Undercovers #2
I join her chuckle this time. Admittedly, there’s an honesty about her that’s kind of refreshing after talking to Olivia.
She doesn’t feel the need to impress me.
She curls her toes under herself and sits higher. “How about you? Did you move to the city for your fancy marketing job?”
She’s not saying it in a rude way, but it still stings after everything tonight.
“Oh, not really.”
She eyes me just as curiously as I did to her a moment ago. “What’s the deal with that anyway? I used to only see you coming
and going from work, and now . . .” She raises a brow. “You get canned?”
I swallow. “Oh, you know. I was sort of rude to a big client and the firm thought it would be best if I took a leave of rest.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh shit. Was he an asshole? I fucking bet he is.”
Something deep in my chest stirs with warmth that she takes my side without hesitation. “Well, he is a bit of a high-touch personality, but he contributes a great deal of . . .” Her eyes are already glazing over. And why am I filtering myself? “Yes, he’s a total piece of shit.”
Her head bobs in appreciation of my revelation. “I knew it.”
Suddenly, I start venting to her about all the effort I’ve put in, then shift to the office politics, and eventually I’m unloading
the whole mess with Bob, my meltdown, and all the other mishaps and frustrations at work. Her reaction—equal parts delight
and understanding—makes me feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders after the careful conversation with Olivia.
Because this doesn’t feel like a performance. It feels supportive.
“You know,” I say, “I haven’t shared that story with anyone. Or I did with Sami, I guess, but I wasn’t sober. So you’re like
my first dry confession.”
“Wow.” She stares at her phone, where she’d looked up Bob Wolch’s crappy website. (She needed visuals, and that’s how we learned
that Bob’s profile features photos of him golfing and holding dead fish. You couldn’t design a duller piece of shit.)
She rests her phone on the end table next to the peacock lamp. “So, are you and Sami like a thing?”
I reel backward. “What gives off that vibe?”
“I saw you walking together a few times. Seemed like you were getting close.”
“Oh, that’s just because he’s helping me out with the dog.”
“That’s all?” Jane asks, leaning closer. “I thought you guys looked pretty cute together.”
True, we’ve become buds. But my time in this corner of the city is coming to an end, and all Sami wants to do is stay stuck
in the diner until it finally snuffs out. Anyway, once he finds out I’ve been helping Lana sell the building, he’ll probably
want nothing to do with me.
“He’s great, but I don’t think we’re well matched,” I say. “Besides, dating isn’t my priority right now. I want to focus on putting the bigger pieces of my life in place before committing time to that.”
Jane looks down on her hands. “I can respect that. I never planned things out and look where that got me.”
I look at Jane with renewed curiosity but decide against prying. I try not to think about the times I’ve heard her cry through
the walls.
I nod. “I figure two more years should be enough to fully set my career path and allow myself more time on weekends and evenings
for dating and stuff.”
“Did you schedule all your shits for the next ten quarters?” She gives a cheeky grin as she tucks her feet under herself.
“If I could, I would.”
A loud buzz erupts from her phone on the end table.
“Looks like it’s time to change the load.” Jane waggles her brows at me, her sense of mischief restored.
A rush of adrenaline surges through my limbs as we tiptoe our way out her door. I go straight to the back stairwell to the
laundry room as quietly as possible, while Jane takes her usual route down the elevator to the basement, not worrying who
hears her.
We make it to the laundry room within seconds of each other, and once Jane transfers her laundry (comprised of two weeks’
worth of undies) to the dryer, we prop up my phone on the dusty shelf, stealthily wedged between two Tide boxes that haven’t
been touched since the ’80s. Nobody is willing to touch them lest the owners come back. Our plan is to wait in the “rec room”
with Jane’s phone FaceTiming mine. As soon as we see the perp, she’ll start screen recording. If we catch them in anything
incriminating, we will confront the perve—also on camera.
After we’ve set up our sting material, we head to the rec room.
I always forget this room technically exists.
I haven’t had a chance to tidy (or really assess) this area yet, with all the more pressing items on my list. It consists of someone’s donated treadmill, a dusty Bosu ball that has stretched beyond use, a futon, and a pool table with a missing seven ball and broken corner pocket.
It’s not that bad, really, if you don't plan on working out or playing a game or enjoying yourself in any sort of normal way.
We spend a miserable forty minutes in the dank room sitting on the pool table discussing the possible suspects. A mouse came
by at minute twenty, causing us both to yelp, before quickly disappearing somewhere behind the futon to a place I hate to
think about.
Finally, the laundry machine sends out its obnoxious buzz that the cycle is complete.
Jane lets out a sigh. “Should we call it?” she whispers. “I don’t think it’s happening tonight.”
I think she’s right, but fuck. I don’t want this hour of misery to have been for nothing. “Let’s give it fifteen more. Just
in case.”
“Sure.” She nods, then seems to think twice. “I do have to get up early tomorrow. My work has started tracking me and if I’m
a minute late they have Janine talk to me.”
“Jesus, that sounds miserable.”
“Right? This one time, Herman—the team lead for us admins—tracked me down in the file room and told me that I couldn’t do
my filing when the brokers were in the office, in case they needed anything. Filing is literally my whole job.”
“Herman sounds like a piece of shit.”
“A bit.” She starts to giggle and then covers her mouth, remembering we’re supposed to be quiet. “I shouldn’t complain. I’m
lucky to even have this job. I don’t have, like, a ton of experience.”
“Fair,” I mutter for some reason. I’m starting to suspect Jane has recently escaped a cult, but there’s no polite way to ask
such a thing.
Jane spends the next fifteen minutes briefing me on the worst people at her office and all the bullshitty things they say or make her do. I never worked in admin, but I get the distinct impression that what she’s describing isn’t how it’s meant to be.
“Anyway,” Jane sighs, “now it’s really time to call it.” She stands from her place on the pool table. “I bet the thief is
asleep. This isn’t my usual time.”
She has a point. It’s almost eleven p.m. But her words draw even more weariness into me. Once again, I’ve ended up solving
nothing around this building. I try not to show the disappointment in my face. “Okay, let’s try again when you normally wash
your clothes.”
The thought of doing this again isn’t at all appealing. As if reading my expression, she says, “Look, Mona, I appreciate you
trying to help, but I think this might be better for the poli—”
The sound of footsteps making their way down the hallway above us interrupts Jane. It’s followed by the sound of the stairwell,
then the doorway to the basement opening.
They’re coming this way.
“Hide!” I call. “Behind the pool table!”
We scramble to the area right behind the table just as the footsteps enter the hallway. I try not to remember the mouse and
the possible droppings I’m up against on the ground here.
As the footsteps come closer to the laundry room across the hall, a nervous flutter overwhelms the pit of my stomach. I want
to punch a hand through a wall, I’m so hyped! So alive!
Jane’s eyes widen as a shadow passes through the hallway. From our crouched positions, we make out some very signature cowboy
freaking boots passing by the rec room door.
Carmen. In his bad jeans.
“So gross,” Jane hisses at the sight of him.
The rush of adrenaline coursing through me suddenly sinks, settling as a heavy lump in the pit of my stomach. I can’t hide
my deep disappointment—Carmen turned out to be a complete creep after all.
But his footsteps don’t stop at the laundry room. They continue until then end of the hall. Then comes the sound of a metal key scraping into a lock.
The storage unit.
I swallow through the thick, musty air.
The sounds from the storage unit next to us muffle through the walls. There’s a clang of something metal dropping onto the
concrete floor. Carmen scrapes more items against the floor before he closes the door and locks up, then reenters the hall.
He doesn’t stop in the laundry room before passing our door, this time carrying some weird metal statue of a dog in his arms.
What the hell?
Jane and I stay crouched behind the table, our rhythmic breathing the only sound until he leaves.
I tilt to see if the coast is clear, when a bang sounds behind us. We jolt. Fuck. The eight ball tumbles from the corner of
the table to an open pocket and rolls toward my feet.
The light flicks on. Carmen is standing above us, holding the metal statue above his head like he’s about to take a swing.
My heart stops. I swear it stops.
“What you doing down here this late at night?!” Carmen shouts. “I almost took you out.”
I glance at Jane for help. She looks as puzzled as I feel.
Another muffled sound echoes in the background. Very light footsteps. A new shadow enters the hallway.
Holy shit.
Norm passes by the entryway, carrying a tattered laundry bag. Unlike Carmen, his steps are measured and as light as possible.
Like he doesn’t want anyone to hear him.
He makes eye contact with the three of us standing by the pool table, each of us exchanging horrified faces. Then he continues
on into the laundry room without a word.
My heartbeat picks up as Jane lifts her phone to watch the live feed.
“What the hell are you doing?” Carmen asks.
“Shh!” Jane hisses.