Page 8 of Fated By Fire
“That’s because you probably had your phone tucked in your bra again. Did I jiggle your tits, babe?”
“Cut it out. What do you want?” I keep scrolling down the screen.
“Just checking in. Has the eagle landed yet? Is the fox in the hole?”
“You don’t have to talk in code, you dork. No one can hear you.” I open a file marked “Confidential.” Turns out to be someone’s latest HR report.
“Okay. So you found anything interesting?” asks my bestie.
“Yeah. Carl in Accounts got caught browsing porn.”
“Spicy,” says Mara. “If it’s interesting stuff, maybe you could get me his number. Nothing with kids or dogs, though. I don’t do sickos.”
“Carl’s five feet tall and weighs about three hundred pounds, Mara. Anyhow, I thought you were into girls now.”
“That was last week. So what you got?”
“Nothing,” I say, then pause. “Or maybe I do and don’t know it yet.” I huff a breath. “I wish I knew what they wanted.”
“Send them Carl’s search history.”
“Leave Carl out of it.” I scowl at the screen which is yielding no results. “Don’t you have work to do or something?”
“My page is up to date,” she says. “Got a reel that went viral this morning. Two point five million views on my lizard men feature.”
“Good to know,” I mumble, skimming through a report on some sort of land deal. “Seriously though, what do you want?”
“Thought I’d see what you’re into for dinner. Yasong’s running a two-for-one special on noodles today.”
“Sounds good.” I know I sound distracted, but the last thing on my mind right now is food. I can hear footsteps coming down the hall again.
Brenda. Shit.
“Good. I’ll put it on your tab then?”
I’m at my desk as the door starts to open. “Why mine?” I ask. “I thought your lizard men just went viral.”
“Yeah, but there’s no money in it, you big fool. I do this as a public service.”
“Great. Save us from the aliens, and do it for no remuneration,” I mutter. “I can’t wait till you get out of your ‘freegan’ phase.”
“I can’t ‘stick it to the Man’ if I’m wallowing in his capitalist honeypot, Elena.”
“Fine. Put it on my tab,” I say as I smile at Brenda, who’s mouthing something at me as she walks past to her desk. “I’ll see you later,” I say to Mara.
“Great. Love-you-bye,” she says.
“Love-you-bye.” I end the call, looking over at Brenda.
She drains her coffee cup and sets it down. “I just got a call from Lukie’s school.” She pulls a face. “They need me to pick him up now. I gotta duck out a little early. Can you hold the fort?”
“Sure,” I say. “No problem at all.” In my mind’s eye, I get a sudden flash of Brenda with friends having a glass of wine. I’d put money on her playing hooky this afternoon instead of picking up her kid. But I’m not going to call her on it. It suits me just fine if she’s out. The more time I spend alone here, the better. My mysterious clients are growing impatient. Every night, I send them an email with snippets of information—company policies, financial reports, staff rosters—but it’s never enough. Their last message was terse:
We need something substantive. Dig deeper.
Digging deeper is easier said than done. Craven Industries is a fortress, and I’m just a junior archivist. Still, I’ve started to piece together bits of the puzzle. I just wish it was more interesting.
Brenda has gathered her things and is waving goodbye over her shoulder. I wave back, then return my attention to my workstation. For the next hour, I alternate between actual work and trying to scrape together something new for my client.
