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I’m pulling into the parking lot and my train of thought instantly scatters on its own. Maybe it’s my fault. I’ve put a jinx on what would have been a great week just by thinking about it.
There are at least twenty vans from TV stations and magazines all over the city parked out front. A couple of police squad cars are blaring sirens, with officers trying to get people to back away from the building. This does not look like a positive press visit. These reporters look like vultures.
I’m unsure if I should go nearer or turn around and zoom off into the wind. I’m scared. I’m curious. I’m worried. What is happening?!
Summoning a little courage, I park opposite the building and get out of the car. I’m clutching at my bag like it holds my dear life.
I’m a few feet away from the main entrance when a pack of reporters fly at me, shoving microphones and cameras into my face and asking a million questions at the same time.
“Ma’am, do you work here?”
“Are you one of the top executives that came up with the exclusion strategy?”
“Is it true that all those ad campaign speeches are fake?”
“Is this business really just a front for the main Bridges?”
They almost shove me to the ground in all the confusion. I can’t see the door anymore. I can’t breathe. The cameras. The lights. The flashing…
“Get back or I’ll pepper spray all of you to the ground! Get back! You’ll trample her!”
A female cop is yelling at the reporters and she starts pulling them backward, one by one. I finally feel myself breathing again. I quickly shoot her an expression of gratitude and dash to the main door area, where another cop is blocking the entrance.
Pulling on the door handle, my anxiety shoots through the roof.
It’s locked.
Oh my goodness! I know how the Building Bridges door works from the outside. Whoever is inside can see me but I can’t see them. I don’t even know if anyone is downstairs. I start banging on the door with all my energy. The glass is stronger than concrete and I’m not sure they can hear me.
“Open the door! Please!!”
The reporters are coming closer now, overwhelming the lone cop trying to keep them away. They won’t intentionally hurt me but I would die if I ever saw my face on TV, unable to say a word. And the claustrophobia. God, no!
I hear a click.
Another click.
Something gets moved.
And the door finally opens.
Thank Goodness! Tyler has come to my rescue. Hugging me and taking my work bag, he moves away quickly, heading to one of the couches in the sitting area.
Nearly every employee at Building Bridges is downstairs, everyone looking miserable and downcast. Is there a memo I’ve missed? I’m not even late for work. I’m three minutes early. How is everyone here before me?
“Cassie, what’s wrong?” I ask a junior-level IT officer. She shrugs and shakes her head. She also has no idea what’s going on.
Philip from Sales is sitting beside her, typing on his phone. “I heard someone is blackmailing the company,” he says, still not looking up.
“This just confirms my suspicions all along,” says Franklin from Communications, and he seems a little too excited. “Building Bridges is a money laundering front for Mr. Bryce.”
What is he talking about now?
Anna from my divisions says, “Roscoe Bridges may have run away with the loan capital.”
Is everyone insane? Doesn’t matter. Either way, most of them are unsure of what’s happening, but they are all worried about what this negative press means for the company.
“Are our jobs at risk?” someone whispers to my right, but I can’t be sure who.
