“Everythingeverything?” Diane was practically vibrating. “Because the details arechef’s kisslevels of karma.”
“Every single detail.”
“So you know how Dana’s been taking credit for other people’s work for, like, ever?”
“Intimately aware, yes.”
“Well, apparently she finally did it to the wrong person. Remember that big presentation last week? The one for the Henderson account?”
Cassie nodded. The Henderson account had been her project before the Incident. She’d done all the groundwork, created the strategy, built the pitch deck. And then she’d started glowing in the middle of a meeting and had to be escorted out while her coffee mug floated three feet above the conference table.
“Dana presented it as her own work. Obviously. Because Dana’s entire career is just stealing other people’s work and adding her name to it.” Diane took a long sip of champagne. “Except this time, she stole from Jennifer Chen.”
“The Jennifer Chen whose husband is on the board?”
“The very same.”
“Ohno.”
“Ohyes.” Diane’s grin was feral. “Jennifer recognized her own work immediately, went to HR, and it turns out Dana’s been doing this foryears. There’s a paper trail. There’s adocumented pattern. Someone actually went back through old files and found at least seven instances of blatant plagiarism, including—get this—the campaign that got her promoted to senior manager.”
“The one with the?—”
“The one with the tagline you came up with. Yeah.” Diane raised her mug. “To karma being a vindictive bitch.”
They clinked mugs.
“Santé,” Jacques offered from the counter. “À la chute des voleurs.”
“Did the toaster just toast to the fall of thieves?”
“He’s very invested in workplace justice.” Cassie drained her champagne and poured another round. “So she’s actually gone? Like,gonegone?”
“Walked out with a box of her things yesterday. Apparently she cried in the parking lot.” Diane didn’t sound remotely sympathetic. “Oh, and your old boss asked about you.”
“Linda?”
“She wanted to know if you’d consider comingback. Apparently the department’s been a disaster since you left, and nobody can figure out how you kept everything organized.”
Cassie laughed. Actually laughed, from somewhere deep in her chest. Two months ago, she would have jumped at the chance. Begged for it, probably. The validation of being wanted, being needed, beingseen—she would have done almost anything for that.
Now she just shook her head.
“Tell her I appreciate the offer, but I’m building something new.”
“The magical Marie Kondo thing?”
“It’s not—” Cassie sighed. “Margaret suggested it. There’s apparently a market for witchy home organization services. People want someone who can tell them if their clutter is holding bad energy or if their furniture arrangement is blocking abundance.”
“Can you actually do that?”
“Turns out, yes? I did a test run at Margaret’s last week. Her guest room had been giving her insomnia for years. I walked in, felt this weirdpressurein the corner near the closet, and when we moved the dresser, we found a box of letters from her ex-husband from forty years ago that she’d completely forgotten about.” Cassie shrugged. “She burned them, rearranged the furniture, slept through the night for the first time in adecade.”
“That’s actually incredible.”
“It’sweirdis what it is. But it pays, and I don’t have to wear real pants, and nobody’s going to put me on ‘medical leave’ when my eyes glow during a hot flash.” She glanced toward the dining room, where the sound of power tools had resumed. “Plus, I can set my own hours. Which is useful when you’re renovating a haunted house with a grumpy Scottish handyman.”
Diane followed her gaze. “Speaking of which—how is that going? The ‘he moved in by choice’ thing?”
