I slumped into the plastic chair. The crappy material was so old it might have outlasted the workers’ unions. Fair pay, equal treatment? That was too expensive. Our CFO preferred a hard, rubbery dildo chair, built more for man-children than for grown adults.

  And speaking of human-sized sex toys, I stared at the bowl-cut parasite opposite me. His chin shone as if polished for inspections. Glossy enough that Barbara was probably using it as a mirror now that HR had confiscated hers.

  “I don’t see why you had to take my hand mirror,” Barbara whined.

  Behind, like a corpse hung up to dry, a suited and booted woman sighed. The dark shadows of her eyes were so black she either never slept or was beaten like a compliance bag on boxing night.

  “As I have already explained,” Dorathy said, pressing her HR badge as if it still carried authority, “your mirror has been logged into inventory.”

  Barbara’s fingers twitched. She might have lunged as if she wanted to snatch it. And she might have, if not for bum sniffer number one.

  “It’s, um, a violation to display hostility in the workplace,” Frank said.

  I sneered at the Marketing Vice. If the haircut and reptilian skin weren’t enough, he was somehow second in command to Michael. Worse, his squinty eyes tracked everything. The kind of scrawny man who mistook vigilance for virtue.

  “I assure you,” Barbara said sweetly, “if I were being hostile, you’d know. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make such serious accusations without evidence.” She gestured lazily toward Dorathy. “And surely you understand the penalties for unsubstantiated claims.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Dorathy didn’t blink. “Flattery won’t return your mirror.”

  Barbara tutted. A child caught stealing sugar.

  Then the door opened.

  A tall man entered the conference room. His bleached blond hair glistened in the light. A clean suit. A smile that stretched tight enough to crack.

  He was Head of Marketing, as in Sir Michael Goldsburg. A man with so much capital that he never needed to work again. Yet he still showed up, ready to squeeze out every last penny, like a juice box run dry, crushed and harvested for its molecules. Screw it, he probably wanted to sniff up the remains of cardboard and foil, just to keep that drug-fueled smile of his running.

  “Apologies for my lateness,” he said, cheerful as a slap. As harsh as Coke. “I trust you’ve reviewed the materials.” He sniffed.

  Not even an instant passed before Frank shot to his feet like a dog conditioned by bells. An addict who loved his whips.

  “Yes, Sir. I’ve already printed the info pamphlets.”

  Dorathy distributed the papers. The ink was faded. The light imprint of text was sharp, the words poison.

  “A detective has issued a warrant,” she said. “Effective midnight. This is a reminder that under no circumstances are you to engage with law enforcement or the press without corporate approval.”

  My stomach tightened.

  My fingers clenched the paper.

  Reason for inquiry:

  Potential dual homicide: Geoff --- Mark Carter. December 19th.

  Corporate should have sorted this. No murder. No escalation. No cause.

  Someone had reopened it.

  I scanned the room. Marketing analysts. Designers. Frank. Barbara. Every face carefully neutral. Someone here wanted me constrained. Someone wanted me quiet.

  “So,” Michael said, clapping once. “That settles it.”

  He smiled wider.

  “Let’s go public.”

  A ripple of shock. Fear. Confusion.

  “There’s nothing like transparency,” he continued, “to prove we have nothing to hide. We’ll announce the new deal. Big. Loud. Impossible to ignore.”

  I looked at Dorathy, wondering if one more holiday request might slip through.

  It wouldn’t.

  Whoever had planned this knew that too.