Chapter 6: The Drive Home With It
I didn't plan to take it out of building. Plan was to look, put back. But bag sat open on chair and hand moved before brain caught up.
Office clock read 4:47. Most desks cleared. I stood by console table same spot where folder had been. Tote bag hung from office chair. Canvas, frayed strap. I held folder behind back still. Palms sweated against navy cover. Red tab stuck to thumb.
I slipped folder into tote. Didn't open. Didn't check pages. Zipped halfway, then stopped. Zipper sound too loud. I pushed folder flat against laptop sleeve, covered with folded sweater. Sweater smelled like my apartment laundry detergent. That made choice feel normal. Like errand.
I slung bag over shoulder. Weight shifted. Heavier on one side.
He still stood in doorway. Hadn't moved since standoff. Black shirt absorbed light from window. Watch caught sun. He watched hands, not face.
"You heading out?" he said. Quiet. Same tense tone.
I nodded. Didn't answer right away. Breath shallow.
"Long day," I said.
He stepped aside from doorway. Just enough to let me pass. Didn't touch me. Eyes tracked bag.
"See you tomorrow," he said.
I walked past him into hallway. Beige tile cold through flats. Didn't look back until elevator.
Parking lot heat hit hard. August sun bounced off windshields. My car parked far corner, second row from highway fence. Old gray Civic with dent on passenger door. I walked slow. Keys already in hand. Thumb pressed unlock too early, car chirped from distance.
I glanced up toward building as I reached car. Second floor, modern office window, trees and mountains behind. He stood there. Hands in pockets. Black shape against bright glass. Watching. I couldn't see face, only outline. He didn't wave. Didn't move.
I opened door, tossed tote onto passenger seat. Folder thumped against seat frame. I sat, locked doors. Air inside was hot, steering wheel burned palms. I started engine, AC blasted stale heat first.
Pulled out of lot. Rearview mirror showed building shrinking. Window still had figure. Then trees blocked view.
Highway on-ramp merged fast. Four lanes, trucks, late commute. I kept in right lane. Hands at ten and two. Tote sat beside me, zipper half open, sweater corner visible. Every red light I glanced at it. At stoplight on Miller Road, I zipped bag fully. Couldn't stand gap.
Rearview checks constant. Black SUV two cars back. Stayed two cars back for three exits. My shoulders tightened. I switched lanes without signal, SUV kept straight. Not him. Just random car. Breath came back.
I remembered console books. CONFIDENCIAL spine. Same navy color. Thought about photo on phone. Thought about how folder left shelf empty. Someone would notice gap. He would notice.
Apartment complex was four-story brick off highway, parking lot behind chain-link fence. I parked, cut engine, sat minute. Lot empty except kids' bikes left by stairs. I lifted tote, held close to body. Up two flights, key stuck in lock like always, had to jiggle.
Inside, apartment quiet. Curtains closed, evening light cut in thin stripes across carpet. I dropped keys on kitchen counter. Didn't turn on overhead light.
Bedroom small, bed against window, under-bed storage bins. I knelt, pushed tote onto floor, unzipped. Pulled folder out. Navy cover warm from car heat. Red tab still attached. I didn't open. Not yet.
I lifted bed skirt, slid storage bin out. Sweaters inside. Pushed folder flat under folded jeans at bottom of bin, covered again. Slid bin back under bed frame. Stood, smoothed bedspread.
Phone buzzed on counter. No name, just office extension. I let it ring. Four rings then voicemail. Didn't listen.
May you like
I stood in kitchen, hands on edge of sink, looking at parking lot through small window. Highway hummed beyond fence. Room felt smaller. Safe but isolated. Bag empty now on chair, same chair as office but different.
I knew he'd checked console table by now. Knew gap.
