“That is James, tech support, likes to go—”
Before Markus finished his directions, Gabby said, “How was the golfing this weekend? Did your wife let you get out on the course?”
He laughed. “You know how it goes. I managed a couple holes.”
“Great work, Gabby,” Markus said. “You’re killing it.”
Martial arts might not be her strong suit, but Gabby understood people. She knew everyone and their dirty secrets, all freely given. It wasn’t like she’d asked for it, but she had the kind of face that people just opened up to. She was harmless.
Camille Walker’s desk was perfectly clean and organized except for a dancing hula girl, the kind you put on your dashboard.She was affixed DIY-style to a piece of cardboard that readBEST DRESSED!Gabby set her in motion.
Markus must have been watching through her brooch camera. Emotionless, he said, “She won that the day she died.”
Gabby fixated on the cheery plastic statue, its hips swiveling. Nine days ago, Darcy had been “best dressed” employee at eStocks. Now… Gabby shut her eyes and tried to rein in her anxiety. Robotically, she put her purse in a file drawer and smoothed her hands over the surface. Computer, stapler, pens—it looked mundane, a normal office with normal things, but her nose itched and Markus was in her ear and Darcy’s prize from the day she died stared back at her, its plastic gaze fixed and dilated, its dancing slowly coming to a stop.
Darcy had died on this job a little more than a week ago. Gabby had been so busy worrying about everything else that she almost forgot her life was in danger.
Before she could completely freak out, which is where she was headed, a woman clomped over in a pair of clogs that were as noisy as they were good for her posture. It was Fran, a woman who looked like her name. Alongside Fran’s biographical data in the files (thirty-five, degree in finance from Sacramento State, one child), there were margin notes, presumably made by Darcy: “Dwight Schrute. Why does she want to hang out?”
“Hi, Fran,” Gabby said.
Fran was the human version of the boxed-in décor that made Justin claustrophobic—aggressively out of style in pleated khaki pants and a shirt buttoned all the way up.
Fran flashed a smile that didn’t go all the way to her eyes, and Gabby’s spidey sense prickled. “Did you have a nice break?” Franasked, passive aggression at ten out of ten. “I’m glad you’re back. I’ve been doing your jobandmine while you were gone.”
Every office needed a Dwight Schrute.
“Well, I appreciate it. I wasn’t feeling well at all.”
As they were talking, George Kramer burst into the hallway with all sorts of “I’m busy and important” energy. If Gabby didn’t already know he was money laundering for the Russian Mafia, she would have considered him a silver fox with his angular features and graying hair. He was the guy you’d swipe right on and regret it ten years later when the FBI raided your home on the golf course.
Without really looking at Gabby, he said, “I’m going to be on calls all afternoon. Keep the coffee coming.”
Fran scrutinized her. “You remember how he likes his coffee?”
“Fran, I haven’t been gone that long,” Gabby said in a sassy tone. She hurried to the office kitchen. In her ear, Markus explained, “Cream and one raw sugar.”
Casually, she opened up a cabinet. Stacks of plain, white dishes stared back at her. Someone cleared their throat behind her.
“Hey, Fran.” Gabby smiled. “I didn’t see you.”
Fran opened the correct cabinet and handed Gabby a mug. “Is this what you were looking for?”
Gabby realized she was holding her breath. That was probably a natural reaction to Fran. The woman was insufferable.
“Thanks, Fran. I appreciate the help,” she said. The thank-you was meant to be a polite signal that the conversation was over. Fran didn’t take the hint.
“You know, there is something different about you.” Fran stood, blocking the door while Gabby waited to pass.
Gabby smiled. “I had my hair done this week.”
Fran frowned. “Nope. That’s not it.”
Gabby fought the impulse to curl up and hide like a small forest creature and straightened her posture. With a laugh, she said, “Maybe you’ve never seen me rested.”
Disarmed, Fran laughed as she let her pass. “I’ve never seen myself rested.”
Markus whistled. “Daaamn, girl. You handled that like a pro.”
