Chapter 4: Where I Could Open It
I didn't run. I told myself to walk like I belonged in that hallway.
His shoes had stopped near the doorway and I could feel him watching me from behind. The folder was flat against my lower back, both hands holding it so tight my knuckles ached. I kept my shoulders back against the console table for one more second, then pushed off and turned left, away from the office, away from him.
"Where are you going?" he said.
It wasn't loud. It was even, controlled, the kind of voice that expected an answer.
"Restroom," I said. I didn't look back. "Be right back."
I heard his weight shift on the tile but he didn't follow. Not yet.
The hallway was longer than I remembered. Beige tile, warm daylight spilling out from his office behind me, the abstract painting on my right blurring as I passed. My flats made a soft slap with each step that sounded too fast even though I was trying to go slow. At the end of the hall there was a single-occupancy restroom with a frosted glass door and a small office beside it that stayed locked after five. I tried the restroom handle first. It turned. I slipped inside and locked it.
The click of the lock was louder than it should have been. I stood there with my back to the door, breathing through my mouth, the folder still pressed behind me.
The restroom was small and too bright. White sink, white toilet, a framed print of the mountains that matched the view from his window. The air smelled like lemon cleaner and it was cold compared to the hallway. I could hear the faint hum of the building's AC and my own heartbeat in my ears.
I brought the folder around in front of me. Navy, smooth to the touch, a little worn at the corners. The red tab stuck out on the right side, clean and new. My hands were shaking. I hadn't noticed until I tried to lift the cover and my thumb slipped.
I set my purse down on the sink and used both hands.
Inside there was a single thick document, clipped at the top. The first page was white with a narrow navy border and a header in capital letters: CONFIDENCIAL. Under it, a case number and a date from three weeks earlier. And under that, my name.
My full name, typed. My date of birth. My apartment address.
I stared at it until the letters stopped swimming.
Beneath my information there was a paragraph, then a table. I recognized the language even before I read it all the way through. It was an evaluation. A background assessment tied to the foundation's housing assistance program — the one he'd told me about two months ago over dinner when I'd asked why my application was taking so long.
He'd said there was a waitlist. He'd said the county was backed up and the board only met quarterly. He'd said not to worry, that he had no influence over it, that he wanted to keep work separate from us so no one could say he played favorites.
The first line of the summary said: Applicant flagged — financial risk — recommendation: deny.
The second line said: Evaluation requested by — and then his name. His full name, his title, his signature line at the bottom with the date. Signed.
My hand dropped a half inch and the folder tipped. I caught it against the sink.
That wasn't a waitlist. That was him. He'd requested it. He'd signed off on the denial before I'd even finished the second round of paperwork. He'd sat across from me at our kitchen table and told me to be patient while he already knew the answer.
I read the paragraph again, slower this time. The wording was careful, professional, the kind of thing that would look routine to anyone else. But the date didn't lie. He'd known for weeks.
A knock hit the restroom door, two short taps.
"You okay in there?" he said through the door. His voice was closer now, right on the other side. "You left your phone on the console."
I hadn't. My phone was in my purse. He was checking.
I swallowed and made my voice level. "I'm fine," I said. "Give me a minute."
Silence on his side. Then a pause where I could hear him breathing.
"Take your time," he said, but he didn't move away. His shadow stayed under the door.
I looked down at the page again. My name, my address, his signature. The rest of the document was still underneath, maybe four or five pages, edges slightly uneven. I wasn't ready to know what else was in there, not with him standing outside. I needed to get out of this building first. I needed to be somewhere he couldn't knock.
My hands were still shaking, but different now. I closed the folder. I pressed the red tab flat so it wouldn't catch on anything, then slid the whole thing into my purse. It fit exactly, the hard edges pushing against the leather.
I ran the water, watched it run over my fingers, turned it off. I checked my face in the mirror. My ponytail had come a little loose, my cheeks were pink. I looked like someone who'd been in a restroom too long.
I unlocked the door.
He was leaning against the wall opposite, arms crossed, watch on his left wrist catching the light. He looked at my face, then at my purse, then back at my face. He didn't smile.
"Feel better?" he asked.
I nodded once. "Yeah," I said. "Let's head back."
He didn't move right away. He just held eye contact for a second too long, waiting to see if I'd offer the folder back. I didn't.
May you like
After a beat, he pushed off the wall and gestured down the hall toward his office. "After you," he said.
I walked past him, my purse bumping lightly against my hip where the folder pressed inside.
