Chapter 27

27

I stand in the kitchen on the twelfth floor until the motion sensor lights turn themselves off, plunging me into darkness. A breath shudders out of me, too loud in the deathly silence of the office. Far from the calm, contained environment it provided earlier for me to catch up on work, now it feels tainted, treacherous.

I move enough to activate the lights, not sure how long it's been since Lloyd left. Long enough that the tea he made us is stone-cold. I pour both cups away, then debate for a moment before making myself a fresh one. I'm shaking all over, so taking a few minutes to collect myself before I set off home is probably a good idea.

He's right. Of course he is. He's usually insufferably right about things, but I wish this time wasn't one of them.

It's no wonder he looked at me like that, or that he was so angry with me. He has every right to be. I'd hate me, too. I do hate me, a bit.

Taking my tea over to the sofas, I sink down onto one. I set the mug on the coffee table and hunch over, head between my knees, trying to steady my breathing. My chest is tight; the argument has left me nauseated.

It's too late to apologize. It won't make any difference now, I know it won't.

But I should still say sorry. I'd want that acknowledgment from him if it was the other way around, even if the apology meant nothing.

Is it the kind of thing you can put in a text? I don't think he'll answer the phone if I call, and it will feel insincere if I wait until Monday to try to do it in person. He doesn't need to accept my apology, but I think it's better to offer one regardless.

When did this all become such a mess? How did it spiral so completely out of control?

Why couldn't I have just said sorry when he called me out for being a hypocrite and left it at that? Why?

After a few minutes, my breathing levels out and some of the crushing weight of self-loathing has disappeared from my chest. I sit up and reach for my tea, taking a long sip and letting it settle my nerves. There's a solid chance it's just a placebo, but I don't care. It does the job either way.

Then I notice the file on the floor.

It's one of those soft, plasticky-covered ones full of poly pockets. It looks vaguely familiar, but I can't think why. It's hefty, thick with papers and marked up with neon-colored tabs.

Someone must have left it from a meeting earlier, or it fell out of someone's bag.

I pick it up and take a look in case I can tell whose it is, so I can leave it on their desk. I'd be beyond stressed if I thought I'd lost a bunch of important documents. It's probably some contracts from Nadja's team, judging by the weight of it and all those sticky tabs.

There's nothing on the cover to indicate what it is or who it belongs to. Inside, it's even more confusing. Leafing through the pages gently so I don't disturb any of the neon tabs, I find sections on all kinds of Arrowmile projects. There are some with labels marked Retired stuck to the poly pockets; there are a few with names I vaguely recognize—old development projects from the last few years. There's one for the Vane engine and one for each of the Phoebus car models. There's an entire section dedicated to the new coolant that's being developed in Arrowmile's labs. Near the back, in what seems to be a recent addition, there's a label marked Jones X Arrowmile Collab —the project Mom's working on with them. There are only a couple of sheets of paper in that one; in contrast, most of the other poly pockets are so full the papers have started to curl.

What is this?

It's like a catalog of everything going on at Arrowmile. I peek at the section for the Vane engine, wiggling the papers halfway out and sifting through them.

Objectively, I know this is absolutely not something I should be doing. This is definitely snooping, not just a polite stumbling-across situation. This could be confidential information, not the sort of thing an intern should be looking at.

But then I recognize some of the papers are printouts of emails from me. Sincerely Yours, Anna Sherwood, they read.

Hi Lloyd, they start.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

This is Lloyd's file. That's why it looks familiar—he had it with him the first time I ran into him after-hours at the office and was weirdly protective of it. He must've left in such a rush after our argument that he didn't notice it under the coffee table.

This is what he's been working on—whatever he works on, all mysterious and vague, using his name and his smile to find out anything and everything that's going on at Arrowmile. This isn't just a few reports or slide decks—this is a dossier, and mostly made up of handwritten notes or printouts of emails and diagrams and budget sheets that he's marked up in different-colored pens. There are costs and profits he's highlighted and commented on, schematics he's stapled tracing paper over to annotate.

How long has he spent putting all this together? What's it even for?

I don't completely understand what I'm looking at, but it feels…significant. Like it isn't the sort of thing that should be left for people to stumble across. How much sensitive, confidential information about the company is in this folder? I suddenly imagine a criminal mastermind stumbling across it, a Bond villain or the evil scientist in a Marvel film, and using it for some outrageous, scandalous plan.

Maybe Lloyd is the evil scientist in a Marvel film.

No, that doesn't seem likely. But he could be the Hallmark movie foil to that—the warmhearted, noble hero who investigates a notorious corporation and discovers that it's committing fraud or money laundering or stealing from charities or whatever it is the bad guys do to get rich, and then the hero uncovers the whole sham and saves the day.

That sounds more like Lloyd.

But I can't quite picture Arrowmile being that kind of company. It's celebrated for its push to be greener and more eco-friendly. Plus, everybody has only good things to say about Topher Fletcher—it's hard to picture him embezzling pension funds or something.

So what is Lloyd up to?

My brain is fried from the long day and the argument; I can't even begin to fathom the answer to that question right now.

With a pang of guilt, I tuck the papers neatly back into their pocket and take the folder downstairs with me. I'll take it home to keep it safe over the weekend, and return it to Lloyd when I see him next week. When I text him to apologize, I'll let him know I found it, in case he notices it missing and panics.

And I definitely do need to apologize.

Seeing all the work he's put into this thing, even if I don't understand it, makes me regret every time I made a snide remark about him swanning around the office and sticking his nose into things, throwing his weight around and enjoying the luxury of having a job without having to do any work.

I sit down at my laptop to make sure everything is saved before I shut it down for the weekend. When I set Lloyd's file down beside my laptop, it lands with a heavy, muted thunk on my desk, echoing the sensation in my heart.

How do I keep underestimating him? Every time I think I've figured out who Lloyd is and respect him a little more, he still keeps surprising me.

It's so unfair, especially when he's been so generously overestimating me all this time.

NEW EMAIL DRAFT

Dear Lloyd,

I don't think it will mean very much coming from me right now, but I'm sorry. I know people usually only apologize to make themselves feel better (and that probably is a bit the case here), but I still feel like I owe it to you to say, I'm sorry.

You were right. I stomped on you on my way to the top. I threw whatever was between us, or could have been between us if I'd let it, under the bus. You're kind, and good, and deserve so much better than that. I didn't think I had any self-destructive tendencies, but the way I've pushed you away makes me wonder if I do after all.

I did exactly what my mom did to me and my dad. I did what I promised myself I'd never do. I hurt someone I loved, to protect my own ambition. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

I don't expect you to forgive me. That's okay.

But I want you to know that I'm her—the girl you keep looking for. Somewhere, underneath all of this, I'm her, the way you're someone else behind that act you put on around the office. Just in case that counts for anything.

Sincerely yours,

Anna Sherwood