sky a muted orange. An autumn chill has blown into Manhattan.
I hold it all together until I’m inside my apartment. Bracing for what David will say, I’m grateful for the silence and not that stupid game. I look around and spot a piece of paper on the coffee table.
A note scribbled in his sloppy handwriting says he’ll be in Boston for a few days. Under the paper is a twenty-dollar bill.
With a burst of anger, I kick over the coffee table and tear up the note. The measly twenty bucks is his way of ensuring I don’t go out and, God forbid, have fun. Have a life. But his being gone gives me a sugar rush of happiness that nearly buckles my knees.
I set my empty workbag down and lean against the counter, breathing.
Hunger takes over, so I preheat the oven and slide in a frozen pizza.
I pour a glass of wine from the bottle I hid under the counter.
It’s from the last time David traveled. I sip it and sigh.
Stored in the dark and corked properly, it’s held its sweetness and hasn’t turned into vinegar.
Scrolling through job listings, I eat the pizza and finish off the bottle of wine. A dull warmth settles over me and dulls the sharpest edges of my panic.
With no other plans, I draw a bath, and when it’s filled, I sink into it. The hot water loosens muscles I didn’t realize had been clenched for hours.
Things will be better tomorrow. That’s the wine talking, but who cares?
An hour later, I’m wrapping myself in a towel when my cell rings. I freeze, thinking it’s David. But it’s from an unfamiliar yet valid number with a 212-area code.
“Hello?” I answer cautiously.
“Is this Lourdes Sinclair?” a woman’s crisp voice asks.
“Yes. Who is this?” I sit on the edge of the bed, thinking it’s the FBI.
Wouldn’t they just knock the door down?
“Nathan Craig gave me your number,” she says in lieu of saying who she is. “Said you can’t relocate to New Jersey with him.”
My pulse quickens. “That’s right.”
“I have an opportunity that may suit you,” she continues. “I’m going to text you an address. Be there at eight a.m. tomorrow.”
God, Nathan! Thank you!
Before I can ask again where she’s calling from, the line goes dead, and my screen fades back to black.
I stare at the phone for a long moment before the text message arrives. The address is on Wall Street. I pull it up on my phone and see it’s near the U.N.
I have nothing to lose, and I can’t believe my luck.
After dressing for bed, I walk to the window to close the drapes, but freeze when from across the street, I notice a man staring up at my bedroom window.
His side of the street is dimly lit, and the glow of the lamps casts elongated shadows across the pavement.
At first, I think it’s a trick of the light, a distortion created by wine and exhaustion. But the figure doesn’t fade away. He stands tall and broad-shouldered, his posture unmistakably deliberate, his gaze angled upward. Right on me.
It reminds me of Ares. Though it can’t be him. That confident, distinguished man who I’d had a brief encounter with would not be standing there, looking up at my apartment window.
But the thought that it could be makes my breath catch, not entirely in fear. It’s a feeling I once thought was dead. That hum of arousal deep in my center. I close my eyes and imagine Ares naked walking toward me. Broad. Toned. Hungry.
For me.
I sigh that ridiculous fantasy away. I draw the curtain closed. Ares and I barely exchanged names. He has no idea where I live.
He probably doesn’t even remember me.