Chapter 6: Boxes

On Monday morning I walked into Lowell Design for the last time with an empty banker's box and a plan.

The plan was simple. I would take my own things and nothing else.

The entire staff on that floor stopped typing when I came through the glass door.

Nobody said hello. Nobody said anything.

I went to my desk and started taking my sketchbooks off the shelf.

There were nine of them, black cloth covers, every page dated in my own hand.

"Those belong to the firm," said Rodrick.

He had come out of the corner office with his sleeves rolled and a coffee in his hand.

"They're my sketchbooks," I said. "I bought them at an art store."

"You drew them on firm time."

"Then take a look at what's inside before you decide."

I opened the sixth one to a page and held it up for the room.

It was the Pembroke suite.

Every dimension was in my handwriting, dated two years ago in March.

"That's the Pembroke," a young drafter said from the back, quietly.

Rodrick turned.

"Sit down."

"I sat next to her for the whole job," the young drafter said, standing up instead. "She drew that on a Sunday. I brought her pizza."

Another voice, an older woman at the plotter. "I have her redlines from the Sparrow in my drawer. I kept them."

"I kept the Linden ones," said somebody else.

Then three people were on their feet at once.

I stood very still with the book in my hands.

For six years, nobody had said a word out loud. I had thought they hadn't noticed.

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