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

by Cathryn Grant

  She laughed. A couple walked past her and the woman turned, giving her a slightly nervous glance.

  Laura let the smile remain on her face as she strode toward the doors, holding her purse close to her hip, feeling the weight of the gun inside. She could care less about working at QualData. She had one purpose now—revenge. It felt clean and pure. Never before in her career had she had such a single-minded focus.

  When she walked into the lounge, Hank did not look at all surprised to see her. His lack of surprise meant Brent had done a good job paving the way. Her former self would have wondered what Brent had said, worried he’d made her look weak or needy. She might have hesitated before joining them, over-analyzing the expression on Hank’s face, prepping for what she intended to say. Now she’d say whatever came to mind. What he thought of her didn’t matter at all.

  As she moved across the room, she felt people watching. It wasn’t her leggings with riding boots and her tight, low-cut sweater drawing their attention. All her clothes looked good on her. Always. Her hair was well cut, swinging around her neck as she walked, her expression pleasant. This was something coming from inside, as if an enormous gem glowed beneath her breastbone, emanating from her skin, drawing people to her, none of them entirely sure what the attraction was. It was the allure of freedom from the demands of social convention, of not giving a shit what anyone thought of you. That attitude of not caring alchemized into a seductive, irresistible power.

  “It’s good to see you, Hank.” She nodded at Brent. She gave Vanessa a warm smile, set her purse on the floor in front of the chair, and settled down. “I didn’t know you’d be here, Vanessa.”

  “I ran into Brent,” Vanessa said. “And he thought—”

  “No need to explain.” Laura smiled and turned as the cocktail waitress appeared, asking what she wanted to drink. Laura glanced at the glasses on the dark wood block that functioned as a table. A beer for Brent and two glasses of red wine in front of Hank and Vanessa. Looking up, she said, “I’ll have a martini. Sapphire gin. Dry, three olives.”

  The waitress left and Laura settled back in her chair.

  “Did you cut your hair?” Brent asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Change the color?”

  “No.” She smiled.

  They talked about the weather, which seemed to be a fascinating topic for Vanessa. When she spoke, she avoided looking at Hank. When she leaned forward to pick up her wineglass, she straightened and shifted away from him. There was a coolness between them.

  The conversation turned to QualData’s recent acquisition of a start-up, and Vanessa stopped talking. She sipped her wine, staring into her glass, occasionally glancing toward the door.

  The server returned and placed a martini on the table. Laura picked it up and took a sip. The icy gin and vermouth bit her lips and filled her mouth and throat with the warm burn of alcohol.

  “Maybe it’s not your hair,” Brent said, “but you look different.”

  “He’s right.” Vanessa tipped her head to the side, studying Laura’s face. “You seem different.”

  “Same old me.”

  Hank lifted his wineglass. “Cheers.”

  Laura raised her glass in their general direction then put it down without drinking. She pulled out the swizzle stick and sucked off an olive. She chewed it slowly and watched the others watch her.

  Deliberately, Brent turned toward Hank and asked how he liked working for QualData. From there, he peppered Hank with questions about the culture and how the company’s cloud computing strategy was shifting. Laura sipped her drink and made occasional staccato comments when there was a break in the flow of words, but mostly she waited. It was only a matter of time before they finished their drinks and would be faced with the decision of whether to extend the evening.

  The waitress made the decision for them. She returned before Brent had finished his beer. The wineglasses were empty. Hank ordered two more Cabernets. Brent took a few quick swallows of his beer and asked for another.

  Laura smiled. “Nothing for me. I just got started.”

  Hank turned to Vanessa. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  She gave him a tiny smile.

  “I think you have something that belongs to me,” he said.

  Vanessa stared at him. She continued holding his gaze until he turned away. Still not responding, she picked up her wineglass.

  “I’d like to have it—”

  Vanessa interrupted him. “I think you owe me,” she said.

  No one spoke.

  As the silence began to turn uncomfortable, the second round of drinks came.

  Brent took two quick hits from his beer and then gripped the bottle with both hands. “So when do you start poaching at Avalon to build out your new team?”

  Hank grimaced. “No plans yet. And I don’t think of it as poaching.”

  “None?” Laura took a sip of her drink. She really didn’t want to finish it. The alcohol had a clear and calming effect now, but a few more swallows and that feeling would turn quickly. She pulled out the stick and worked the second olive into her mouth.

  Hank waited while she chewed the olive, then said, “How is Margaret doing?”

  Hank was looking at Laura, but Brent spoke. “Great. Really great.”

  “Glad to hear it. She’s a good gal. Smart.”

  The gin burned inside Laura’s skull, whipping like a wildfire across her brain at Hank’s easy dismissal of Margaret. He probably thought he’d offered a compliment. While Brent and Hank talked about the changes—non-changes, really, just a variation in style, otherwise following the strategy Hank had laid out eighteen months earlier—Laura sucked the pimento out of the final olive. Vanessa was silent as well, avoiding meeting Laura’s gaze. She fiddled with the ends of her hair, then picked up her glass and looked at the wine without taking a sip.

  Laura nibbled the olive, holding it between her fingertips, taking tiny bites of the firm flesh. It was tart and salty and soaked with gin. She scooted forward to the edge of her chair. “I’d love to catch up more, but I need to get going.” She stood.

  “Already?” Hank said.

  She pulled a fifty out of her purse and dropped it onto the table.

  “It’s not that much,” Hank said. He pushed the bill in her direction.

  “You just got here,” Brent said. “I thought you wanted to enjoy a few drinks. Catch up.”

  “One martini is enough, don’t you think?” She lifted her glass and put the bill underneath the base.

  “That’s far too much cash,” Hank said.

  “No worries.” She put her purse carefully over her shoulder, gave them a half wave, and walked purposefully toward the door, suggesting she had somewhere important to go. And she did.

  First, she stopped in the restroom to give Vanessa time to get out of the parking lot, then she went out through the side door, just around the corner of the building from the back parking lot.

  The spot where Hank had parked was twenty or thirty yards from the eight-lane 101 Highway. BMWs and Mercedes, the Porches and the Lexuses of the privileged high-tech workers raced alongside Hondas and Camrys and Fords. Another feature of Highway 101 was the sixteen-wheelers traveling up and down the state of California, carrying food and new cars and every other imaginable item needed to sustain life in Silicon Valley. The highway created a mind-splitting din nearly twenty-four hours a day.

  She got into her car and settled down. She pulled out a pair of thin cotton gloves and put them on. She reached up and angled the rearview mirror so she’d be able to see anyone approach. She removed the gun from her purse, undid the safety lock, and placed it on her lap. There was one other car besides Hank’s on this side of the building—another Mercedes, older, beige. The owner of that car was the only risk. But what were the odds of two people walking out to this part of the lot at exactly the same time? Slim to none.

  Less than twenty minutes after she’d settled down she saw a man striding across
the parking lot. Hank’s pace and rigid posture were distinctive. She climbed out of the car, closing the door gently behind her. A truck lumbered by on the freeway, as if to reassure her she wouldn’t be heard. No one from the rooms high above would be able to recognize her or even see her car, parked too close to the building to be seen from that angle. She held the gun in her right hand, letting her arms hang naturally so he wouldn’t notice it before she was ready. “Hank.”

  He stopped. Too far away. She’d never fired a gun. To ensure she didn’t miss, she needed him close. Just like that truism her former manager used far too often—keep your friends close and your enemies closer. She smiled and took a few steps toward him, hoping her casual stance would draw him nearer.

  “I thought you’d left,” he said.

  “I deserved the Ops Director job.”

  “Are you going to rehash all that again?”

  “No, I’ve moved on.”

  “Good.” He walked toward his car.

  She took a few steps forward. “There was one thing I wanted to tell you.”

  He stopped and pulled his car fob out of his pocket. “What’s that?”

  It was impossible to see his eyes, but she could feel his attention. Was that how it was for Vanessa? He was good-looking, but not gorgeous, so it wasn’t an attraction to physical perfection. It was that power thing. What she’d felt in herself. It made her want him. And Vanessa had been right about that, although it infuriated her that Vanessa had recognized it. She wanted to be around him, wanted him to notice her, and she was aware of her body responding to his presence. She edged closer until she felt his breath on her, warming her skin, the musky scent of wine.

  He took a few steps back. She moved closer and put her hand on his belt buckle.

  He tried to wrench away, but she had a firm grip.

  He grabbed her wrist, squeezing her forearm until it ached, trying to pry loose her fingers at the same time. “What are you doing?”

  She laughed.

  “By the way, I found out why your former team all left the company at once,” he said.

  “You don’t know a fucking thing.”

  “It was exactly this kind of behavior. Bringing sex into the workplace.”

  “Like your former admin? Is that why you resigned? Men want sex, and then they run from an aggressive female.”

  “You need help. Your healthcare plan covers mental health—”

  “All I did was tease them a little, act like one of the boys.”

  “Talking about your sex life, grabbing at them.”

  “It’s an exaggeration. If it was that bad, they would have reported me. It was blown way out of proportion. Just an excuse. They left because they heard layoffs were coming.”

  He was still trying to pry her fingers off his belt, but he wasn’t trying very hard. They remained locked together in an awkward stance. “Either way, your career’s over,” he said.

  “Wrong. Remember that man who was stalking me? I killed him. I told you I had experience removing threats.” She laughed. “I’m not some weak, gossiping, emotional female.” She lifted her right hand and pressed the gun into his stomach. “Your career is over, mine’s just getting started.” She pulled the trigger. The explosion was louder than she’d imagined, and louder than the traffic on the freeway.

  He doubled over. She released her hold on his belt and let him fall.

  He collapsed onto his knees and groaned. “This was a big mistake.” His voice was faint, almost female sounding.

  She moved the gun to his neck and pressed on the trigger two more times. He collapsed onto his side. His head thudded against the pavement. The rumble of trucks covered the sound of the impact, but the weight of his fall pulled at her body, filling her stomach with waves of nausea.

  Before the queasiness could overtake her completely, she shoved her hand into his pocket and pulled out the money clip full of cash. She removed his phone from his other pocket and powered it down.

  All that was left was to get into her car, and drop the gun, phone, and money clip into a waiting garbage bag. Her gloves would go into a second bag, both trash bags to be discarded miles away during a long drive to Marin County, maybe Santa Rosa, letting the darkness and lights of passing cars clear her head.

  She’d always known she was smarter than most of them, but it turned out that getting to the top had nothing to do with brains. It was all about getting close to the right people, playing your cards with skill, and more importantly, cunning. Success required a willingness to take risks.

  It was time to start over at a new company. Now that she knew that success demanded ruthlessness, she’d climb up much faster. And her fortieth birthday was still three months away.

  She heard heels clicking on the pavement.

  She opened her car door.

  “Laura.”

  A figure stood just outside the range of the security lights on the strip of sidewalk that ran along the back of the hotel near the service entrance. Laura didn’t need to see clearly who it was. She’d know that voice in her sleep. She’d spent years listening to Vanessa speaking out of turn, thwarting Laura’s plans every time she saw an opportunity.

  What the hell was Vanessa doing here? That slithering administrative assistant had tricked her again! She must have followed Hank out, probably wanting a little quickie in the parking lot, then seeing her chance to destroy Laura’s carefully planned retribution.

  Against every instinct she possessed, Laura turned. Leaving the car door open, she started walking toward the towering building thirty yards away from her.

  “You killed him!” Vanessa’s voice was sharp, high-pitched, but there was no suggestion of hysteria. Then, her voice rose to a scream, still tightly controlled. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Laura began walking faster, breaking into a jog.

  Laura raised the gun and fired. The bullet ricocheted off the large metal door of the service entry. She felt a sob rise inside her chest. She should have waited. Vanessa was too far away, it was too dark. Why had she rushed it? Refusing to wait had caused far too many failures in her life, and yet, she couldn’t wait. She’d waited long enough. She’d waited her entire adult life for the things she wanted and still, they eluded her.

  Vanessa turned and began running toward the well-lit parking lot at the side of the hotel, moving surprisingly fast in her high heels.

  The roar of traffic on the freeway had helped disguise the sound of the gunshot, but if she fired too many times, the chance of someone pulling back a curtain in one of the rooms facing the freeway grew more likely. Laura started running. “Stop!”

  Vanessa bent over and tugged off her high heels. She straightened and began running again, much faster now. It was impossible to believe it wasn’t painful in stocking feet on the rough surface of the parking lot, but the pain didn’t slow her movement. She was fast, her hair flying out behind her.

  Picking up her pace, Laura concentrated on her feet, trying to maintain her speed while ensuring her feet landed solidly despite boots designed more for style than utility.

  What had she been thinking? She’d carefully planned every step of how she would confront Hank and how she would position herself to ensure she inflicted a deadly wound, what she would do to be rid of the gun. She’d chosen the back parking lot because it was isolated and sounds were swallowed by the roar of traffic. She’d never considered someone might follow her into the rarely used parking strip, so far from the hotel entrance. Contingency planning was essential to every project. She knew that, and yet, she’d stupidly assumed it would all go the way she wanted.

  Vanessa was pulling away from her. She needed to stop rehearsing her mistakes and focus on running. There was no way that girl could outrun her, not barefoot, not when Laura had been running miles a day for years, for over a decade.

  The end of the building was just ahead. When Vanessa rounded the corner, headed toward the side parking lot, the two of them would be exposed to people leaving the restaur
ant and bar, exposed to Uber drivers dropping off late arrivals from the airport.

  She pushed harder, ignoring the slight skid of her feet as her boots made contact with the ground, trying to minimize the slap of her purse against her hip. She took deep breaths, thrilled to be running again, but fearful that Vanessa was going to outrun her. How was that possible? In bare feet? A woman who had never run a day in her life.

  A slight pain developed just below her left rib. She was almost out of time. She raised the gun and slowed. She aimed it at Vanessa’s back and pulled the trigger. The sound was explosive, but the bullet disappeared into the night, missing Vanessa completely.

  Vanessa was moving even faster now. The sound of the gun seemed to propel her forward.

  This couldn’t be happening. Laura’s body screamed for her to stop. Vanessa had disappeared around the corner of the hotel, still running, strong, nimble, full of life, and able to do whatever she desired.

  With enormous, gulping breaths, Laura willed her legs to push harder. Her body seemed to be failing on the spot, realizing its limitations, and refusing to make the effort to keep up with a woman ten years younger.

  If Vanessa made it to the front parking lot, the area leading to the lobby, the open area with benches and shrubs, visible from the bar and restaurant through large, sparkling windows, it would be over.

  Laura found an extra reservoir of power and bolted around the corner. She stopped. Vanessa was gone. Somehow, she’d slipped away.

  Standing a few yards in front of her, staring with expressions of absolute terror, were two women. As Laura watched, their fear turned to pity. She imagined what they saw—a woman with disheveled hair, a faint aroma of sweat to match the sheen of moisture and oil across her cheeks and forehead. She knew her eyes were wild with rage, her lips distorted with unspoken words, Vanessa’s name still on her tongue.

  She took a step back. The women’s attention turned to the gun in her hand, and their pity was transformed back to fear. One had already tucked her phone under her long, silky hair, pressed to her ear, clearly waiting for the call to connect to emergency assistance.