“I organized most of the files yesterday, but I’m efficient when motivated. And trust me, spending eight hours a day down here is motivation enough to make it habitable.” She flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
The implied critique stung more than it should have. Yes, I’d deliberately put her in the worst possible workspace, hoping she’d quit rather than endure it. Yet here she was, not only enduring but transforming.
“The pipe… How did you fix it?” I’d been meaning to get it fixed.
“I didn’t fix it. That would require actual plumbing skills. I muffled it with some waterproof tape and repositioned the bucket. You know, you could cut your water bill down if you called a plumber.”
“Right,” I agreed.
She rose from her chair, moving to the coffee maker. “Sure you don’t want some? It’s got notes of chocolate and cherry. Way better for your blood pressure than the tar you’re drinking.”
Aven replaced my mug with an empty one and filled it with coffee that smelled like heaven compared to the break room brew. Our fingers brushed during the exchange; a momentary contact that shouldn’t have registered but somehow sent an electric current up my arm.
“Thanks,” I managed, taking a sip to cover my reaction. The coffee was indeed excellent, smooth and rich without being bitter.
“I’ve cataloged about thirty percent of the backlog already. Your filing system needed some tweaking, hope you don’t mind,but it’s much more intuitive now. I could show you how it works if you want,” Aven said, nodding toward the computer.
I blinked. This couldn’t be the competent, cheerful woman who had stormed into my office yesterday, demanding employment. The disconnect was jarring.
“That’s… good progress, but don’t overdo it. Normal hours are eight-thirty to five,” I clarified, “Unless previously authorized.”
She looked at me, and a flash of the old Aven, the one who saw straight through my bullshit, appeared. “Why, Langston Black. Anyone would think you cared about my well-being.”
The use of my full name, so casual and familiar, knocked me off balance. No one called me Langston anymore except my mother. I was Mr. Black to my employees, Black to my few close friends, and simply “sir” to most clients. Hearing my name in Aven’s mouth was an unexpected intimacy I wasn’t prepared for.
“I care about labor laws and overtime I haven’t authorized,” I replied, retreating behind professionalism.
“I’ll have the first batch of digitized files ready for your review by lunch,” she said over her shoulder. “Unless you need them sooner?”
“Lunch is fine,” I said, already backing toward the stairs, coffee mug clutched too tightly in my hand, the Colombian blend lingering on my tongue like a reminder. Aven Compton had never been easy to categorize or control, and apparently, fifteen years hadn’t changed that one bit.
The Westridge background checks were on my desk, demanding attention I couldn’t seem to give them. I’d read the same paragraph about their CFO’s property holdings four times without retaining a single detail. My mind drifted to the basement to Aven in the yellow dress, unbothered by my punishment. Nine forty-five. Too soon to make anotherappearance downstairs without seeming obvious. And yet, my fingers itched to invent a reason.
I forced myself to focus, scribbling notes about the suspicious timing of the CFO’s divorce settlement and property transfer to an offshore LLC. The work usually absorbed me, allowing me to find things others missed, as well as the inconsistencies that revealed truths people wanted to keep hidden. Still today, each keystroke was disconnected from the satisfaction I typically found in uncovering secrets.
By ten thirty, I’d convinced myself checking on the archival organization was a legitimate use of my time. The Westridge case could wait fifteen minutes. After all, if Aven was revamping our filing system, I should understand her methodology. That was good business sense.
I moved down the hallway, nodding at Martinez as he headed out for his rescheduled surveillance. The office was productive for a Tuesday morning. No one paid particular attention as I veered toward the basement door. Why would they? I owned the building. Every inch of it was mine to inspect.
The door was open, and the music had changed to something with a Latin beat, not loud enough to be disruptive, but present enough to transform the basement’s atmosphere. I descended the stairs more confidently than I had earlier. This time, I was prepared for Aven’s presence.
She sat with her back to me again but in a different position than before. Now she was on the floor surrounded by open file boxes, creating a sorting system which involved color-coded sticky notes. She’d taken off her shoes, her bare feet tucked beneath her as she leaned forward to examine an old file, and the yellow dress pooled around her like spilled sunshine.
“How’s it coming along?” I asked, stopping in for a visit, keeping my tone neutral.
She glanced up. “My predecessor had a... unique approach to documentation.”
I moved closer, curious despite myself. “Predecessor?”
“Whoever was handling cases back in 2013-2015.” She held up a file. “Some of these have detailed notes, others have practically nothing. And the filing system switches between alphabetical by client name, chronological by case number, and what I could only describe as ‘vibes-based’ categorization.”
A reluctant laugh escaped me. “That would be Tyson. He was a good investigator, but administrative organization wasn’t his strong suit.”
“You don’t say.” Her voice was dry as she placed another sticky note on a file. As she concentrated on writing something on it, her teeth caught her bottom lip, a habit I’d forgotten about until this moment. She used to do the same thing in high school when she was trying to find the right words for those poems she always scribbled in notebooks.
I realized I was staring and quickly shifted my focus to the files. “You’ve made progress.”
Aven nodded, still focused. “I’m creating a consistent cross-referencing system. Once it’s digitized, you’ll be able to search by client name, case type, date, outcome, or investigator.” She looked up, catching my gaze. “Unless you’d prefer, I stick to the original … whatever this was.”
