Page 80 of Her Sloth

“Lilian,” I say when she answers. “We’ll do it, and we’ll do it now.”

“Good,” she says. “How did she react?”

“Didn’t tell her,” I say. “I’m on my own.”

“It’s not a one-person job,” she says.

“It is now,” I say. “I’m very good at what I do. We proceed as discussed. I’m signing the pre-proposal and take care of the rest. I’ll call you when it’s set so your wife can do whatever she does.”

With that, I hang up.

While I drive to Manhattan, I sign the contract Lilian sends over digitally and send it back to her without even reading it. Whatever happens, I don’t care.

The only thing I want is freedom. Freedom from all of this responsibility.

And I am, as of this moment, free—at least on paper. Because whatever happens to me, I am no longer responsible for Whitney-Morgan, only for the wreckage I will leave behind.

I park directly in front of the Whitney-Morgan tower, walk in, past the guard, wish him a good night, and tell him I forgot something in the office.

I ride all the way up with the elevator, straight to the big meeting room, unplug and rip the beamer from the ceiling, and am back outside with the beamer in my backpack within ten minutes.

When I walk towards the Mustang, instead of getting back into it, I walk straight past it, cross Park Avenue, and go to the building opposite that is currently under construction, with a massive fence and scaffolding around it.

I put on gloves, but then hesitate for one moment with the mask in my hand, closing my eyes and focusing on what I am about to do.

Freedom.

It’s the only thing that matters. My eyes wander onto the mask in my hand, the one that would protect me from the consequences. But running ain’t freedom.

“No. They shall see my face,” I say. There is nothing I have to lose.

I jump up the fence, pull myself up, and climb the scaffolding from the outside with my backpack until I am high enough. It’s not as easy as I imagine, because the rain, though getting lighter, made everything slippery.

My feet slip off the metal several times, causing adrenaline to pump through my system.

“Fuck,” I breathe out when I slip once more and almost slip off with my hand, too.

It takes my last power to get to the level above me, and when I do, my arms tremble. I lie there for one moment, panting heavily.

But I don’t have time for my body to be exhausted. I have a mission to accomplish.

I get around the corner, facing the Whitney-Morgan Headquarters, close to a distribution box. There, I slip off the gloves I used for climbing and take the beamer from my backpack.

I fix it with duct tape on the beam so it points exactly at the massive glass front of the Whitney-Morgan building, and repeat the same with my corporate laptop.

I plug all of it into the distribution box for the construction workers, return to my setup, and take my phone.

“Ready when you are,” I say.

“Hang on,” Lilian says. “Putting you on speaker.”

“Is it connected?” asks a very strong, but deeper female voice. I like how Lilian’s wife is all about business and doesn’t concern herself with platitudes, but I wouldn’t have expected anything else. Lilian has always been straightforward herself.

“Yes, wifi is connected.”

“Give me a minute,” she says, and I wait. Meanwhile, I stare down at the few people walking down on the sidewalk in the middle of the night and some cars passing. The occasional honk and siren in the background—it is, after all, the city that never sleeps.

“Got it,” she says. “Plug it in.”