Chapter 9: Her Old Desk

I let the lawyer's card go until Sunday afternoon.

Then I asked, over a plate of toast, "Who is your cousin, exactly?"

Glenn had been waiting for that question since midnight, and he handled it.

"He works for the people who own the building," he said. "Their lawyers owe him a favor."

"That's a lot of favors for a janitor's cousin."

"He likes me."

"He looked at you like you were a bomb."

"He's nervous around bad news." Glenn took a slow bite. "And I'm his bad news."

It was the truest thing he had said all weekend.

I let it go, because I needed him to be on my side more than I needed him to be honest.

On Monday morning I took the bus to Wexler Freight with my work laptop in a tote bag.

HR had told me not to enter the building.

They had not said anything about returning the company's property, and I intended to do it in front of as many people as possible.

Eight a.m. is the busiest hour in a nine-story office tower.

The lobby was a river of coats and paper cups.

A guard I knew stood behind the desk.

"Jean," he said, quietly. "I can't let you up."

"I'm just returning this."

I held out the laptop.

"You can leave it with me."

"I need a receipt," I said, loudly.

"I've been accused of stealing from this company."

"I'm not walking out of here without proof I gave something back."

Heads turned.

The guard looked at the elevators and then at me.

He sighed.

"Sixth floor," he said, and gave me a visitor's pass. "Ten minutes."

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