“How about you take the rest of the day off, okay?”
Pete’s voice was so kind, even after his recent anger, that Emily began to cry in earnest. She wanted to tell him it was okay, she’d leave. He’d never have to worry about her muddled brain making groundless accusations again.
But the words weren’t there.
Emily nodded and let him lead her out to the car park.
“Are you sure you’re okay to drive? I could call you an Uber on my phone.”
As though Emily could afford that expense on her new budget of fewer than sixty dollars a week. “I’m fine,” she managed to choke out. “I’ll just sit here for a while, then I’ll head on my way.”
“You’ve got those tests scheduled today, yeah?”
She nodded again. “And my case manager meeting tomorrow.”
“Don’t feel you need to hurry back in, okay? It’s okay to take a few sick days if you need them. That’s the beauty of working this kind of job.”
Pete thumped the roof of her car twice, then headed back inside, casting a worried glance back just before he closed the charity shop door.
Chapter Nineteen
Emily sat in the conference room, feeling the stares of everyone as a physical weight. When she glanced up, four pairs of eyes flicked to other locations in the room. As she shifted in the chair and let her gaze drift to the muted taupe carpet, the weight came back again.
The conference room was far too large for their small meeting. Emily had nicknamed her case managers Tweedledum and Tweedledee due to their matching rotundness when they were first assigned. It had been so long ago, she’d forgotten their real names.
They sat at the head of the table, requiring Emily to limp the entire length of the room to reach her chair. Thanks, guys. With Mr Robertson the neurologist choosing a seat beside the managers, it only left Joanne the physio on her side.
“I’ll fetch us all a drink, if you like,” Tweedledee said, half standing. He looked disappointed when the group fed orders for coffee to him rather than waving him back into his chair.
Although Emily presumed he didn’t have spikes of pain jabbing into his hips, the man’s rolling gait was worse than hers. If he fell onto his side, he’d bounce like a beach ball.
Tweedledum cleared his throat and linked his fingers together on the plasticky white table top. “We’ll begin once Desmond is back,” he said. “Is everyone having a nice week?”
Emily stared at the blank wall rather than answering his bland question. He wouldn’t want to hear a genuine response and she didn’t possess enough energy to come up with even the simple lie of, “Fine.”
Her stomach was still tight with discomfort after her confrontation with Pete yesterday. When she’d thought of ducking into work this morning, before this appointment, it had shrivelled into a tiny ball.
“Are you doing okay?” Joanne asked with a concerned smile. “Your limp is worse this morning.”
Of course, it was worse. Her muscles had atrophied at the same rate as her self-esteem.
“You’d have a better idea of that than me,” Emily said. “Didn’t the test results tell you anything?”
Joanne leaned back. The hand that had been heading for Emily’s shoulder jerked away.
Hm. Good news, then. That made up for the medic sticking a needle into her leg muscles yesterday and leaving it there for over an hour.
“Here we go,” Tweedledee said as he walked into the room carrying a tray of hot drinks.
Emily closed her eyes, trying not to hope too hard the man tripped, and everything went flying. Slapstick comedy would brighten up her day, but her mind was already in a funk without adding mean thoughts to its burden.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” he asked Emily. “We might not have a barista on staff, but our coffee machine is really good.”
The temptation of sending him back to fetch her a drink that she wouldn’t touch played across Emily’s mind, then she shook her head. “I’m good.” Or, at least, I’m trying to be.
“Right,” Tweedledum said, opening a sheaf of papers that he didn’t even glance at. “We’ve reviewed the progress reports from your health service providers”—he nodded at Mr Robertson and Joanne as though they might be in doubt as to whom he was referring—“and also spoken to your current employer.”
Emily gripped the armrest of her chair. She hadn’t expected that. The last time one of these excruciating meetings had been held, she didn’t have a boss. “Pete Galveston?” she asked, unsure if he meant her co-worker. The actual person who’d organised her employment worked in Auckland and they’d only ever met over Skype.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“He’s not my employer.”
Tweedledum finally turned his attention to the papers, shuffling through them in a show of hunting out the information.
“He’s a co-worker in the shop. I don’t remember giving you permission to—”
“Here we go.” The man cut her off by waving a piece of paper in the air triumphantly. “Yes, you told us he was a better contact since he’d be working with you day to day. When we spoke on the phone, Mr Galveston didn’t seem surprised to hear from us.”
“It’s been a while since all of that was organised, hasn’t it?” Joanne asked. “When you first contacted me to arrange handover from your physio in Christchurch, you already had the job lined up.”
Emily’s lower lip wobbled. You forgot, was what she was saying. Your brain can’t store information correctly, any longer.
“Anyway,” Tweedledee said, sitting forward. “How about we set aside the discussion of who gave permission for the moment? I’ll make a note and if it’s a genuine concern about privacy, we can return to it later. We spoke to your co-worker…” he waved at his companion to continue.
“Mr Galveston is mostly pleased with your work. He noted your attendance record is good and you’ve been very thorough while performing duties at the pace expected in your position.”
Pete would never have phrased anything in his life using those words. Emily sat back in her chair, using the thumbnail of her right hand to push back the cuticles on her left.
She wanted to chew on one, but that would be a dead giveaway of her nerves to the rest of the table. Emily wondered what her colleague had really told them. She’s doing okay and turns up on time? Probably not.
“He did express concern about an incident involving a third-party contractor for your workplace.”
“You mean a woman who stole from us?” Emily sat forward, ignoring the concerned expression Joanne tipped her way. “Did he tell you how the auction house reported back goods sold at a fraction of their actual price? Did he mention she used my disability to her advantage, cheating a charity out of the entitlements at the same time?”
“He mentioned a lot of accusations, yes.” Tweedledum closed the folder and clasped his hands together on top of the papers. “Would you like to take us through that incident?”
“It wasn’t an incident.” Emily pushed at her cuticle hard enough to slice into the flesh. She curled her hands into fists instead, only relaxing them when she noticed Tweedledee noticing. “I have a record of the items I submitted to auction, and it doesn’t tally with the written list the woman gave in return.”
“Where is your list?” Tweedledum asked. His sickeningly sweet expression of concern did nothing to hide the glint of amusement in his eyes.
Emily’s stomach jumped, and she pressed a palm against it. Stay still, little buddy, we’ll get through this okay.
“I kept a record in my head. It’s where I store stuff now that I can’t write it down.” She frowned, thinking back to the day of the auction. She’d forgotten in the interim but felt sure now there was another piece of evidence to back up her assertion. “I think I also took some photos.”
“Were those the list of items in the coroner’s report you showed me?” Mr Robertson asked.
With a start of surprise—he’d never spoken before in these meetings—Emil
y turned to him, eyebrows raised.
“Before you had the turn in my office, you showed me a report. It had an inventory of goods at the start of it.”
She nodded, remembering now. “Yes, they might also show something.” The papers captured in those photos had been in the folder the housekeeper had taken from Mr Pettigrew’s desk.
Her heart thumped faster as Emily realised it might note everything donated to their office. Hadn’t the librarian mentioned he was probably using it as a tax write-off? Mr Pettigrew must have taken stock before packing up the boxes.
“I think we’re getting off track, here,” Tweedledum said. He tapped his finger on the folder. “We’re here to discuss your progress, or lack of it, and how it relates to your employment. Whether the auction house did or didn’t provide an accurate list isn’t relevant. The problem here is how you upset your co-worker.”
“I didn’t upset him,” Emily protested. “The accusations did. He doesn’t want to think badly of someone he’s worked well with in the past. Of course, that’s distressing.”
“Mr Galveston indicated your behaviour during this incident was rude and aggressive.” Tweedledum inclined his head on the last word.
Aggressive.
Emily flushed and gripped the armrests of her chair again. A memory flooded up through her, physically igniting different parts of her body in a unified expression of shame. If the chair had allowed her to curl into a ball, she would have.
When she first woke in hospital following the accident, Emily’s mind had been as splintered as her skull. Keeping track of the cavalcade of new faces surging in and out of her room all day long had been exhausting. Not just that—confusing, upsetting, displacing.
If the pain from her body hadn’t kept her immobilised, Emily would have walked out and never come back.
The one constant had been her best friend, Susan Tompkins. During her visits, every day at first, then settling back into twice a week, Emily calmed down. She understood the world, framed through her friend’s eyes.
But her injury wasn’t a stable thing, done and healed from. Although the surgeons had tried their best, a few bone fragments couldn’t be dislodged from her brain. They were too close to important parts. Better to leave them alone and give her a chance at living than pursue them and leave Emily a vegetable.
It would be fine, if her body wasn’t a living, breathing, moving container. The lesions formed as her brain healed shunted the tiny bone fragments around, occasionally bumping them into concerning areas.
Just like her hallucinations of a few weeks ago, during her stay at the hospital a small shift had caused a change with large effects. Her paranoia had ratcheted up the scales until Emily became a living, breathing ball of self-defence.
Enemies everywhere. Liars stepping into plain view. With every new or old arrival in her hospital room, Emily saw a killer. One day she struck out before an assassin could claim her as a victim.
She had Susan pinned up against the wall, choking her. Emily mashed her thumbs into the woman’s windpipe as hard as she could, desperation making her strong.
It took an orderly and three nurses to pull Emily off her friend. She hadn’t seen her again. The courage to reach out grew larger and less attainable with every passing day where she didn’t. It was a peak, insurmountable, and Emily couldn’t work out how to take the first step.
Aggressive, had been the word entered on her chart. For a week afterwards, no nurse attended her without security backing them.
Emily understood the toll of hospital visits with no new avenues of conversation. She’d let her friends slide away from the commitment without raising a protest. They had their own lives. She didn’t.
Susan had been the last friend to stick by her.
“Emily, if you want to take a few moments, that’s okay.” Joanne said. The rest of the table just stared at her.
“I’m fine,” she snapped, turning to face Tweedledum. “Do you have anything else to add or is this just going to be a summary of events I already know about?”
“As you know,” Tweedledee broke in, “these meetings are to try to find an avenue for you back into the workforce. A report like this is concerning, but Mr Galveston didn’t say your job was on the line. There are other matters of more pressing concern.”
Mr Robertson cleared his throat and Emily looked at him, surprised. Speaking again? The news must be bad.
“I’ve analysed the results of the recent MRI and there’s an indication some of your injuries are flaring up. We can’t provide a definitive diagnosis but there’s been enough of a change in function that it seems the pattern is toward decline.”
Ah. Amongst all those unnecessary words, Emily deduced a nugget of information. “My brain function is deteriorating?”
The neurologist put a finger between his collar and throat, pulling the fabric away. “Yes. If the pattern continues, you may well lose more executive functioning. Already, there appears to be a significant change in memory.”
“That might explain the incident with the auction house, then,” Tweedledum broke in to say. “If your memory is playing tricks on you.”
Emily blinked hard in frustration. The man didn’t want to let go of his bone.
Joanne put a hand over Emily’s, which still held the chair arm in a death grip. “I also hurried up the report from the nerve testing I made you go through yesterday. I’m sure you’ve noticed this change well before I have. There’s neuropathy affecting your muscles, especially those in your legs.”
The kindness in the physio’s voice hurt Emily more than the diagnosis. Yes, she’d noticed how her legs felt stiff, even though she was doing everything she’d been told. Yes, physical movement became harder to perform, every day. The care with which Joanne spoke heralded something far worse.
“What does it mean? For the future?”
Tears threatened, and Emily stared upwards. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling were encased in thick, pebbled plastic. One of a set of three in the space above Tweedledum made a tinking sound, like the hood of her car when the engine cooled.
“Without the nerves sending the right messages to your muscles, it will become increasingly difficult to move. They’ll atrophy.”
“Which will make it hard to get up all those stairs at work,” Tweedledum added, a coda of doom. “Added to the poor prognosis from the recent scan, I think it’s time we ceased to search for opportune work placements and prepared a program of continuing support instead.”
“If you want to continue work,” Joanne said, frowning across the table at the case manager. “There’s no reason to stop until it gets to the point where it becomes impossible.”
Emily stared at her, mouth slackening. Did she really believe those words were any kinder than what Tweedledum had just said?
“You’re saying that soon, I’ll be unemployable.”
“It’s not just that.” Mr Robertson joined the conversation again. “Fairly soon, I estimate you’ll require home care if you’re to stay out of a facility. We should probably discuss those options now, so you can prepare.”
“It’s not the end of the world,” Joanne said, unaware of the mushroom clouds obscuring Emily’s vision.
Chapter Twenty
When Emily arrived home after the meeting, she dropped her keys into the bowl, her purse on the floor, and curled up into a ball on the couch. The exercise chart hung over the television, as always.
She wanted to rip it off and tear it into little pieces. The energy to do so eluded her, and she settled for glaring at it instead.
“Useless old woman,” she whispered to herself. “Can’t even keep a job in a charity shop.”
The involved discussion that followed the revelations had been lost on Emily. She half suspected that was the point of Tweedledum’s organisation of the meeting. Give her so much bad news she couldn’t concentrate, then make a host of decisions she couldn’t keep track of, let alone participate in making.
“Ugh,” she groan
ed and uncurled enough to lay flat on her back. The tears of self-pity stirred up by the discussion were still there, waiting, but Emily blinked them back again.
The car accident had cost her so much already, she’d allowed herself to believe it wouldn’t demand payment of more. A foolish notion. It appeared it was out to steal everything and wouldn’t be satisfied until she broke into dust.
Her friends were the first to go. Next was her job. She’d lost her home when it turned out her partnership agreement with the firm meant her actual salary to base compensation upon was tiny.
It had never mattered that her take-home pay was scarcely more than a junior staff member. Emily had grown used to budgeting out payments for her lifestyle, dependent on the profit share to partners, divvied out each end-of-year.
The qualifications that entitled her to those payments had never concerned Emily. The setpoint for numbers of new clients brought onboard, and the number of billable hours, was something well within her means to attain.
One sideswipe with a truck put paid to that.
Her benefits now were based on eighty percent of her salary. With most of her earnings tied up in a profit-share she could no longer access, Emily lost the means to pay for her mortgage.
The more to Pinetar had been partly generated by a wish to return to her roots, but more by the knowledge she could afford a house here. Her job mattered, too. The job everyone now thought she’d soon be unable to perform.
With a pulse of angry energy, Emily sat upright. The charity shop gig might soon dissolve away, but in the meantime she could right one wrong. If Mr Robertson had been correct, and there was a list of items inventoried from the donation, then between that, her recording, and the photographs, she might have enough evidence to prove the case. To Pete, at least, if not the police.
A few hours of painstaking searching and listening to instruction videos, Emily managed to connect her devices and programs together, so they’d read out the text contained in the photographs.
She sat back while the robotic voice listed items the charity shop had never been paid for. Her joy was only confused with the fact some items also hadn’t made it to the donation boxes, either.
Charity Shop Haunted Mysteries Page 14
