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Graham pushes off the desk and steps toward me. He opens his arms to me and I hug him back, wrapping my arms around him in a friendly embrace.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, stepping back. “Me, too.”
He squeezes my shoulders, one last show of support. “I hate this,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“If you need anything…”
I nod. “I’ll be all right,” I say. I lie. I hope.
“Are you sure?”
No.
“Yes,” I answer. I flash a smile. I stand taller. “Don’t you worry about me.”
Graham sighs before letting me go and opening the office door.
Ira’s still there, waiting for me with my purse and clipboard — personal items I left behind the front desk downstairs. They removed the pages and notes I left on the clipboard, though. They’re company property.
I glance at Graham one last time. “Bye, Graham,” I say, my throat tightening.
He bows his head from the doorway. “Bye, Paige,” he says.
Ira leads me down the hall to the elevator. As we pass the windows of the boardroom, I try my best not to look, but my eyes pull toward it like a magnet. Twelve people sit around the table, talking back and forth in hushed tones.
And there sits Ian, his bruised and battered face still dripping with smugness as he leers at me through the window.
I look away, lest I be too tempted to offer him a second shiner.
Ira silently calls for the elevator. The golden doors open and we step on together. Ira taps the button for the lobby and takes a step back to stand beside me, softly folding his hands in front of him as we wait.
After a moment, he clears his throat. “Sorry about this,” he mutters as we descend. “It’s company policy to...”
“Escort out the evil-doers.” I nod. “It’s okay. You’re just doing your job.”
We stand quietly for a few floors downward.
“If you like, I can make a scene,” I joke. “Cry out in the lobby. Throw a fit. Make it a little more interesting for you.”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”
“Gotcha.”
We go quiet again. I glance at him in the golden reflection and bite my cheek.
You know, I might not get another chance to ask.
“Hey, Ira.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Did you and Vincent ever... you know...” I slice a finger across my throat, “any notable dictators?”
He doesn’t budge. Or blink. “I’m not at liberty to say,” he says.
