“Yep.” I fake a cheery smile. “Just your average 7 AM work meeting. You know how it is.”
He nods slowly. Then: “Nah.”
I’m still smiling, but in my head, I’m weighing the logistics of asking him to turn around. Would it be weird to say, “Actually, can you take me home? I changed my mind.”?
Probably.
He gives me a thumbs-up like that’s a normal send-off and turns back to his steering wheel. Doesn’t wait for me to get out. Just unlocks the door and lets the moment hang.
I open the door and step out. The heat slaps me instantly, dry and sharp. My flats crunch gravel. The Uber pulls away, and I’m left standing alone in front of a building that looks more condemned than rented.
There’s no sound. No traffic. No AC hum. Not even a bumbling old dryer doing its death rattle. Just me, the boarded windows, and a broken shopping cart tipped on its side like it gave up halfway home.
And Dave.
He’s pacing by the entrance like he’s trying to wear a hole through the concrete. His Brioni suit is wrinkled to hell, tie loose like he slept in it. His hair’s greasy, thinning, and his eyes dart like a cornered rat’s. He’s clutching a vape pen, puffing clouds that smell like burned candy.
This isn’t the smug Dave who fake-laughed through Friday team check-ins and used phrases like “let’s circle back” without shame.
This Dave is cracked open. Eyes jittery. Fingers twitchy. Hair slicked to one side like he tried to fix it with water.
He sees me. Freezes as if I just caught him trying to eat printer ink. Then gives a half-wave, more twitch than invitation.
“Mary,” he calls out, already shifting like someone might be watching. “Come on. We don’t have time.”
“Time for what?” I don’t move. Just stand there, squinting at him, hoping the sun might burn off whatever lie he’s about to try.
He glances around again. “Just get inside.”
I look past him, through the smeared glass door, where the dark outline of old washers sits like sleeping beasts. The fluorescent lights are buzzing overhead, but dim. One’s flickering.
My stomach tightens. Regret #5 might already be loading.
“What’s this about?” My heart’s trying to ditch me, nerves crawling up my spine. Those ledgers in my purse scream guilt. Did he know I printed them? Is this a trap? My stomach twists like I ate bad Chinese takeout again.
“Inside. Now.” He fumbles with keys, drops them, picks them up. His fingers are trembling so hard the metal jangles. “We can’t be seen out here.”
The door creaks open to reveal exactly what I expected: industrial washing machines from the Carter administration,half of them sporting “OUT OF ORDER” signs written in Sharpie. The fluorescent lights buzz, casting everything in sickly green. It smells of bleach, rust, and something I can’t identify but probably don’t want to.
A tabby cat bolts from behind a broken dryer, disappearing through a crack in the back wall.
Dave locks the door behind us. Actually locks it. With a deadbolt I hadn’t noticed from outside.
“Okay, now you’re freaking me out.” I cross my arms, backing toward the nearest exit, which is apparently the door we just came through. “What’s going on?”
He’s sweating through his shirt now, dark patches spreading under his arms.
“Time for what?” I note how his hands shake. “Dave, what the hell is—?”
“Keep it down,” Dave hisses, glancing around nervously. “Did you look at the email I sent? The… transfers?” His eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept in days, his vape trembling in his grip.
I hesitate, throat dry as the desert air. “No,” I lie, but my face is a snitch, cheeks flushing like I got caught stealing pens. “I deleted it. Didn’t open it.” Total nonsense. I saw those Russian names, the weird LLCs.
His shoulders sag with relief for exactly two seconds before his paranoia kicks back in. “Good. Good, that’s—” He stops, studies my face. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not—”
“Your left eye twitches when you lie. Always has.” He runs both hands through his greasy hair. “Jesus Christ, Mary. What did you see?”
