“Martinez, Reed, and Diane, are our field investigators. You won’t be working directly with them, of course,” Tamika said, gesturing vaguely toward the offices we’d passed.
Of course, because whatever position Langston created for me, clearly, wasn’t going to involve anything as prestigious as actual investigation work.
“And what exactly will I be doing?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral despite the growing suspicion I was about to be handed the corporate equivalent of cleaning toilets.
Tamika stopped at a nondescript door at the end of the hallway, fishing a set of keys from her blazer pocket. “Data management and archival organization,” she said, unlocking the door to a narrow staircase leading down into darkness. She flipped a switch, and a series of fluorescent tubes flickered reluctantly to life, casting the stairwell in a sickly greenish glow.
“You mean filing,” I translated flatly.
The corner of her mouth twitched. “Among other administrative support duties, yes.”
The sleek aesthetic of the upstairs offices gave way to exposed concrete and utilitarian functionality, like crossing the border between two different countries.
At the bottom of the stairs, Tamika flipped another switch, illuminating a space that looked like it had been forgotten sometime during the ’99 and the 2000s. The basement was essentially one large room, divided by metal shelving units that overflowed with cardboard boxes and manila folders. Exposed pipes ran across the low ceiling; one of them had a slow leak, which landed in a strategically placed bucket with a drip-drip-drip that already threatened to drive me insane.
“This is where we keep our physical archives,” Tamika announced with poorly concealed satisfaction.
I took in the dust-covered filing cabinets, the stacks of banker’s boxes labeled with years dating back a decade, and the sad little card table wedged into the corner, which was clearly meant to be my workspace. A desktop computer that belonged in a museum sat on it.
“We’ve been meaning to digitize our older files, but it’s been low priority until now. Mr. Black thought you’d be more comfortable… away from distractions,” Tamika continued. She ran a finger along the nearest shelf, grimacing at the dust on her skin.
Away from him,she meant. Or perhaps away from clients who might wonder why a woman who looked like she’d slept in her clothes was working at their high-end security firm.
“How considerate,” I said, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
Tamika’s smile tightened. “Your login credentials are taped to the monitor. The filing system is organized chronologically by year, followed by alphabetical order by client name within each year. Enter them into the system and then file. Some are out of order, and some are missing info. You’ll need to flag any inconsistencies for Mr. Black’s review.” She gestured to the nearest stack of boxes.
I nodded, trying to look attentive while my spirit sank further with each word. This wasn’t a job; it was punishment disguised as employment.
“Bathroom is through there,” Tamika pointed to a door in the far corner. “It’s… functional. There’s a break room upstairs, unless you prefer to take your lunch down here… to get more done, of course.”
Of course. God forbid I contaminate the fancy upstairs with my presence during lunch hour.
“Any questions?” she asked, already backing toward the stairs.
I had about a thousand, starting with whether Langston Black had always been this petty or if it was a talent he’d developed just for me. Instead, I shook my head. “I think I’ve got it.”
“Great. I’ll check in later to see how you’re progressing. Oh, and Aven? The cell reception down here is spotty at best. Just FYI.” With the final twist of the knife, she left me alone in the basement with only the dripping pipe for company. The door at the top shut with a finality that echoed in the concrete space.
“Well, shit,” I muttered to the empty room.
I dropped my purse onto the card table, which wobbled precariously even under the small weight. The chair beside it was an ancient office model with one wheel missing, forcing it to lean permanently to the left. When I sat down, it creaked in protest, threatening to collapse entirely.
For one terrible moment, tears burned behind my eyes. This was humiliation, pure and simple. It was Langston’s way of saying he might give me a job, but he’d make damn sure I regretted asking for it. I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat, refusing to break down in this sad little basement that reeked of mildew and wounded pride.
This wasn’t even close to my lowest moment. Not by a long shot.
My mind flashed back to Peru, where I’d spent three days curled around a filthy toilet, so sick from contaminated water I couldn’t keep down the rehydration salts the Australian backpacker left outside my door. I was sure I was going to die there, alone and undiscovered, until the smell became bad enough for management to check the room.
Yet, I hadn’t died. I had survived, just like I survived everything else life had thrown at me — my parents’ deaths, the collapse of my writing career, coming home to Raina’s barely concealed disappointment. I would survive Langston Black’s basement too.
I looked at the stacks of yellowing folders, the ancient computer, and the steady drip from the overhead pipe. This might not be the triumphant return I’d imagined when I left fifteen years ago, but it was a paycheck. And right now, that was all that mattered.
Blowing out air, I rolled up my sleeves, literally and figuratively, and pulled the first file from the nearest box. LabeledHensley, 2015,the pages inside were coffee stained and filled with messy handwritten notes.
While the computer struggled to boot up, I sorted files into chronological piles.
“Basement archives, my ass. I’d worked in caves with better amenities.” I huffed, slapping down another folder.
