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“Six, turning seven next March.”

“—excellent years of service and unwavering dedication.”

“I would never think of leaving Synon.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” The words didn’t quite feel like a compliment. He smiled, and it reminded me in a bizarre way of what I imagine a pig would look like if it smiled at me. A pink, fat, sweaty pig. It must’ve been the sweat running from his temples. Or how beady his eyes looked when his rashy cheeks jiggled and rose. “Or me.”

My mouth popped open slightly. I wasn’t sure exactly how to respond.

“Thank you—”

He continued, “Because the reality is, dedication to a company is only as good as your dedication to your supervisor.”

There was an undercurrent in his tone, a seriousness, and I felt it only prudent to nod. And nod again.

“Right,” I said quickly, at the same time a shard of glass poked me deep in the index finger. I sucked in the pain. “Yes, of course, sir.”

He looked at me for one long moment. Then he slapped his knees, as though whatever wheels had been turning in his head were well enough decided for him, and pushed himself to standing. “Let’s get out of here, Chloe. Leave that mess for somebody else to pick up. You’re too important for slop jobs now.”

“Yes, sir.” I stood and held the broken frame along with the largest shards uncertainly. The trash can was just a foot away, calling me to simply drop it in.

But, of course, I didn’t.

I carefully squatted back down. Set the frame and all its glass neatly on the carpet. Stood again. Proving my allegiance, as it were, to him. Directives over logic. Blind loyalty over independent will.

Even as I did so, though, my mind was starting to whir with the domino effects of everything that was happening. Excitement rose at a flash flood kind of rate I hadn’t felt in a long time. Why, I was beginning to feel positively giddy. Thoughts came in staccato as his hand slapped me heartily on the back.

I want to look at my office before I go.

I want to take pictures.

I can redesign! I can take measurements. There’s a closed door! I could add a plant! A real, live plant to go next to the window. A real, live window! I mean, sure, it’s technically a view of the alleyway to the building next door, but still. A window!

The urge to call my mother was already making my fingertips tingle.

He steered us to the door and opened it, then gestured for me to step through first.

I took a step, but then he paused.

I paused too.

“Oh,” he said, snapping his fingers. And there went the door—closing us off to the big, personality-less cubicle room, with all its brotherly cameras overhead. “I forgot one little thing you can do for me first.”

I was caught a little off guard by the shutting of the door to the big room and the sudden silence between us yet again. “Of course, Mr. Cross,” I said quickly. Brightly. Flashing a grand smile. If he had wanted me to stay behind and polish off another hundred vendor entries for the next twelve consecutive hours, I would’ve. I was basically signed, sealed, and delivered. Synon with a two-hundred-square-foot office was the life for me.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just a small thing. But the entry to the Steele-Radford invoice has a small error, and if you could backdate the entry so it’s shown to have cleared last quarter, that would be great.”

“Can do,” I said cheerily, looking toward the door in preparation to jump on it.

“Great. Great.” He took a step and then, to my surprise, paused again. Rocked the weight of his belly back on his heels. Gave a great sniff. “Oh. And there’s just one more little thing.”

“Sure.”

“If you could go back to the Stanley invoice from today and enter it under a different vendor name—Brockleigh—it’ll just make the books cleaner.”

“Of course,” I said automatically, but then a tiny warning bell rang in the back of my mind.

“And that’s all,” he said, giving me another hearty pat on the back. “Just some simple bits of housekeeping.”