what else should we be looking for? if we can get into anything
He’s typing for a while, and I feel my stomach swoop, wondering what he must be feeling.
Greg:
holy shit, okay
i think the books we’re getting in accounting aren’t accurate anymore but a real ledger probably exists somewhere. if they don’t want to run things totally into the ground, they have to be keeping track. you could try searching for spreadsheets on mark winterson’s work drive?
Ruby:
can the slack admins see my messages with my mom?
I need to know before we try this. And I’ll deal with how impossible it feels to ask her for help when I get there.
Greg:
i’ll have ahmed from IT message you
he’s with the union and he set the company up on slack way back—they left the admin rights with him
I stuff my phone in my bag and flush the toilet, washing my hands for good measure and resetting my shoulders before walking outside.
Mark Winterson is sitting in a cushioned chair, legs crossed, reading a print copy ofThe Wall Street Journal.“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah! Must have eaten something weird.” I come up beside him and he stands and slips an arm around my waist. He leads me around the room, asking me what I think of the dresses on display, but my head’s not in the game. I end up mumbling, “Wow, that’s pretty,” over and over again.
“I don’t think I can afford this,” I say, examining one of the price tags.
He gives me a withering look. “You think I’d take you here and make you pay for it?”
My head has been in a million places, and somehow I hadn’t quite put together that he’s about to drop thousands of dollars on my wardrobe for this wedding.
“I’d like to see you in this one,” Mark Winterson says, plucking a beige dress off the rack.
The woman who works here takes it from him and leads me into the fitting room. And after I’ve carefully slipped into the beige gown with gossamer fabric and delicate beading, paranoid I’m going to rip it if I breathe the wrong way, I check my phone again.
There’s a group DM on Signal where Greg has already explained the entire situation, and Ahmed says he’s going to check it out and report back.
I let out a long, very careful breath and come outside, doing a full turn in front of Mark Winterson’s chair.
The saleswoman hovers next to me, pointing to the detailing on the dress. “Each bead has been carefully affixed by an artisan in rural Tuscany.”
He purses his lips, index finger resting on them, giving me a once- and twice-over. “Mm, it’s a bit plain,” he says finally. “Think we can do better.”
“If you want to make more of a statement, I have just the thing.” She bustles away and brings out an iridescent green dress with an elaborate cutout back.
“Could be fun,” he says.
“Sure! Fun!” I chirp.
Back into the fitting room I go, holding my breath as I slip out of this artisanal dress and rehang it, terrified of accidentally popping off a bead or two.
And standing there in my underwear, I open the chat.
Ahmed:
so I checked out your Slack DM
