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“Oh, my God,” I hissed, not exactly believing what I was seeing when I first opened the document, so used to false hope and a grudging cynicism over the whole endeavor that my mind couldn’t seem to really grasp what it was I was looking for.
Exactly what I was told I would find.
Exactly what was needed.
To right wrongs.
To expose the truth.
It was equal parts satisfying and exhilarating as well as sad and disappointing.
That people really were as wicked as others claimed, that it truly was impossible to think anyone could be trusted, that anyone told the truth anymore.
I scanned the documents onto an external drive I kept solely for the possibility of this day, then made sure I closed everything down, left it all the way I had found it.
I don’t know why I finished my work, why I bothered cleaning up Phillip’s mess, or finishing his tasks for the day.
Maybe a part of it was because it felt wrong to inconvenience other people–the ones he had meetings with, the ones he said he would call back–when they were counting on me. The other part, though, was almost having a hard time transitioning to this new reality. The one where I wouldn’t have to wake up and slip into clothes I hated, get groped by men and needing to bite my tongue, listen to inane talk around the office about things as unimportant as who was sleeping with whom on some two-bit reality show that wouldn’t matter in three months’ time. I wouldn’t have to feel sick to my stomach at the idea of contributing to something, enabling something, that I didn’t believe in.
I would be free again.
It would all finally, finally be over.
Nerves swirled around my core, snaked up over my chest, curled around my throat.
I wasn’t a coffee drinker by nature, but I found myself filling and refilling my cup as I ran around the office like a hamster on a wheel, doing a lot of movement, but not actually getting anywhere.
By a quarter to five, I was pretty sure I was one dropped pen away from an actual breakdown.
I carefully packed up my desk, getting every little piece of me inside my purse, not wanting to leave anything of myself behind.
In a last-minute move of pure paranoia, I restored my desk computer to the day before I started working there, I took out all my keys and my security badge, laying them out on the desk, then I walked myself out the door.
My heart was slamming against my ribcage as I attempted to keep my pace slow, deliberate, non-suspicious.
The door was only five feet away when I heard a shout.
I didn’t need to turn to know who it was from.
David.
My stomach flipped as my hand pressed into the cold glass door.
“Gemma!”
Crap.
Crap crap crap.
I pushed through the door, keeping pace around the front of the building where the windows were, then breaking into a dead run toward the parking lot, saying a silent prayer that a team of security guards weren’t chasing me down as I dropped my keys, scratching my knuckles on the ground as I grabbed for them.
I was sure I was going to be sick all over myself as I finally got the door open, locked, the engine turned over, and the car into reverse.
There was a strong, irrational part of me that didn’t want to look, that wanted to keep my eyes on where I was going instead of where I had been.
The part of me that had spent an important chunk of my formative years at an office that had taught me that details were important, that they were everything, that they made a difference between, at times, life and death.
I took a steadying breath that shuddered through my chest; I turned to look out my side window, and saw David there.
Not running after me.
No.
This struck me as even worse.
He had a phone to his ear.
And a chillingly serious look on his face.
Who he had on that phone was anyone’s guess.
The cops.
Some shady guys who would work around the law.
Neither spelled anything good for me.
Everything in me wanted to run. Drive straight out of town, never look back.
But everything I loved was in the area.
Everyone I loved.
I couldn’t run.
I had to stay.
I had to see this through, then figure out an exit strategy that didn’t include me behind bars or in a shallow grave in the woods.
Breathing seemed all but impossible as I drove back to Navesink Bank, wanting to be in my old stomping ground, close to all the backroads I knew in case I needed them.
Pulling into the post office, I climbed out, going in to grab a padded envelope, pretending to ignore the way my hands were almost violently shaking.
This was the safest option, I reminded myself as I filled out the mailing address. Once the envelope was in a bin in the back, it was safe.
