Tall. Mid-thirties, maybe. Clean-shaven with that barbershop fade men pay actual rent for. His suit fits like a second skin. Not off-the-rack—bespoke, which is just rich people code for “you can’t afford this.” His shoes are shiny enough to see my own panic reflected back.
He stops as he looks at me. Smiles.
“I can call you Mary, right?”
And I… I just blink at him, waiting for my body to catch up. Waiting for my brain to processhow the hell this man knows my name.
“Can I help you?” he says.
“Sorry! Hi… sorry,” I stammer. “I was just looking for… uh… extra printer paper. Dave keeps it in here sometimes.”
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “In the desktop tower?”
Shit.My hand’s still hovering near the USB port.
I force a laugh. It sounds like a dying balloon.
“Right. That was dumb.” I take a step back as quickly as I can. “I- I’ll get out of your way.”
He doesn’t move. Just studies me, like I’m a curiosity on a lab slide. His eyes are the color of roasted hazelnuts.
“I’m Caleb,” he says, offering a hand I don’t take. “I’m from corporate. Flew in from New York this morning when we heard the news.”
My breath catches.
I’ve never seen him before; not that I know everyone from HQ, of course. But something about him feels…wrong.
“I have to say,” he continues, stepping further into the office, “it’s such a tragedy what happened to Dave. So sudden. He always struck me as…” He tilts his head. “Well. Ambitious.”
My skin prickles.
He’s not talking like someone mourning a colleague. He’s talking like someone admiring a cautionary tale.
I stay put. Halfway between leaving and bolting. And then I ask, because I can’t help myself:
“How did you know my name?”
I catch the shift in his body; subtle, but deliberate. His gaze drifts over the desk, the monitor, the keyboard. Like he’s taking inventory. Like he’s checking what I touched. What I might’ve seen.
“Actually, I was hoping you could help me,” he says smoothly. “You’re Mary Sullivan, started here seven years ago? Personal Banking Associate. You’ve had consistently positive feedback from clients. Dave mentioned you often.”
My blood turns to ice.
Dave talked about me?
What about?
“Nothing bad, Mary,” he says quickly, like he read the panic off my face. “Quite the opposite, really. He thought you were dependable. Precise. Thoughtful.”
That last word sounds… pointed.
He moves past me now, circling the desk. One finger trails along the edge, slow and deliberate, like he’s sizing up the space. Or me. Then he settles behind it. Sits.
“This will be my desk for the time being,” he says, folding his hands like this is all perfectly normal. “Just until we get the position filled permanently. I’ll be coordinating with internal forensics, making sure everything’s in order. Standard stuff.”
“Hm.” I force the noise out of my throat.
His smile doesn’t waver. But his eyes…
