Page 8 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

“Take a seat.” He shuts the door behind me, but I don’t sit. Instead, I scan the room for anything that’s amiss. Like with the door and blinds and glass, there’s nothing unusual. Even his WORLD’S BEST BOSS mug is in the same exact spot, and though I didn’t count them on Friday, I’m nearly positive it holds the same number of pens.

He doesn’t tell me to sit again—and he doesn’t take a seat, either. We stand across from each other, only the width of his desk separating us.

“How are you doing?” he asks when the silence turns awkward.

I analyze his eyes, trying to decipher if he’s asking me to spill my guts about how messed up I feel from what I witnessed and how I’m not sure my algorithm will ever recover. But his expression is neutral, so I keep mine the same.

“I’m fine.” I swallow, twisting the gold band on my right ring finger. It’s the only jewelry I never take off. “Ted and Krystal were just telling me about that woman who disappeared.”

Luke nods. “I read about that in today’s paper. Poppi, I think her name was.”

Was. Why would he jump to the assumption that she’s dead?

“Did you know her?” Luke asks.

I shake my head. “No. But I hope she’s okay.”

“Me, too,” Luke agrees quickly. Too quickly. He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Look, about Friday. I shouldn’t have dismissed you like I did. I understand it was extremely unsettling and if you have questions—”

“What about Friday?” I blink at him, schooling my features into a confused expression.

Surprise raises his brows as he stares back at me. I debated all weekend if I would bring up the exorcism or not. It didn’t feel fair of him to ask me to just forget about it. You don’t forget the memory of your colleague straddling your waist and threatening to eat you.

But he said was. As if he knows Poppi isn’t coming back. On Friday, Luke seemed like the one doing good, performing an exorcism and all that. But the way he’s perfectly covered his tracks and told me to act like it didn’t happen has left room for doubt to crawl in. Maybe, in the world of demons and whatever he is, there is no good. Only bad and worse.

A week ago, his disinterest in me and acute professionalism irked me. Now, I want him to know nothing about who I am, and I desire to know even less about him. Being in this small room after what took place Friday evening has me twitching to leave.

“I was about to go on lunch, so I’m going to do that now.”

I dismiss myself, not waiting to see his reaction, though I can feel his shock burning into my back. But he doesn’t call me in again or try to speak to me for the rest of the day.

Which culminates at 3:59 in me winning my twenty-minute battle with the fax machine after swearing at it with every expletive on Urban Dictionary and delivering a few hearty smacks. “Take that, you faulty fucking fax machine.”

“Brie Benson and the Faulty Fucking Fax Machine sounds like a great indie band name,” Krystal comments as the clock ticks over to 4:00. She leans in close, eyes sparkling. “By the way, someone has been unable to keep his eyes off you all afternoon.”

My head whips toward Luke’s office. He stands in the doorway while Carol tries to show him pictures of the single niece she’s been trying to set him up with, but instead of peering at her phone, he’s looking at me. I rip my gaze away first, hurrying out the door with Krystal hot on my tail.

“Jesus, the tension between you two is absolutely volcanic.” She fans herself in the elevator. “I must have caught him glancing at you at least twenty times today. Who knew a cable-knit cardigan could bring a man to his knees?”

I tug my cardigan tighter around me as we step out into the chilly November air. If only she knew how wrong she was and that Luke was probably watching to make sure I didn’t spill his secret penchant for performing exorcisms. I walk faster to stave off the urge to correct her.

“What are you in such a rush for?” she pants, following me to our cars.

“Monday Night Football,” I lie. “Go Bills.”

She snorts. “Bold of you to say that in a city of Birds fans. Besides, aren’t we getting together at eight to continue our Love Island binge?”

Shit, I forgot about our weekly reality TV night. “Uh, yeah, we can if you want.”

She leans against my door, blocking me from getting in. “I can pick up some dessert.”

“You don’t need to do that.” I’m anxious to wrap this up so I can get some research in before the rest of the night is spent shouting at the TV.

“Are you denying a sweet treat? Is this your blink twice for help?”

I suck in a breath, masking it with a cough. “Actually, I would love a sweet treat. Thanks.”

She narrows her eyes. “Are you okay?”