I lean back against the taxi seat and try to focus on the people and buildings flying by, a blur of gray and black and silver punctuated by small smudges of color. My arms, I notice, still ache from the fall last night. Stay in the present, I command myself, but my thoughts keep getting tugged ahead, wondering what I’ll find in my office. I root around in my purse for a cinnamon Altoid and shove it into my mouth. At the rate I’m going, I should invest in the company.
Once I arrive at the building where WorkSpace is located, I stop at the front desk and ask for my new key card. Hugh had submitted a support ticket for me last Thursday, deactivating the old card and requesting a new one. As I accept the card from the manager, I notice him glance briefly at my palm, which is still crisscrossed with scrape marks. I wonder briefly if he’s the one who spilled to Mulroney, but I don’t have time to dwell on that.
Stepping away, I scan the space around me—the boldly colored, mod-style community lounge, the rows of sleek wooden tables, and the offices behind them. The last time I remember being here was a week ago Monday, and yet it actually feels longer. That’s normal, I tell myself. So much has happened in between.
After grabbing a water from the lounge, I make my way to the two-person office I rent, unlock the door, and—holding my breath—flick on the light.
My eyes go straight to the sleek wooden desk, where Nicole and I sit side by side. I pull back a little in surprise. Her area is neat as a pin, as usual; mine is messy, not at all the way I ever leave it.
I move closer. At the end of the day I like to line up my desk accessories—pen holder, stapler, tape dispenser, a tray of hot-pink Post-it pads—but they’re haphazardly scattered around at the moment, as if I couldn’t be bothered. There’s also a used paper coffee cup on the desktop, along with a couple of grease-stained paper napkins, suggesting I ate a meal or a snack here.
Nowhere in sight, however, are any receipts or notes or Post-its scribbled with words, nothing that might offer a hint to what sent me on the lam from myself. I glance down at the trash can, hoping to find the bag the food came in, but it’s empty, of course. The cleaning staff would have dumped out any contents the morning after I was here.
I text Mulroney to let him know that I’ve come up empty, and with a sigh I straighten my desk accessories, toss the napkins and cup in the trash, and pull my laptop from my tote bag. Nicole won’t be in until around ten, so I have a little while to prep. I open the most recent research file Nicole sent me for the chapter I’ll be writing on credit cards and credit card debt and finally begin to peruse it. Research is the clay I craft my columns and books from, and usually I love diving in and having ideas sparked by what I read, but today it seems nothing short of tedious. My eyes keep bouncing off the computer screen, eager for anyplace else to alight.
Thinking caffeine might help, I traipse down the hall to the community lounge for a cup of coffee. A couple of familiar faces smile or nod at me from the couches. One guy, who’s sitting farther away, at one of the desks in the open seating area, gazes at me. He’s wearing a dark blue sport jacket over an orange hoodie. I’ve never seen him before, but his attention settles on me, his expression curious. Was he around when I spent the whole night here? Does he know something? When I return the stare, he quickly looks back to his screen.
Returning to my office with a coffee, I find that Nicole has arrived and is parked at her desk, laptop open, and staring intently at the screen. Hearing me enter, she glances up. She’s twenty-six, pretty, and petite, with curly light brown hair just below her chin.
“Oh, hi, good morning,” she says. “I hope you’re feeling better.”
“I am, thanks,” I say, forcing myself to get out of my own head for a minute. “You look so refreshed. I take it the trip was fun for you.”
“Fun enough, I guess. I wore SPF 50 every second, but I still