4. Recalibrating #2
“Your ex-CFO was wildly incompetent,” she says, startling me into standing upright.
She doesn’t even look at me, but my body responds to her as if it knows her circadian rhythm.
“These numbers just don’t add up, Cole. They’re designed to look as though they add up while actively not adding up.
That takes skill or complete cognitive maladroitness. ”
“You…knew I was standing here?”
“You breathe loudly.”
I don’t. I know I don’t. But I do like that she’s still as in tune with me as I am with her. I just can’t do anything with that information.
“Which is it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. I’ve known for weeks. I just didn’t have proof or the skillset to find it.
As much as it pains me to admit, I need Junie. I need her to find the proof of my innocence because I don’t trust anyone else. It’s also why I’m managing the information she gets and how quickly—it will be a curated drop so she can find and follow every single step Devin took to fuck up The Haven.
The truth is, it will kill me if she, for one second, thinks I’m the guilty party here—but I also know she can do this.
The destruction of her life might be what saves mine. Karma, it seems, is a petty bitch too.
Junie stops clicking her pen. She looks up at me for the first time today, and there’s no snark or sass in her eyes. No armor. Just the sharp, clear intelligence that’s always been her most undervalued trait.
“There’s definitely some financial manipulation happening here, but it’s too soon to know if it’s intentional. I’m following the breadcrumbs though. I’ll figure it out.”
She will. I just hope it’s the only mystery she unravels while she’s here.
Fucking Devin. My own goddamn family, running the same playbook everyone outside of my inner circle seems to default to—take what you can and leave the damage for Cole to clean up.
“There’s more,” Junie adds, softening her tone. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “I need more time, but if what I’m seeing is what I think it is—”
“Then The Haven has a much bigger problem than a messy spreadsheet,” I finish for her.
She nods and holds my gaze a beat longer than either of us is comfortable with.
“I’ll need access to the original contracts. And the bank statements going back two years, not eighteen months.” She finally looks away.
“Done.” Please find what I haven’t been able to.
“And oat milk. Your fridge is a travesty.”
She doesn’t look at me, but I swear her eyes crinkle at the corner, and my lips tug into a grin I hate myself for. Friends, I remind myself. This is what friends do. They bring each other oat milk and pretend the room doesn’t have a pulse.
“I’ll be sure to stock it to your liking.”
Her face flushes red, then she picks up a new file and gets back to work.
I wish it were that easy for me, but the rest of the day is a parade.
Not a literal one. Not yet, anyway. Stanley’s already pitched a “Welcome the new girl” golf cart procession for Saturday, and Marley shut it down on the grounds that he hasn’t filed the proper permit.
Now Stanley’s appealing.
The revolving door of Haven residents is as close to a circus as it comes.
At 12:15, I catch Stanley pressed against the office window with binoculars, mouthing the word welcome and making a heart shape with his hands. Junie, of course, doesn’t notice because she’s elbow deep in vendor files, so I physically redirect him before she looks up and calls the police.
At 1:47, Marley calls the house line. I hand the phone to Junie without warning.
“You’ve been added to three committees,” Marley says. I can hear her through the receiver even four feet away.
“I didn’t volunteer for—”
“Noted. First meeting is Thursday.”
Click.
Junie stares at the phone in her hand like it bit her. “Did I just get conscripted?”
Muscles in my cheek twitch, but I absolutely refuse to smile. “Welcome to The Haven.”
At 2:30, Katie arrives with a bottle of rosé, a tube of SPF 50, and zero boundaries. She drops into the chair across from Junie as if their brief meeting last night has made them fast friends.
“So. Cole,” she says with enough insinuation to power a small city.
“What about him?” Junie asks while my blood pressure spikes.
I roll my office chair to the left to glare at Katie, and she carries on as though she doesn’t see me.
“Nothing. Just…” Katie swirls her wineglass, which is already full. “He’s different since you got here. Less…” She waves her hand in the air. “Broody.”
“Katie,” I say from my open office door, “I’m right here.”
She shrugs but doesn’t take her eyes off Junie.
“I’ve been here for one day,” Junie says, dropping her gaze back to her work.
“Honey,” Katie coos. “He started smiling at six this morning. That man hasn’t smiled before noon in two years. I have the data. And Stanley saw him on his run.”
“Katie.” One word. Full exasperation. “Out.”
“I haven’t finished my—”
“Take it with you. She’s working.”
Katie stands, but not before patting Junie’s hand and stage-whispering, “He’s always like this. Don’t let it fool you.”
I head for the kitchen before anyone notices the vein in my forehead and pass Bea on my way out. My house has always had a revolving door of Haven residents, but this is getting out of hand.
“I heard she’s having a tough time,” she says, holding up a tray that smells like chocolate.
I step out of the way and watch Junie’s expression go from confused to annoyed to what the fuck.
“How did you—”
“Stanley’s newsletter,” Bea says as if that’s supposed to explain everything.
And if you live here, it does. God help us, it does.
Junie catches my eye as Bea sets down the tray. Her expression is equal parts what the hell’s happening and something softer.
These people are ridiculous. They’re nosy and overbearing and they have zero concept of boundaries.
They also wore me down inside of six weeks, and I’m twice as stubborn as she is.
So good luck, Junie.
Junie strikes at the end of the day. I’m actually surprised she made it this long.
It happens when I go to pour my evening coffee and it’s been diluted with water. My favorite mug—the oversized one that Bea gave me for Christmas—is on the top shelf where I can reach it just fine, but where Nana Mae would never put it.
Then I sit at my desk to review Junie’s notes, and my chair drops three inches. My knee hits the underside of the table hard enough to send her neat stacks of paper sliding to the floor.
That’s when I hear it coming from her office. A laugh. Not the polite, controlled one she shared last night. A real one. Quick and sharp and bitten off, like she’d caught herself enjoying it too much.
I should address it. Set a boundary or be irritated. At the very least, inform her that this is a professional arrangement and psychological warfare on her employer is not in her job description.
Instead, I adjust my chair, reorganize the papers, and sit back with my coffee.
Because that laugh? The one she tried to silence?
It’s a sound that awakens all the parts of me that died six years ago, so some sick, selfish part of me doesn’t care that it’s at my expense.
Friends, I remind myself for the hundredth time today.
My phone buzzes.
Fen & Tonic:
Fen: Day one survival check. Did Spite-Berry commit any felonies?
Hudson: My money’s on a misdemeanor.
Nolan: Just check in, Cole.
I stare at the screen. There’s so much I could say.
That she’s brilliant. That she’s already moving in the direction it took me two months to find.
That she made my kitchen feel like a war zone and home at the same time.
That The Haven residents adopted her before lunch and she hasn’t lashed out at them even once.
That when she laughs, the whole house heats by ten degrees.
Instead, I type one word.
Cole: Fine.
And for the first time in six years, I mean it the way I’ve always hated because fine carries the weight of everything I cannot say.