52. Emily

52

EMILY

" I want the new logos up no later than Monday afternoon, the website live by Tuesday, the old ID badges shredded and replaced by midweek, and every current contract drafted, reviewed, and finalized by the end of the month. No exceptions."

It was Friday evening, several weeks after Tate Prescott had been first reported missing. Though, with the way things were moving, it was almost as if the man never existed. His creepy-ass remarks nothing but phantom whispers that haunted the halls and psyches of most of the female employees. Except for Sarah, who could be found wailing in the bathroom whenever anyone was close enough for her to put on a show—like the veritable Ghost of Mistresses Past.

It was also late, much later than normal business hours, the opulence surrounding us overshadowed by the fluttering crime scene tape that still clung to most surfaces of the Prescott family home. An ongoing, open investigation, the men in the brown suits and cliché trench coats had claimed. Nothing about the lack of police presence screamed "open" to me though. Truth was, it was one of the few times having shit swept under the rug actually benefited the greater good.

I didn't care enough to wonder what had happened to the man, and from the looks of things here, neither did anyone else. Especially his widow.

"And reach out to IT. The Wi-Fi's been lagging. That's unacceptable. Tell them to fix it or I will find someone who can." Marisela's heels click-clacked against the white tile flooring, which was a stark contrast to the bright red of her tight-fitted dress paired with a matching tailored blazer and fiery lipstick. Her voice echoing off the grandeur of her living room while my pen dashed across my notepad in quick shorthand, my sloppy scrawl trying to keep up with her rapid dictation.

It was no easy feat. The woman spoke almost as quickly as she moved across the room, her voice fluctuating each time she added and removed distance between us. I'd learned it was better to stay put instead of attempting to follow her. She never stood in one spot for long, especially when her brain was firing on all circuits. She also wouldn't repeat herself, something her last PA had learned the hard way. Or so the rumors went. Poor guy was supposedly locked up in some nuthouse somewhere.

I hadn't even realized she'd crept up behind me, my focus on the task at hand, until I felt her breath by my ear. Heard the soft hum that told me she was assessing my work.

"Did you catch all that, Emily?"

I quirked an incredulous eyebrow. Because she was doubting me and not because she was right.

Marisela responded with the makings of a smirk but never any words of praise. That slight twitch of her lips was the closest thing to a good job I'd ever get. And I was fine with that. I didn't need her approval. Or anyone else's, for that matter. It wasn't my preferred kink anymore. I wasn't sure it ever had been.

Whether or not I wanted to admit it, degradation had this way of sending my libido into overdrive. Which was probably some repressed trauma bullshit. But that was a problem for another day. When I could afford a therapist and wasn't afraid of scaring ?em off or ending up in a straitjacket myself.

"Right, well, you can go now. I expect to see you first thing in the morning. Don't be late." Marisela waved a dismissive hand before her polished nails clanked against the stem of the wineglass she swiped off the butler's tray. It wasn't until she took her first sip of what I could only assume was a bubbly champagne that the woman's mouth finally twisted into a real smile. Something that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the alcohol currently breaking through her blood-brain barrier.

I might have been a numbers girl all my life, but I'd picked up more than my fair share of medical jargon during my time at Prescott R&D—though no one dare to call it that after the rebranding.

I didn't bother responding as I pivoted on my flats and made my way to the grand entryway of Ms. Cruz's Downtown Abbey style mansion. Dipping my chin to the man standing by the door as he swung it open while offering me a polite "good evening, Miss Shaw."

Then I descended the stairs, mindful to watch my step now that the sun was down and the estate was surrounded by eerie darkness. Each shadow bending and flexing with the breeze, waiting for the perfect chance to reach out and grab me. The manicured hedges resembling the sort of boogeymen that had us hiding under the covers as kids and the expansive landscaping and creaking gates like the opening credits in a horror movie just before the first jump scare. All that was missing was some creep in a mask hiding under my car or crouched in the back seat.

I shook off the sudden chill, my fingers curling around the handle of my off-white Chevy when the sound of my phone blaring through the night had me nearly jumping out of my shoes. I lifted one hand to my pounding chest while the other rummaged through my bag in search of my cell. Clicked answer and raised it to my ear without checking the screen.

I opened my mouth, my usual greeting forming on the tip of my tongue. But the person on the other end was already speaking. "Get home and get in bed. I don't like waiting."

"Excuse me? Who is this?" I didn't recognize the caller. But then again, I was pretty certain that was the point. It sounded like one of those text-to-talk devices rather than someone's actual voice.

"Oh, and, Emily, wear the blue one."

"The blue what?" Click. "Hello?" My eyes flicked from side to side, my heart rate picking up with both anticipation and fear. It wasn't a normal response. Normal girls would be running away. Calling the police and clutching their cans of mace. Not rushing towards the danger behind the robotic voice on the other end of the line.

Then again, I had never been all that good at being normal.