“Of course,” I say, because what else can I say?Sorry for doing my job too well?My bad for noticing suspicious financial activity?
“Great. I knew you’d understand.” He straightens up, checking his watch like this conversation has been such a burden on his precious time. “That’s what I love about working with professionals.”
Professional.Right. Like there’s anything professional about this weird little performance he just put on.
I back toward the door, my hand already reaching for the handle. “Is that all?”
“That’s all.” His smile could power a small city, it’s so blindingly fake. “Thanks for stopping by.”
I practically flee his office, closing the door behind me.
Stephanie is on me the second I turn the corner. “Hope your private meeting was productive. But the line’s building, and last I checked, you’re still on lobby rotation.”
I blink at her, biting back the first thing that comes to mind. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.”
She ignores that. “You’ve got a client waiting. Geraldine something. Again.”
Of course it’s Geraldine.
I pull on a smile so fake it should be tax deductible and step out from behind the desk, calling softly, “Mrs. Landry? Come on over, I’ve got you.”
Geraldine Landry walks as though the wind’s trying to blow her over. She’s eighty-four, wears orthopedic sandals with rhinestones, and smells of lilacs and menthol. Her cardigan is buttoned wrong again.
“Oh, Mary, darling,” she says, gripping my forearm with both hands. “I didn’t want to bother you, but I think I lost my bank password again. I tried three times, and it locked me out. What does ‘suspicious activity’ mean?”
“It means the system’s too dramatic, just like us,” I say, gently guiding her to my chair.
She chuckles, and I squat next to her while I reset her login. She keeps talking—about how her husband Jack passed in March, how quiet the house is now, how the tea never tastes right without someone to argue with.
I nod, fix her password, help her pick a new one she’ll remember. “TulipJack57,” I suggest. “After your wedding flowers?”
She pats my cheek. “You’re wasted here, sweetheart.”
I wish someone would tell HR that.
Behind us, Stephanie’s giving me dagger eyes. I know what she’s thinking. Five minutes per client, max. Move the line. Sell the credit card. Smile like your job depends on it. Because it does.
But Geraldine needs someone to talk to. And I’m not going to rush a woman who’s buried the love of her life just so I can get back to answering emails from a man who signs them “Best!” while screwing the office assistant.
“Come back next week if you need help again,” I say, walking her to the exit.
“I always do,” she says with a wink. “But mostly I just like seeing your face.”
My throat tightens. “Then I’ll be here.”
She waves and shuffles out into the Vegas heat.
By the time lunch rolls around, the lobby finally empties. Stephanie disappears for her daily Botox consultation or whatever she does during breaks. Janice claimed a “waxing emergency” and bailed early.
Finally. Quiet.
I decide to catch up on the reporting templates I’m behind on. Partially to stay busy, partially to avoid spiraling about the weirdness in Dave’s office. I navigate to the shared folder I’ve used a dozen times:Client_Export_Templates > Q2 > Supplementals.
But something looks… wrong. Out of pattern.
There’s a file I’ve never seen before:Internal_Audit_WR-Ledgers_DO_NOT_MOVE
I stare at it for a long moment. The W.R. catches my eye immediately. As in W.R. Holdings. As in the account that just got me a private meeting with Dave’s fake smile and creepy questions.
