Chapter 8

For once, I don’t dream of work. I know a lot of people hate work dreams. I don’t. I find them soothing. It’s like a practice run before the big show. Besides, every weird stress-induced embarrassment that plays out in my dream—forgetting my presentation, not wearing pants, calling my boss Dad—I get to prepare extra to avoid.

I really don’t know why people don’t like them.

Especially when the alternatives are considered.

Last night and into this morning, I dreamt of buildings collapsing. I dreamt of near-death experiences and crumbled dreams. Worst of all, I dreamt of love. In its guards-lowered state, my mind dreamt of charged kisses and impossible feelings. And I dreamt of the pain I’d feel when the inevitable rejection comes.

Still, there’s a lingering blush on my cheeks and a gentle hum in my heart as I allow myself the indulgence of remembering last night.

For a woman who keeps detailed (and private) notes about my dating app hookups to best determine who will scratch which itch in the future, it seems impossible to just be satisfied. Pleased even. Delighted maybe.

Without any sort of empirical evidence to his suitability, I would just choose Grant.

Except, I’m not sure that’s entirely wise.

Stepping into the shower, I let the hot water run over me, letting my thoughts about the future rise to the surface as the past washes off me and spirals down the drain. There are a number of areas that require my attention, all of which war within me for priority.

First of all, I’ll have to find out what happened to the building. I’m not certain if it’s the most critical item, but it’s the one I can’t seem to dislodge from my brain.

I’m very much so of the belief that distractions should be plucked out immediately if they prove to be persistent. So, first thing after my shower, I’ll make my way to work and see what I can find out.

As soon as it’s decided, I stand a little taller in the shower.

Next, I need to find out a little bit more about Grant. I tell myself that it’s because he’s an unknown person who somehow knew my home address and was also able to get inside without waking me. However, there’s also a part of me that wants to find out more about him.

Reluctantly, I recognize there’s another part of me that wants to see him without the perilous backdrop of having been rescued to see if the spark is still there. Will he still make my heart race? Will I be anything to him other than a conquest and a save?

Discovering a little bit more about my midnight savior will be the second task I tackle. I breathe out a sigh. Already, what’s left of the day is beginning to feel feasible.

Finally, I need to at least start digging into Zagreus Hart. I nearly died for those files. A good thing too, since they would have been destroyed with the building. Usually, we have at least some form of digitally archiving these files, but since one of the branches of Hart Link Incorporated is very literally home to the most advanced technology in the world, my boss, Dominic, thought it was better to keep our mounting evidence paper-based.

I know that if I don’t at least follow one of my leads on Zagreus Hart today, I won’t be able to sleep. I’ve already wasted most of the day, time I won’t get back, and I won’t let him get ahead of this any more than he probably has.

Refreshed and breathing easily for the first time, I step out of the shower, ready to conquer my to-do list. The peace and quiet of my brain is not long lived. Almost immediately, my calm is interrupted by incessant notifications on my phone.

My phone is alight with perhaps the entirety of my family and friends messaging me to see if I’m alright. A few have sent screenshots from the news, which show the building in ruins in the background with people in hazmat suits in the forefront, standing guard of a very locked-down city block.

As much as I itch to get down there and investigate, I know I need to add a new item to the top of my list: let loved ones know I’m alright. Let’s hope it doesn’t take long.

I go through my texts, pointedly ignoring the calls because that’s never something I have the mental energy for anyways, and message everyone variations of the same:

I am alive and very disappointed in the turn of events. I will let you know when I’m able to return to work. Thank you for thinking of me in this difficult time. (thumbs up emoji)

It’s not my best writing, but it is efficient. By the time I get through my parents and siblings, who get a more heart-felt conversation, I just copy and paste the same message to everyone else.

It’s not like they know the difference.

Oddly enough, there are several especially panicked messages from Beth, our office manager. Weird. She should know better than anyone I wouldn’t be in there. I am, after all, the one who begged her to let me go into work if I could get a hold of a gas mask.

I decide to ignore her. She’s probably just wondering if I’m going to be on board for Work from Home Hawaiian T-shirt Day or something.

Whatever. I don’t have the energy for Beth. I barely have the energy to put on more than my signature red lipstick before heading out. It’s the most dressed down I’ve ever been when going to work. Then again, there’s not really a work to go to. Is there?

In the light of day, the scene looks so much worse than it did last night. Now that I’m viewing it from the ground, the pile of rubble seems impossibly large. I can’t even imagine how the city officials would go about removing that much debris. It was once a testament to the future of architecture in Vancouver, and now it’s nothing but a sad historical footnote.

A part of me—a part that I recognize is not stupendously mentally stable—wants to take a piece of it home. I would love a hunk of pillar, or even better a shard from my door. It took me years to get my own office. It was a small, broom closet of an office, but I earned it.

I worked longer and harder than anyone at the firm. I got more wins and brought in more money for both us and the environmental groups that we championed.

It wasn’t an easy path; I had to watch countless people get promoted and move into offices before me, ones that I am certain deserved it less. Still, I made it. Granted, I was helped out by Dominic, one of the senior partners who took me under his wing. When everyone else refused to recognize the work I was doing, he argued my case.

I also kind of want a shard from his door.

I should check Dr. Debbie’s book to see if there’s anything about taking mementos. I definitely don’t want to look it up online. Even to my socially awkward ears that sounds like serial killer trophies stuff.

Except, I have no chance of getting any piece of my true home because the block is abuzz with swarming officials in hazmat suits. I thought that maybe the pictures had focused on one or two people in the outfits and everyone else would be wearing street clothes, but that was wrong. If anything, the pictures underdid the intensity of the site’s quarantine.

Not that I can even get close to the people in the suits.

About two blocks away from the ruins, the Vancouver Police Department (VPD) stand in front of barricades. They’re being swarmed by news reporters and camera crews. Behind them are a crowd of onlookers. All in all, I have hundreds of people between me and the building. Guess there’ll be no sneaking in this time.

Still, I can at least try to get some answers.

Pushing my way through the crowd takes minimal effort. Most people are haunting the scene, drawn to the despair of destruction while grieving the loss of our city’s most sparkly jewel. They get pushed aside with a mere ‘excuse me’.

The reporters are much more tenacious. They’re rooted to the ground like parasites on a host. While the citizens feel a dull disconnect about what has happened, the reporters have honed on the more important part: this shouldn’t have happened.

My previous tactic of moving forward in the crowd leads nowhere. Elbows prove equally futile. So, I change to something that speaks their language.

“Excuse me,” I say, using my imperious courtroom voice, projecting for all to hear. “I work here and need to discuss something with the police.”

And, just like that, the crowd parts.

The chatter turns into a bated anticipation. They know there’s the possibility that I’m nobody and have nothing to say, but they’ve been dealing with nothing all day. On the off chance that I am somebody, they know I’m their best bet of getting a story if they can overhear me.

“Stay back,” the police officer says in a detached voice when I approach. “This area is off-limits.”

“Hi,” I say, switching to my witness interview voice—the one I use when I really need them on our side. “I hate to bother you. It’s just that I work there.”

The reporters hold their breath as the police officer looks me over. Suddenly, I’m regretting my choice to go out in casual wear. I practically sleep in blazers. ‘Always be prepared for the opportunity to work’ is my motto. Why did I decide to shirk it today?

Must have been my orgasm-addled brain.

Or, you know, the trauma of almost dying.

“I’d say worked there.”

I wince. He’s right. It still hurts though.

“I’m just worried about my coworkers,” I lie. “Can you at least tell me if everyone’s alright?”

The cop now turns his full attention onto me.

“If you really worked there, then you’d know that the whole place was closed and emptied for fumigation. We’ve double checked their security systems and it’s been confirmed that no one was in the building. Another lucky break.”

He takes a step towards me, pushing me back. Oops. I hadn’t realized that I’d stepped right to the precipice of the barricade to crane my neck at the wreckage. A glint of a colour among the sea of building catches my eye for a moment. It tugs at a thought in my subconscious.

“Now, why don’t you and all your reporter buddies back off. I’ve been here since the middle of the night, so it’s about time I have nothing left to say to you all except no comment.”

My brain abandons worrying at the thread about the colour as it fixates on his words.

“What do you mean by ‘another lucky break’? What’s the other one?”

The cop narrows his eyes at me, looking seriously pissed.

“Nothing. No comment.”

“You’ve been here since the middle of the night?”

“Yes,” he growls.

“Here? At this exact spot?”

“Jesus, yes. I am so sick of all these questions.”

I mull that over.

“You’ve been here because you’ve needed to set a perimeter at a safe distance. Only people with the proper protective hazmat suits can go any closer.” Although, there do appear to be several non-suited people milling around. One of them appears to be my boss, Dominic. The other is a tall man with a presence as big as he is. He’s too far away for me to really discern his features. I see enough, though, to feel like I recognize him.

Who could possibly be so important that my boss would talk to him before he even reached out to his own employees? I memorize what I can of the tall man, adding him to my mental file about this whole situation.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I continue. “But that’s protocol for when radiation is either confirmed or suspected.”

The cop turns away from me, but I step in front of him. Suddenly, I have a wide berth from the reporters who have all backed up and are watching intently to see how this plays out.

When the cop realizes he can’t shake me, he bends down slightly to look me in the eye.

“I’m not confirming shit.”

I smile. “But you already have. If you initially set up here in the middle of the night, that means that you went directly into radioactive protocol. At a site like this, there’d be no reason to assume radiation, unless you tested for it right away. You got tipped off, didn’t you? Someone called it in that all this”—I gesture to the swarming suits and radiation technology at the site—“so that you could come prepared.”

I feel a little bad for the cop. There are very few people who know environmental policy and procedure as well as I do. Buddy just showed up to a multiple-choice test with a pen, while I’m over here wielding my #2 pencil.

The cop swallows, a vein pulsing at his forehead.

“No comment,” he repeats. “Now get out of here before I decide to do something about the fact that you’ve just entered a restricted area without authorization.”

He takes his foot and nudges (forcefully nudges) the tip of my toe to the other side of the barricade. I guess at some point I moseyed a little too close. Technically, my toes are in violation, so he could pursue this.

Dr. Debbie would argue against being so anal about rules. It’s rude. Honestly, if everyone read the book like I did, the world would be a much smoother place.

In any case, I walk away, sensing this is the end of any fruitful interrogation. Besides, I have enough to go on.

Whatever happened here, wasn’t an accident.

Somebody destroyed this building, but, between the fumigation and protocols, they wanted to make sure no one got hurt.

It would take someone immensely rich and powerful to orchestrate all that.