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Jeanie
Istomp back home after getting off the bus. It’s late, it’s dark, my feet hurt, my back aches, my arms are doing that shaky-exhausted-tingly thing that happens when I spend too long holding up trays, and all I want to do is sleep.
Catering is hard, much harder than mailroom work. I liked being in an office—it was air-conditioned and there was always free food floating around—but the catering gigs are rough. I can’t turn them down though, especially since Lauren’s basically saving my ass by bringing me on board, otherwise I won’t make rent at the end of the month, but I keep imagining myself stalking after Malcolm and Benedict waiting for the right moment to strike and get my revenge—
Which is a fantasy. A stupid fantasy, one that seems less and less likely.
That asshole Gavino ruined it for me. If he hadn’t pulled that stunt with the couch, I wouldn’t have gotten fired. Reprimanded maybe, but not fired. Then again, with the car keys at the fundraiser event, he didn’t have to throw me in a closet and steal them back. I could’ve handled everything myself, maybe even found something worthwhile in Malcolm’s car, and instead I’m further away than I’ve ever been and working every night, feeling miserable and sorry for myself.
I reach my apartment building and head inside. The halls are long and dark and quiet. I reach my door, go to unlock it, but stop.
It’s open a crack.
I frown and nudge it. The door swings silently. I know I shut it before I left and locked up—I have a distinct memory of doing it. I step inside and look around, my palms sweating suddenly, my armpits pooling moisture, my heart hammering in my ribs.
The place is a wreck.
My living room is smashed. My thrift store paintings are ripped off the wall and thrown on the floor. My cheap vases and houseplants are smashed to glass and clay bits. My chairs are knocked over and even my couch cushions are thrown on the floor. My TV is on and playing nothing but static with a big crack down the middle.
I stare around until I notice the person standing in the hallway that leads to my bedroom.
I nearly scream but choke it off as Benedict steps into the light.
“Hello, Jeanie,” he says, staring at me with a strange neutral expression. If he looked angry right now, at least that I would understand, but it’s the blankness in his eyes that makes terror pool in my feet and hands. Whatever this man is about to do, he doesn’t feel a damn thing about it.
This is nothing but a job.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Emmerson?”
His lips curl. “No need for formalities. Call me Benedict.” He steps forward, boots crunching over glass. “I remember you from the office. You were always a squirrelly little one, constantly darting around, looking at people with wide eyes like you were afraid you were about to be caught doing something wrong. But several of the managers spoke highly of you, and so I ignored your anxiety. Some people are simply high-strung, I reasoned. But then you had your run-in with Gavino Bruno, and I wondered. Why were they in Mr. Strafford’s office?”
I don’t move. Benedict stares at me, head tilted, like a wolf studying his dinner. I want to scream or run but I’m pinned to the floor and can’t make my muscles move. Now I understand the meaning of scared stiff. I’m frozen, a block of solid ice.
He steps forward, closer, six feet away at most. More glass crunches underneath.
“I put it from my mind again. I have other, more important matters to worry about. I can’t spend my life obsessing about Gavino Bruno’s long list of conquests, even when one of those he’s taken happens to be an employee of my boss. But then I saw you at the fundraiser three nights ago, and I have to wonder. Why is this girl orbiting Mr. Strafford?”
“I’m not,” I say, finally managing to find my voice. I step back, away from him, and nearly trip over a fallen stack of old DVDs I can’t even play anymore. Who the hell has DVDs? My mind’s reeling, unable to focus right now. I blink to try to keep myself in the moment.
Benedict remains still.
“I wonder though. I did some digging into you after that night. I’ve been digging for three days, and I’ve come up with almost nothing. It’s like you didn’t exist before two years ago, like you appeared from nowhere. I understand you changed your name, but I don’t know what your original name was. All the records are gone, scrubbed away. And that’s not normal.”
I clench my jaw. I worked hard to make that happen and spent a shitload of money—all my freaking savings, to be exact—and now I see the obvious flaw in my plan.
Erasing your history is evidence that there’s a history worth destroying.
“I’m nobody,” I say quietly, taking another step back, and Benedict holds up a hand.
“Don’t move any further, Jeanie.”
I go very still. “I didn’t mean to get involved with Gavino. He’s just charming, and he’s rich, and I was just—” I’m blabbing now, unable to stop myself. “I was taken in by him. He dragged me to Mr. Strafford’s office because I was delivering mail to his secretary’s desk and that was the closest private room.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I know, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have, you’re right. Gavino’s just very persuasive. And the fundraiser was a coincidence. I was mortified that you were there.”
“Your boyfriend Gavino as well.”
