Takeover

by Diana Dwayne

  “I saw you,” she says. “I saw you go into that room and you killed him.”

  “Shouldn’t you be in an institution somewhere?”

  “I saw you,” she repeats.

  “Fine,” I say, “I’ll play along.” I do a quick survey of the area. Everyone is looking; it’s pretty likely they’ve all been waiting for this moment since I came back to work. “You say that you saw me stab him, right?”

  “I did,” she says, and I can’t believe I didn’t notice that screw-loose look in her eyes before now. “I saw you do it.”

  “Was the door open or shut?”

  “It was shut,” she says. “You didn’t want anyone to see, but I saw you.”

  “And where were you when this happened?”

  “I was at my desk,” she says, not seeing the logical fallacy in her statement.

  “Uh-huh.” I say the next part loudly enough for everyone to hear, “So, what you’re telling me is that you saw me kill Mr. McDaniel in his office while the door was closed, and that you were sitting at your desk at the time?”

  “That’s right!” she says, matching my volume.

  “Melissa,” I sigh, “you’re an idiot. If the door to the office was closed and you were sitting at your desk, you couldn’t possibly have seen anything. Isn’t it possible that you just forgot your medication that day?”

  “Ha!” she shouts and points in my face. “The joke’s on you! I haven’t taken any medication in weeks!”

  She may not get it, but I think it’s clear enough to everyone else. To confirm this, I look around and ask loudly, “So, are we good?”

  Everyone but Melissa is either chuckling with their palms on their foreheads or nodding to indicate that yes, we are good. I can’t believe this crazy person almost had me put away for life in prison.

  “You need help, Melissa,” I say.

  “I saw you kill Mr. Waite, and there’s nothing you can say to prove otherwise.”

  How exactly did someone like this make it to the fourteenth floor? Don’t get me wrong, I’m just a secretary, but if I was half as gone as this woman, I would have been fired on my first day. “Mr. Waite?” I ask, smiling.

  “Yes,” she says. “You killed Mr. Waite. I saw the whole thing.”

  I pull out my cell phone.

  “Who are you calling?” she asks nervously. Munchausen’s my ass, the woman’s got some more serious issues going on than wanting attention. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t look down upon the mentally ill, but when someone tries to put me in prison for murder because of a delusion or a hallucination, I tend to get a little cranky.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” I say as the man on the other end of the phone answers, “but there seems to be a dispute out here, and I think you might be able to clear it up if you have a moment. I’ve tried to diffuse it myself, but it doesn’t seem to be doing any good.”

  The man assents and I hang up.

  “Who was it?” she asks. “You called the police, didn’t you? They’re coming for you, aren’t they?”

  “Not quite,” I answer, just as Mr. Waite’s door is opening. I look back toward the office and then at Melissa. “So, what you’re saying is that I killed Mr. Waite.”

  “That’s right,” she says. “You did.”

  “Then why did you call to warn me that the police were on their way, Melissa?”

  “I didn’t do that,” she says.

  “That’s when you talked to the detective,” I answer, wondering when she’s going to spot the man that she’s confusing with the man she accused me of killing.

  “Is there a problem?” Mr. Waite asks, coming up to my side.

  The presence of the man that Melissa now thinks I’ve murdered does its job in shutting her up.

  Mr. Waite looks at me, then back at Melissa, “What’s the problem?”

  “Melissa here,” I start, “is saying that she saw me kill you in your office while the door was closed and she was sitting at her desk. I thought it might save us all some time to diffuse the situation before she called the cops again.”

  “You killed him,” she whispers, looking at the ground.

  “Who?”

  “No,” she answers with a non-sequitur, shaking her head back and forth, tears coming to her eyes.

  “I didn’t kill anyone, Melissa,” I say.

  “Earlier this week,” she says. “You left the office, and I could hear him coughing and throwing up. I knew what you did.”

  “Well, here he is,” I say. “I’m not a doctor, but he seems pretty alive to me.”

  “Rose,” Mr. Waite says in a calm voice. “Why don’t you head on home? I’ll take care of things here, okay?”

  “Okay,” I respond, glaring at Melissa. I don’t know what her real problem is, but I shouldn’t have to be the one to pay for it. She did this to herself and to me, and I hope she does get fired. Does that make me a horrible person? You know, right now, I don’t really care if it does.

  “Don’t leave me,” Melissa begs, her voice quivering in fear and in that moment, a bit of my humanity returns. I know that I have every reason to be mad at her, but it’s not her fault. She doesn’t know the difference between reality and fantasy, and there’s no reason to punish her for that fact. God, this is humiliating. I can’t even be angry at someone who’s done so much to hurt me.

  “It’s fine,” I say, wondering if I’ve really changed my mind so quickly. “She’s sick, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  “Melissa,” Mr. Waite says, “why don’t you head on home. If you want, you can wait with me until Rose gets on the elevator.”

  “No!” she shouts and pulls away from Mr. Waite. “I’m going with her,” she says. “I’m not afraid of her anymore.”

  I should have just walked right past her. Granted, it’s nice that everyone knows that the one person who accused me of murder isn’t connected to reality, but I know myself too well. We’ll get on the elevator and I’ll end up apologizing to her. For what, I don’t even know yet. Afterward, I’ll spend the next however long trying to convince her to seek treatment.

  I don’t wait for the conversation to progress or any final decisions to be made, I simply turn and resume my journey toward the elevator, hoping that Melissa will stay where she is, but I know she’s not going to. Sure enough, I press the button and I can already feel her mouth breathing at my side.

  This is going to be a long night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Visitors

  It’s almost nine o’clock when I finally say goodbye to Melissa. I don’t know if I’ve convinced her to go back on medication, seek help or anything, but I’ve given it my best effort. The funny thing is, I can’t help feeling that some of her lunacy has jumped into me.

  I’m walking to my car now, and James isn’t picking up his phone. I think he and I are going to have to have that talk about finances. I’ve been avoiding it, but I’m in the mood to dole out advice and criticism; the now inevitable conversation with James is going to fall under both categories.

  It must be something about working with Sam that’s got me feeling like I can handle any problem the world decides to throw at me.

  I get into my car and start driving. I can hear my phone buzzing with a text message, but it’ll have to wait until I get to a stoplight; right now, I’m just trying to keep my cool in preparation for reading James the riot act.

  Maybe I don’t have to though. I mean, things have been going so well between us since I moved in. I’m sure that becoming sexually active has helped with that, but he’s been even more attentive than usual. Do I really want to risk screwing that up? Can I afford not to take that risk?

  God, when did things get so complicated?

  I get home and park the car in the driveway behind James’s vehicle. I tend to plan ahead, and if we’re going to have this kind of conversation tonight, I really don’t want him to make a run for it before I’m satisfied.

  I unlock the door and walk inside. James is
sitting on the couch, watching some sitcom from the 70s, and I almost lose my nerve. He’s such a sweet man; I’m sure Jillian just made a mistake when she was looking at his finances. He would never keep such an enormous secret from me.

  He turns his head and says, “Hey, sweetheart. Long day at the office today?”

  “Actually,” I start, “I was talking a coworker through a crisis.”

  He stands up and walks over to me. His arms are so warm and comforting, that I’m almost ready to write off the entire subject indefinitely. I can’t do that though, I’ve put this off long enough as it is, and if I’m ever going to know the truth, I’m going to have to do it now.

  “Jillian said that you’re broke,” I start. It’s not the smoothest opening, and it’s certainly not the one I had planned, but it’s out there now.

  “What?” James asks, pulling back enough to look at me.

  “Before I went in for arraignment, she was talking about whether I was a flight risk or not and she said that you didn’t have any money.” Oh god, I’m coming across as a gold digger. “It’s not that I care whether you have money or not, I just want to know what’s going on.”

  “Rose,” James chuckles, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You know what I inherited when my parents died.”

  “I know, James,” I say. “And I really want to believe you, but Jillian said that—” I really should have planned better for this. My brain is already about fried from having to navigate Melissa’s labyrinthine psyche. I just wish I had realized that fact before I opened my mouth. “I don’t know,” I say, finally. “If you say that you’re telling the truth, I’ll believe you. It’s just something that I thought we should talk about.”

  James puts his hands on my shoulders and stares into me with those rich, piercing eyes of his. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything,” he starts. “I know I should have told you that the money was gone, but I guess that I didn’t think you’d stick around if you knew—”

  Okay, now I’m pissed. “If I knew what? James, I don’t give a shit about the fucking money!” Whoa Rose, pull it back a bit. “I’m sorry,” I start, but stop. I’m not sorry about a thing. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

  “Like I was trying to say,” he says, taking his hands off of my shoulders and turning to walk away, “it happened a while ago. At first I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t know if you’d stay with someone who lost their life’s savings in the stock market or not and then—” he runs his fingers through his hair, his hands meeting at the back of his head.

  “And then?”

  “Too much time had passed. I should have told you right away, but I didn’t. Now we’re here, and I’m sorry. How was I supposed to tell the woman I love that I’m just a broke ass loser?”

  “Do you really think that I would have left if I found out you had lost your money?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “James, I’m not going to leave you because your money is gone,” I say, trying to keep a cool enough head to make the next part hurt. “Finding out that you’ve been lying to me though, that’s something that would make me leave you.”

  “I am so sorry,” he says. “I don’t even know how it happened so fast. I had all of my money in Roth IRAs, but my broker told me about this company that was about to have its IPO, and I—”

  “I don’t really care about the specifics right now, James,” I yell. This isn’t our first argument, but it’s definitely the first time that I’ve raised my voice at my soon-to-maybe-be husband. “The fact is you lied to me. You lied to me for a long time. How did you even afford to live?” I ask.

  “I didn’t lose all of the money,” he says. “I still have a little left over. I mean, the house was already paid off by my parents; I just figured that if I played it smart with what money I do have, I could get a job and it would never have to be an issue.”

  Men are idiots. “The issue,” I say for what already feels like the hundredth time, “is that you lied to me. Do you know what lying does to a relationship, James?”

  He starts to answer, but I quickly interrupt him.

  “It kills trust, James. It kills trust and that’s not a good thing. I don’t know what I can and can’t believe anymore. If you’re actually capable of lying to me for this long about something this important to you, how can I believe anything you say?”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” he fires back, and I can’t help but chuckle.

  “Yeah, James, the way to win an argument with a woman is to tell her that she’s being dramatic. That’ll work out.” I sigh, “It’s not like I asked you if my butt looked big in a pair of jeans or whether my hair looked good this morning. This was a big lie, James, and I don’t know how you can just shrug it off like that.”

  “Why is it such a big deal to you?” he asks, rather stupidly, I might add. “I thought you said that you loved me regardless how much money I had in the bank.”

  “You’re missing the point, James. I don’t care how much money you have or what kind of things you can buy for me or any of that crap. What I do care about is your honesty. If you can’t be honest with me about something this basic, how can I trust you to be honest about anything else?”

  He takes a moment to think, something I have a little trouble doing in the middle of an argument. “You’re right,” he says. “I should have told you when it happened. Yes, I was afraid that you’d leave, but if a person’s going to leave just because of something like that, that’s not someone I’d like to spend my life with.” He walks to me and sets his hands back on my shoulders. “I do want to spend my life with you, Rose.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m glad to hear that you’re coming to your senses.”

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” he asks and kisses me deeply.

  I’m tempted to push him away, but it sounds like he actually got the point. When we finally pull away, I say, “That doesn’t mean I’m not still mad at you.”

  “I know,” he chuckles. “I know. How about this, I know that nothing is going to change what happened, but how about whenever something happens, I just let you know right from the start?”

  “That sounds a lot better than what you have been doing,” I say, still not ready to crack a smile.

  “Fair enough,” he says. “What would you like for dinner? I’ll cook whatever you want.”

  I love the man, I do, but that doesn’t mean that I’m happy right now, and it certainly doesn’t mean that I’m in the mood to choke down one of his attempts at cooking. “I’m just in the mood for leftovers,” I say diplomatically as I set my purse on the table and pull out my phone.

  One new message; I had forgotten about that. It’s from a number I don’t recognize, so I open it up.

  “Back off.”

  It’s a simple enough message, but what it means... It has to be Melissa. I should have known better than to try and cure someone with a mental disorder. I’m not God or Carl Jung.

  I toss the phone onto the couch and don’t pay the message any mind. Right now, I have more pressing concerns. I can hear the rattle of pots and pans in the kitchen. James is going to try to cook for me, and it must be stopped.

  * * *

  My original plan was to make James sleep on the couch to make sure he knew that I’m still serious about what he did, but that plan didn’t even get off the ground. It’s almost three o’clock in the morning, and I can’t sleep. It’s not insomnia though; I’m simply too busy enjoying the feeling of being wrapped up so tight in his arms that I don’t want to sleep.

  The wind is blowing a gale, and it almost sounds like the sycamore in the front yard is going to come crashing into the house at any moment, but here, cuddled up next to my fiancé, I don’t have a care in the world. Despite the fact that our argument escalated into yelling, it actually went a lot more smoothly than I could have hoped.

  I hear what sounds like a car door slamming, but it’s too
close to be coming from one of the neighbor’s houses. It’s probably just the wind carrying the sound, but I’m not going to be able to keep my calm if I don’t check to see if someone’s here.

  This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had an unannounced, late night visitor. As the only female in a family of seven children, I get to hear all sorts of lovely complaints from my brothers regarding the women in their life regardless the time of day or night. This may sound cold, but I’ll be happy if it’s anyone besides Mark or Sarah. I have to be in a special kind of mood to want to deal with either of them, and the mood I’m in right now is certainly not that.

  I make my way downstairs and through the living room to the front door, listening for a knock, but none comes. Hopefully that just means that the metal on metal that I heard has nothing to do with me, James or this house in general. I walk to the door. Here’s hoping.

  The wind outside is blowing hard enough that it’s creating a suction effect on the door. Once I get the thing open a few inches though, it flies out of my hand and bangs against the wall. James isn’t a light sleeper, but I’ll be astounded if that didn’t wake him.

  I regain my balance just as another sound comes from outside. It sounds like a car door, but heavier somehow. It’s definitely close, so I poke my head outside.

  There’s nothing on the curb, nobody in the driveway. From what I can see, there doesn’t seem to be anyone awake on the block. Whatever it was, it looks like it didn’t have to do with us, so I step back inside, making sure to hold the door with both hands as I ease it shut.

  I should be able to go back upstairs and lie down now, but there’s a bad feeling growing in my stomach, so I check the downstairs, room by room. Nothing. I breathe a sigh of relief. If someone had tried to go upstairs, I would have seen or heard them, so it’s back to bed for me.

  * * *

  Morning tends to come rather early when you’re only running on an hour or two of sleep. My alarm is going off and, judging by the fact that it’s an hour past my usual alarm, I’ve lost the luxury of hitting the snooze button. James must have hit the button, but the silly man didn’t bother waking me in the process.