The Assistant: A gripping psychological thriller with a nerve-shredding ending

by Cathryn Grant

  “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, next time, think about what you’re doing. It doesn’t indicate leadership potential when you attack lower-level employees, trying to ruin reputations.”

  “It wasn’t directed at her.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She stepped into the hallway. He pulled the door closed and locked it.

  “I have a meeting with Janelle,” he said. “Have a good evening.” He walked down the short hallway and turned the corner. She heard the thud of his feet, moving rapidly away from her.

  The seating area in the alcove was dark. Vanessa’s cube was also dark. Laura tugged her jacket around her waist and shoved her phone into her pocket. He’d won this round, but she could still turn things back in her direction. She was in control here, not Hank.

  25

  Vanessa

  SUDDENLY, HANK WAS gone. Not before Vanessa had the last word, though.

  It had been the day of his farewell lunch. She’d arranged the lunch, of course. She’d sent out the invite email, confirmed who was attending, chosen the restaurant, reserved the private room, and entered the time and logistics into Hank’s calendar. As always, she’d made the details of his life run like the mysterious inner workings of a computer. He had no idea what it was going to be like without her by his side.

  Most of his office was already packed.

  He stepped out into the hallway, ready to lock the door behind him.

  “Hold on,” she said. “I just got a message from the movers. They want a re-count on your boxes.”

  “It can wait.”

  “It sounds like it can’t.” She laughed. “They have their process.”

  He opened the door and stepped back inside. “This is ridiculous.”

  She walked toward him. “You go ahead. I can be a few minutes late, it will only take me a second to count and get the info back to them.”

  “Sure. Thanks. Just lock it when you’re done.”

  “Of course.” She’d done it many times, and he always reminded her, as if it was the one thing she might forget to do for him.

  He started down the hall. “See you there.”

  “Yes.”

  She stepped into his office. She walked to the window and tilted the blinds, making the room darker. She walked around the L of his desk to the spot where his desk phone sat. Beside it was the leather notebook and his dark red Montblanc pen.

  She picked up his pen and slid it into her pocket. She opened the nearest packing box and put the leather notebook inside. She sent a text message to the movers and told them everything was ready—Hank Conti is out for a few hours. Now would be the best time to pick up his boxes, so he’s not disturbed.

  The Avalon mover who would be shipping the boxes to Hank’s new office replied with a thumbs up.

  She tapped out another messages—You have a master key, right?

  A second thumb appeared on her screen.

  She looked around his office, making sure there was nothing left.

  After that, she’d gone out and locked the door behind her. She’d moved the pen to a zippered pocket deep inside her purse. As she descended the main staircase to the lobby, she imagined she felt the weight of the pen on her body.

  IT WAS HARD to believe that Hank had been gone from Avalon for over two weeks and Vanessa hadn’t heard a word from him. He’d been replaced by Margaret Meadows, a woman who had been a senior product line director on the engineering team. Margaret was crisp and efficient. She was overjoyed to have an experienced admin, and couldn’t see any reason to make changes, but her mere mention of changes created a pinch of loss at the base of Vanessa’s throat.

  Within a few days of Margaret’s arrival in Hank’s office, it felt as if he’d never been there. The days were now bland routine—scheduling meetings, filing expense reports, answering Margaret’s phone when she wasn’t in her office, which was all the time as she got up to speed on the status of the products under her domain.

  By now, Hank would be equally settled in his new position. Even if he wasn’t, he could have at least sent a text letting her know how things were going. She’d texted him twice and he hadn’t replied. Her first message read—Hey, how are things?

  After thinking it over for a few days, she’d decided the message created the expectation of a lengthy response, so her second message, four days later, read—RU free for a quick lunch this week?

  Nothing. Not even a—Will get back 2 u.

  Several times she could have sworn the phone, tucked into the front pocket of her jeans, had vibrated against her hipbone. She’d pulled it out and stared in disbelief at the lifeless screen. The urge to send a third text was overwhelming, but she resisted by surfing the web, without success, for a floor plan of Bloomingdale’s.

  It was 11:40. She glanced at the desk phone. The light for Margaret’s line was dark. She stood and shook her hair back from her face so it fell loosely across her shoulders, a habit that was difficult to break. As if he were still there, waiting for her behind the closed door, she wore skinny jeans and high heels with a white silk top.

  She was pretty sure Margaret didn’t like the skinny-jeans-high-heels look, but she’d never said anything. Margaret shot occasional glances in Vanessa’s direction, sharp and knowing, then turned her gaze toward the window, as if redirecting her attention kept her tongue securely lashed to her teeth.

  Vanessa stepped across the hall, gave a warning tap on Margaret’s door, and opened it.

  Margaret looked up from the computer screen. She tucked her too-short hair behind her ears. “Hi, Vanessa. What can I do for you?”

  Every time Vanessa entered the office, Margaret asked the same question. Vanessa was the one doing things for Margaret, not the other way around. The funny thing was, Vanessa couldn’t remember what Hank used to say when she entered his office without an appointment.

  She remained near the door. “I’m going to take an early lunch, is that okay?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I might be gone longer than usual.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Maybe two hours, a little more.”

  Margaret nodded. “Thank you for letting me know.”

  “Sure.” Vanessa should also be the one saying thank you for the extra time allowed. Now she was left not knowing what else to say. “Okay, I’ll see you around one-thirty.”

  Margaret nodded and turned back to her computer.

  Vanessa closed the door. She grabbed her coat and purse. She hurried down the hall and along the landing to the stairs. She descended slowly. The lobby was empty except for a man in a dark brown suit with a white shirt and tie; obviously waiting for an interview.

  He wasn’t there to see Margaret, her calendar was clear until two-thirty that afternoon. Margaret hadn’t said anything about the open position Laura was trying to claw her way into.

  Since Hank left the company, Laura hadn’t stopped by Vanessa’s desk even once. So much for women sticking together and their supposed friendship.

  VANESSA PARKED IN the front lot closest to Bloomingdale’s. She wandered down the main concourse of the open air mall, past a rectangular fountain and concrete planters filled with cyclamen. It was one of those pre-spring days that promised winter had been banished, although it wasn’t really. The balmy air and sunshine would be followed by rain before the week was over.

  Part of her thought she should enjoy the outdoor mall—have a glass of sparkling water and a croissant sandwich and watch the shoppers. It wasn’t a warning signal, telling her she still had time to change her plans. It was the simple fear of the unknown. The fear was a good thing. The greater the fear, the more exciting the results.

  This was why, over the years, the adrenaline rush had started to fade so quickly after each theft. She was so confident, her plan meticulously worked out in advance, there was no opportunity for surprise and the heightened anxiety that came with it. When she’d been confronted by the clerk, asking why she didn’t want to take advantage of a
sale, after the half second of terror that she’d been found out, her escape became that much more pleasurable. No guts no glory, as they said.

  She entered Bloomingdale’s through the doors near the cosmetics section, walking past the displays, glancing at the rich, pricey offerings, keeping her pace determined to prevent one of the cosmetologists from stepping into her path to offer a make-over tied to a three-hundred dollar purchase. But the white-coated women, their complexions uniform and slightly waxy with thick layers of foundation and blush, smoky black eyes, and equally dark red lips, weren’t as aggressive as they were at other stores. They exuded a confidence of knowing they looked like perfect specimens, slim as fashion models, trained in makeup application, their wares so desirable they didn’t have to pursue anyone. The customers would come to them, eager for transformation.

  The shoppers, regardless of whether it was a discount or high-end store, believed that creams and colors on their faces would change their appearance. Vanessa knew it was critical to start with the right canvas. If you weren’t already attractive, the most expertly applied cosmetics wouldn’t make it so. She was lucky that way. She was lucky in a lot of ways, and she forgot that far too often—a man who loved her, a good job, the ability and resources to do much more with her life, if she could ever get herself to pay attention to something besides looking good and chasing thrills.

  She turned abruptly down the aisle leading out of the cosmetics section. Right now, those thoughts were not helpful. She needed to focus on the sounds and sights around her, notice the tactile impressions of this moment in time, not drift off into a survey of her entire life. A wandering mind would get her into trouble.

  She’d decided the easiest target would be a tank top—delicate fabric with minimal bulk, and less likely to have the scrutiny given to sparse racks of designer clothes. Of course, at Bloomingdale’s, even a simple tank top was forty dollars, unless she found something on a sale rack.

  She passed the shoe department, mobbed, even at noon on a weekday. There wasn’t much on sale, but there were a lot of women with spring fever, eager to show off fresh pedicures, tired of boots and socks and rain and the cold.

  Vanessa picked up a gladiator sandal in camel-colored leather. It was soft and the sole was thick, promising hours of comfortable walking. Stealing a pair of sandals would really be something, but she had no idea how to go about it. The desire was worth thinking over, making a plan for another day. She returned the sandal to the table beside her.

  Across the aisle from the shoes was an entire display case filled with sunglasses. Behind that began the jewelry department. The counters at the outer edge contained racks of moderately priced bracelets and necklaces, earrings and rings, and beyond that, fine jewelry.

  She turned a carousel of silver earrings, hoops in every imaginable shape and thickness. As she considered whether a pair of earrings might be a good decoy purchase, she saw a woman at the next counter fingering silver chains. The woman wore a skirt that was a bit too short for someone her age—forty-five, possibly a bit over fifty. She looked good, though—long light brown hair with highlights and a nicely made-up face, but the skirt was too short, even for her slim legs. Her heels were a little too high, and the whole effect was one of a woman who probably looked younger than her age if she hadn’t chosen the clothing of a twenty-year-old. As a result, her appearance was slightly off, a little sad.

  Vanessa turned away. It wasn’t fair that some indefinable change in style was forced upon you as you got older. It wasn’t as clear-cut with men. The universe seemed to cheat women out of the very thing that it first handed out so generously, and then yanked back more severely than necessary. She hoped she’d be able to figure out when it was time to say goodbye to hair that fell to the center of her back, when it was time to give up tight jeans, but the line was blurry. This woman was proof. Everything about her looked good, but not. How did you know? Was it impossible to see in yourself?

  Vanessa moved to the next display of silver earrings, thicker and more artfully shaped than simple hoops. The woman was still fingering the chains. She lifted one off the rack and held it up to her neck. She placed it on the counter and removed another one. The stand to her left had a locked bar at the top requiring a clerk’s assistance, but this one offered chains free for the taking.

  Vanessa smiled. There was something about the woman’s lack of decision, her general behavior—there were now three necklaces lying on the counter—that hinted she was up to the same thing as Vanessa. It would be interesting to watch. She might learn something new. It wasn’t safe to think she was perfect, that there was no room for improvement.

  The first lesson was the woman’s slightly too flamboyant appearance, even for Bloomingdale’s. It was those high heels. They went beyond typical dressing up for shopping at a nice mall; they bordered on nightclub shoes. Still. Bloomingdale’s was new territory and watching the woman’s subtle mistakes and style would be something to do while she got her own nerves under control.

  The woman fiddled with the necklaces for another five minutes. There were so many on the counter now, Vanessa felt her pulse throbbing harder, worrying the woman was attracting unnecessary attention. It was beginning to seem as if she thought every single necklace on the rack was exactly what she’d been looking for. Finally, she began replacing the necklaces she’d taken down.

  A clerk rounded the corner behind the counter. “May I help you?”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m super indecisive today. Give me a few more minutes.” She smiled. “Which one do you think is more my style?”

  The clerk pointed to a thick, flat snake-like necklace that hugged the throat.

  The woman nodded. “I do like that one. Give me a few more minutes. Maybe I’ll have to get two.”

  The clerk moved down to the end of the counter. Another shopper came up and asked to see a tray of rings from the glass case. The clerk turned away.

  The woman held the snake-chain up to her neck, swooped a long delicate necklace with turquoise beads into her waiting purse. Half a second later, she hung the snake-chain back on the rack, and turned, leaving the other items spilled on the counter. She wandered over to the gold jewelry and fingered a few chains as she walked along the length of the counter. She didn’t look at Vanessa, didn’t look back at the clerk, who was busy with a second tray of rings.

  The woman stepped away from the counter and started toward the purses. She took a few steps and turned in the opposite direction as if to look for an exit. Another woman wearing a white cardigan and dark slacks was suddenly standing next to the shoplifter, her hand gripping the woman’s upper arm.

  So, the security guards here were very subtle. Not men, out of place in a store filled with women. The security guard guided the woman away from the purses, talking softly. The guard smiled. She gave the impression of a friend, but her grip on the woman’s arm was firm. The look of panic on the woman’s face said it all.

  Vanessa’s skin felt cold and brittle, as if they’d cranked up the air conditioning, as if all her exposed skin was about to split into deep crevices. Except for the slightly out-of-place look of the high heels, the somewhat too-short skirt, there wasn’t a single thing the woman had done to draw extra attention to herself. Yes, there were a lot of necklaces on the counter, but they weren’t in a tangled heap. The woman had placed them gently and lovingly along the glass. She’d been friendly and relaxed with the clerk. She hadn’t been greedy and she hadn’t acted anxious in any way.

  Vanessa walked away from the jewelry counter. It wasn’t clear if there was a lot more security here, or they were more astute, or there was something else she wasn’t aware of. A thought nibbled at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t seem to bring it forward. She walked quickly along the curved aisles to the front of the store and exited near the formal wear. She walked to a planter ringed by a concrete bench and sat down.

  Her heart raced as if she’d been apprehended herself. She folded her arms around her mi
ddle and set her purse on her knees. She bent forward and let her hair fall over her face so no one could see her eyes. She sat up and dug in her purse for her sunglasses, put them on, and leaned back.

  The thought wiggling like an earthworm trying to burrow its way up from the mud was now within her grasp—on one level, she’d always known she got away with things because she was young and attractive. The woman who was led away by the security guard had the look of a faded blossom. The older you got, the less the world enjoyed you, the less they offered a free pass.

  Vanessa hadn’t been the only one to notice the woman was trying too hard, in a store filled with women trying too hard to remain young, to hang on with tight fingers to youth and desirability. It was possible Vanessa wasn’t as skilled and smart as she thought she was. Maybe she was just young and full of life and could skate past security guards. Her age gave her confidence and her age made her look like a woman who did a lot of shopping.

  Someday, and she had no idea when, she would be that other woman. Someday, it would be too late.

  26

  Laura

  IF HANK THOUGHT he could brush Laura aside, leaving the company without bothering to finish their conversation, he was in for a surprise.

  Although in some ways, his leaving might have opened another door for her. There was no reason Hank couldn’t give her the inside track for a director position at QualData. Leaving Vanessa behind like the lackey she was might suggest that Hank had a whole new attitude. She shouldn’t go in assuming that, but it was certainly a possibility. The point was, she would not allow him to just walk away from her, from what he owed her.

  She settled back on the couch and lifted the wineglass to her lips. She took a sip of smooth, dark Barbera. All the lights were turned off, except the one illuminating the fish tank. The water glowed with a green tint caused by the lush seaweed filling the space, giving the fish plenty of room to hide when they needed to feel safe.