by Clea Simon
Sleep should have been impossible. But either fatigue got the better of her, or the sense that the spirit of Mr Grey was still hanging around the apartment eventually lulled Dulcie into a deep and dreamless slumber. Much to her surprise, she woke refreshed, even before the alarm clock had a chance to break into its annoying buzz.
One cup of coffee later, she realized she had time for a phone call.
‘Luke? Hi, it’s Dulcie. Dulcie Schwartz.’ It wasn’t that she was feeling possessive, Dulcie told herself. If she were, she’d be stalking Stacia. ‘I thought I should let you know what happened with Priority.’
‘Dulcie! Great to hear from you, whatever the reason. What’s happening? You ready to sue?’ He yawned, and Dulcie looked at the clock. Not even eight. She should’ve waited and called him at the clinic.
‘Nope. I didn’t even need to threaten them.’ She told him what had happened the day before, and he sounded honestly pleased. Of course, he had called it: Priority had no legal right either to fire her or detain her. ‘So, well, I hope you didn’t feel like I wasted your time.’
‘Not at all.’ From the sound of water running in the background, Dulcie assumed he was either making coffee or running a bath. To keep herself from thinking of him nude, she carried on talking.
‘And I haven’t heard anything from the Cambridge police. I mean, they haven’t called me in for questioning again. So that’s got to be good, doesn’t it?’ She paused for air and the implications of what she’d said hit her. ‘I mean, I really hope they find whoever did it.’
‘Yeah.’ She heard a sigh. ‘I don’t know if they ever will. We haven’t heard anything.’ Another pause. Maybe she’d gone too far. But, no, it wasn’t her. ‘I haven’t, I mean. I’m the only one pursuing it. My folks are acting like it was just an unpleasant accident that they’d rather forget. Makes me wonder if they are capable of loving anyone.’
‘I’m sure if anything happened to you—’ Dulcie didn’t like defending the Worthingtons, but she wanted to offer comfort to the man on the phone.
‘Yeah, they’d care. But that’s just because I’m the “good” son; the one they can trust to carry on the family name.’ There wasn’t any response to that, but Luke didn’t seem to expect one. ‘Which reminds me; I should really come by and finish cleaning out Tim’s room. It’s not fair for you to be left with his junk.’
‘That’s all right, really. It’s not like I’m going to sublet it again for just a month.’ A thought struck her. ‘But, Luke, if you’re going to come by, would you remember to bring Tim’s laptop?’
‘Sure. You still thinking my baby bro gave you some kind of virus?’
‘I don’t know.’ She thought about Tim being inside her personal space and shuddered. ‘There’s something funky going on with my laptop. I was making some notes for my thesis the other night and, well, something weird happened.’ Dulcie felt oddly reticent about telling Luke about Mr Grey. Maybe he’d think she was too girlish or sentimental. ‘Anyway, I’m pretty sure Tim was using it.’
‘Sounds like Tim, I’m afraid. Have you talked to Stacia yet?’
Maybe they hadn’t been spending much time together. ‘No, I have another friend who understands operating systems. I thought it would help if we could trace the bug.’
‘Makes sense to me. I’ll bring it over. How about tonight?’
‘Sure, I get home around six.’
‘And may I take you to dinner after?’
A glow that could not be entirely attributable to hot coffee rose up to Dulcie’s cheeks. ‘I think that might be possible.’ Good thing he couldn’t see her turning pink.
‘Great! And then maybe you and Stacia can slug it out.’
He meant about the computer, she knew that. But the coffee chose just that moment to go down her windpipe and kept her from answering for nearly a minute. By the time she’d recovered her breath, she realized it was time to get ready for work. If she left now, she could pick up an iced latte to make up for what she’d just spat out.
‘Now that I have a job again, it doesn’t make sense to lose it.’
‘See you tonight then.’
She shouldn’t be so hard on Stacia, Dulcie knew that – and kept repeating it to herself as she joined the throng of commuters on the Red Line. The woman was only doing the same thing she herself was, she said as she walked up to Priority’s revolving glass doors. Trying to get ahead, finish her education, and maybe meet a nice guy. By rights, they should be friends.
‘Miss Schwartz?’ She’d been so distracted as she opened her bag for the guard that she hadn’t even noticed when he finished poking through it. ‘Miss Schwartz?’ She absently started to hand him her extra-large latte. ‘No, Miss Schwartz. Keep your coffee. I have a message here for you.’
She withdrew the proffered cup and looked up.
‘You’re to report to security before heading up to your workspace.’
‘Security?’ Dulcie felt her stomach clench up. Suddenly the extra caffeine seemed like a very bad idea. ‘Again?’ But they’d just cleared her!
‘It’s the office over to the right.’ She could see the door. There was still time to bolt.
‘Hi, I’m Dulcie Schwartz.’ She hated the way her voice squeaked, but at least the guard seated in the tiny office wasn’t one of the two gorillas who had marched her out of her cubicle on Monday. Instead, a tired-looking older man glanced up.
‘Oh, yeah, Schwartz. Hang on. You’ve been reassigned or something. I’m supposed to call when you come in.’
Great. Dulcie leaned back against the wall. Bolting was growing more attractive by the minute. But just when she was ready to slide out of the door, it was blocked by the smaller of the two gorillas.
‘Miss Schwartz?’ He looked up from a sheet of paper. ‘Sorry to inconvenience you. We’re relocating your workstation. Would you come with me, please?’
Dulcie started breathing again and followed the large man to the elevators. ‘What’s going on? Did you find out who was using my computer?’
‘From all they’ve told me,’ he looked over at her with what almost seemed like a smile, ‘this could be routine maintenance.’
He pressed the elevator for the fourteenth floor. It was not yet ten minutes after nine and they had the car to themselves. ‘Did you leave any personal items at your former workspace?’
Dulcie thought of her sweater, now long gone. ‘No.’
‘OK, then. Follow me, please.’ As they exited the elevator, Dulcie looked over toward what she thought of as ‘her’ cubicle. The walls obscured the computer itself, but nobody was standing near it. Maybe the terminal had already been removed for dissection.
‘Miss Schwartz?’ Her escort was waiting, already a few steps ahead, and he led her down a long passageway that she’d never noticed. Suddenly, all was light. They were in the front of the building, where actual windows let in actual sunlight. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all!
‘Ah, work area eleven.’ Her escort consulted the paper again, and led her through a maze of grey-carpeted cubicles into an open area. A large round enclosure held six older women, all wearing headsets.
‘Priority Insurance, can I help you? Priority, please hold . . .’ She was standing by the message center. ‘Priority Insurance, can I help you?’
‘Here it is.’ The large man led her around the circular phone bank and over to a desktop. On it, a computer that looked identical to her old one was lit up with the Priority logo screensaver. On her right, a taller, more solid wall divided the open space. On her left was the call center.
‘Where’s Joanie sitting?’ Behind her was only open space, leading back to those windows. She could see no other cubicles like hers.
‘I’m sorry.’ He didn’t even bother looking at the paper in his hand. ‘I don’t have any information about other employees.’
‘But we worked together—’ He started to walk away.
‘Please hold, can I help you?’
‘It’s may.’ Sh
e hadn’t meant to say anything. The words had just slipped out, but suddenly the escort stepped closer again.
‘Are we going to have some kind of problem here?’ He was very tall.
‘No, no problem. It’s just – the way they’re answering the phones—’
‘I’m sure you’ll get used to it.’ She could see that he’d already written off this particular chore as done. ‘So, from now on, your computer logon will only work at this station.’
He walked off and Dulcie slumped into her new seat. Even that wasn’t as comfortable as her former chair, and she spent the next fifteen minutes trying to ratchet up the base so that she faced the terminal and wasn’t straining her neck.
‘Who sat here before me? An elf?’
‘Priority Insurance, can I help you?’
Not even ten a.m., and she was missing Joanie. The day had not gotten off to an auspicious start.
This wasn’t about space. She and Joanie had both commented on the empty cubicles around the other side of the building. This was personal. By noon, Dulcie realized that she was in temp Siberia. They might have said they didn’t suspect her, but putting her out here was hardly a sign of trust. Did they want her to quit? Maybe save themselves the legal complications of firing her? Or did they have another reason for isolating her in this noisy corner of the building?
By twelve thirty, when she usually took her lunch break, Dulcie had decided to investigate. With a smile to the message center ladies (‘Can I help you?’), Dulcie shrugged her bag on to her shoulder and slowly walked around their large, circular station. If anyone asked, she was simply looking for the ladies’ room. She had a right to pee before taking her lunch break, didn’t she? She wasn’t a prisoner. Yet.
It was only when she arrived at the open area in front of the elevator banks that she realized she didn’t have a plan. What was she looking for, anyway? Maybe Joanie would show up and they could confab. Two men in suits walked up and she smiled at them. One fixed her with a dead-eyed stare and looked away. The other didn’t even acknowledge her. One elevator opened, going down, and Dulcie watched them step in. The dead-eyed man turned to her. Smile still plastered to her face, she nodded, trying to convey the idea that she was waiting for the up elevator. Three more suits came up next, and this time Dulcie got some glances. She was a car wreck they were passing on the highway, a corporate casualty. She didn’t bother to smile back as she watched them get into the next elevator.
She couldn’t continue to stand there, waiting for a friend who never came. That was clear. But – wait – what was that? As Dulcie was trying to peer down the short hallway, back toward where she used to sit with Joanie, she was sure she saw something moving, something low to the ground. Could it be? A fluffy tail bent itself back around the cubicle, its grey fur standing out against the dirty carpet. Dulcie, there’s something you should see.
Not sure at first if she had actually heard the voice, so low and yet so reassuring, she stepped toward the tail. It disappeared around the corner and, with a discreet glance, she followed, hurrying to catch up. There! Up ahead was the plume-like tail, on top of those bouncing white jodhpurs. Now, Dulcie, this is for your eyes only . . . be careful. She had heard the voice! She had! But she’d also heard what it – he – had said, and so she ducked down slightly to keep her head below the level of the carpeted dividers as she turned the last corner, toward the warren of cubicles she’d occupied since the middle of June.
The big, maze-like space was quiet. Maybe Priority really was renovating the area? Taking courage from the silence, Dulcie looked around. Mr Grey was nowhere to be seen, but she knew where she was now and she walked up to what had been her area. She could hear typing, the quiet tap-tap-tap of fingers on a computer keyboard. The area hadn’t been completely vacated then. So why had they moved her? Water damage? Or – she thought of the phantom feline again – a rodent problem?
She shuddered and moved on until she heard a voice, vaguely familiar. Dulcie was about to call out when she realized she didn’t have any rationale for being here. Could she say she was looking for something? Her lost sweater, perhaps?
Armed with that idea, she walked forward. The voices were definitely coming from her former workspace. She held her breath, trying to eavesdrop. This must have been what Mr Grey wanted her to see, right? Did listening count? People tended to forget that the cubicles had no ceilings or doors – and that sound carried. But whoever was talking kept his – or her – voice low, and that made Dulcie’s curiosity stronger. Were some Priority minions searching for clues – or, worse, for some trace that would link Dulcie with the virus? She was only a temp!
With a gulp, Dulcie realized how perfect she could seem for this crime. She was an impoverished graduate student, someone with ‘higher goals’ than a mere corporate job. Someone who was new to Priority, who had arrived right before the problems started – and then disappeared for several days. She’d told them about Tim, about finding his body. But had anyone checked to confirm her reasons for absence? Maybe that would just make her more of a suspect. Maybe they’d wonder if she’d gotten him killed, through drugs or gambling or some other massive debt-related crime.
Dulcie’s head was beginning to hurt. The morning’s constant noise had taken its toll. The powers that were Priority couldn’t know that she was fundamentally honest, a scholar with a sense of honor. They couldn’t know that she was used to being poor, that all she really needed was library access and enough to pay the rent. No wonder they were investigating her. Didn’t she have a friend anywhere in this cold, corporate world? She closed her eyes and leaned on the grey carpet of a cubicle, shaking the thin wall.
Not ten feet down, a jet-black head of hair popped up and turned. Kohl-rimmed eyes blinked.
‘Joanie! I’m so glad to see you!’ Dulcie was almost shouting. But before her Goth friend could respond, another face appeared over the grey carpet. Tanned and sleek, Sally Putnam stared back, her basilisk glare fixing Dulcie to the spot.
‘Miss Schwartz, I trust you have a reason for entering a work area from which you’ve been expressly forbidden?’ Her dark eyes looked flat and hard. Dulcie felt they could see right through her.
‘I . . . I thought maybe my sweater had turned up.’ God, that sounded lame, but it was the best she could do under that gaze. The reptilian eyes blinked slowly, her excuse was processed and rejected.
‘Your sweater?’ The recollection of their last conversation must have surfaced, because those snake eyes narrowed. ‘You are not going to continue in that ridiculous accusation, I trust. But I must say, it is a convenient excuse for you, allowing you to cast aspersions and to snoop. I’m beginning to wonder if this sweater ever existed.’
The complete effrontery of the words sparked something in Dulcie. ‘Well, maybe you didn’t take it. But I liked that sweater.’ Her courage grew, and the words began to tumble out. ‘Joanie, you saw it, too. Right?’
Joanie stared back, mouth open. She was shaking her head slightly.
‘My mother knitted it for me, and it did go missing while I was away from my desk and I was hoping—’
‘You should be hoping you still have a job here, young lady.’ The HR boss was positively hissing now. ‘And you should be extremely grateful that we haven’t pressed charges. Not that that course of action isn’t still under discussion.’
Dulcie stepped back, her train of thought – and her courage – interrupted. Was this why they had brought her back to work? To keep an eye on her? And why wasn’t Joanie saying anything?
‘Now, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll go back to your workspace. Your proper workspace. We aren’t paying you to snoop, you know.’
Dulcie couldn’t think of another rebuttal. The reality of her position here – that they were keeping her, under glass, while they decided what to do – had driven all other thoughts from her mind. She stepped back. Sally Putnam kept staring. And so Dulcie turned and walked swiftly past the elevators, down the long hall, around the messa
ge center, and back to her new desk. The encounter had robbed her of any desire for lunch. But as she sat there, staring at the cursor blinking on her screen, waiting for her heart rate to still, another thought came to mind. Mr Grey had told her there was something she had to see. She’d seen her friend, Joanie. She’d asked Joanie for help; Joanie, who had nicknamed Sally Putnam ‘the Snake’ in the first place. And Joanie had said nothing.
‘I can’t believe I didn’t turn her in,’ Dulcie was muttering to herself back at her new desk. The message center was so loud, nobody would hear her anyway. ‘I could have told them that she had access to my machine.’
The forms were beginning to blur: George Esposito, claimant code 278; George Espossita, claimant code 366. She slammed one form on top of the other and reached for a third. The pile might not have grown during her brief absence, but at this point Dulcie wasn’t putting anything past Priority. ‘I could have told them that she was there sometimes when I wasn’t. And she’s had that job longer than I did.’
Dulcie stopped typing. Maybe that was it. Here she was, blaming Joanie for some kind of treachery, when maybe she was simply next on the list to be investigated. Why else would Sally Putnam have been down by her old workstation, anyway? The grey maze of cubicles was hardly upper management territory. Kicking herself for jumping to conclusions, she reached for another form. Quiroga, Michael, claimant code 887. Were these forms in any kind of order? Almost without thinking, she looked over at the code key: 887, accident in home. A wave of nausea hit her. Tim. Just when she felt she’d gotten over it – over that awful, awful day – it would come back. She remembered how tired she had felt that day, how hot and depressed. And how the sweat on her back had gone cold when she realized what she was seeing: the hand, the spreading puddle. The horror of it all. She opened her eyes and realized she had crumpled the form in her hand.
What had gotten her through that? Had it been the grey cat, appearing first on her doorstep and then, mysteriously, inside her kitchen? And now she was seeing him, hearing him even, in this corporate hell-hole. Had she in fact been seeing visions, seeing the ghost of her beloved pet? Or had the pressure finally pushed her around the bend? Dulcie found herself thinking about Lucy’s ‘visions’, her mother’s so-called psychic moments. For too long now Dulcie had dismissed them as New Age puffery, a lonely middle-aged woman’s solace. But was there something else at work here, and was it hereditary?
