“I understand, sir.”
“I thought you might.” He picks up the bonus letter. Folds it once. Hands it back to me. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
Then he’s gone, leaving only cologne and dread in his wake.
I sit there. The letter in my hands. Cream paper. Dom’s signature. Five thousand dollars that won’t hit my account for days. Money I can’t use yet to fund any investigation. Money that burns through the paper.
I slip it into my desk drawer next to Sharon’s Rice Krispie treats. Close it.
Around me, the third floor continues. Janet’s still printing. Someone microwaves something that smells like feet. The copier finally unjams.
Normal.
Everything normal.
Except I just got assigned to a government sector client who needs Dom’s discretion and I have six days to figure out what that means before I’m alone in a room with both of them.
My desk phone rings.
The landline. Nobody calls the landline except Dom.
I stare at it for two rings. Three.
Pick up. “Dylan Wells.”
“Oh good, you’re using your sexy professional voice.” Alex’s voice crackles through the ancient receiver. “Did you get the bonus?”
My whole body relaxes and tenses simultaneously. “I did.”
“Okay but how much does murder cost? Because I’m picturing us with one of those true crime podcast evidence boards. Red string everywhere. Except we’re funding it with blood money which feels very White Lotus season two.”
“Alex—”
“What? I’m processing. This is how I process. We’re literally living a Dateline episode except Keith Morrison isn’t here to do the voice-over.”
“Fair.” I keep my voice even. Bored. Like we’re discussing lunch plans. “Five thousand.”
Silence on the line. I can hear the accounting department in the background—phones ringing, someone laughing, the hum of fluorescent lights and office life. Normal sounds.
Then, “Damn. That’s—okay so, blood money silver lining, we can fund the investigation with murder money which feels very poetic. Wait.” Her voice drops. That quality when she knows something without being told. “Dom was just there. Wasn’t he?”
How does she always know?
“Yes, briefly.” I click through files on my screen. Make it look like I’m working.
“Fuck. Dylan. What did he want?”
I glance around. Janet’s on her phone now. Someone’s at the printer. Normal Monday morning. No one’s paying attention to me.
“New project. Starting Monday. We can discuss the details later.”
“Why is my gut screaming at me right now? Like literally my stomach just dropped.”
“Mine too.” I say it like I’m confirming a filing deadline. Flat. Professional.
“He isolated you. That’s what he did. All those firings. Amber, Sydney, all of them. He’s been removing people until you’re the only one left. You see that right?”
The empty desks surround me. I count them again. Six. Six desks that used to hold people. Six colleagues who could have taken this client instead of me.
