Have You Seen Me?(64)
“You didn’t hear anything negative about Greenbacks, did you? Irregularities or anything like that?”
“No, but there’d better not be if they’re really hoping for a sale.”
Exactly. If there’s been inflation with the number of accounts, like Sasha alluded to, and the buyer finds out during the due diligence process, it could kill the deal. And Greenbacks would be tainted.
“Well, thanks for the intel,” I say. “Since I worked there, I’m always a little curious.”
“I don’t blame you.” As she turns to finally leave, her gaze falls to the surface of my desk. “I would have cleaned up your desk area when I came in yesterday. But I always want to be respectful of your space.”
So the unaccustomed disarray caught her eye. I wonder if anything else did.
“Thank you, I was in a bit of hurry the last time I was here. . . . By the way, when you came back today, did anyone mention anything about me?”
“About you? I’m not following.”
“I worked really late one night, and I wondered if anyone had noticed or commented. I don’t usually hang out here after six.”
She looks at me as if I’m asking her a trick question. “No, no one said anything. I doubt anyone here would find it weird you were working late.”
Once she’s gone, I rest my elbows on the desk and drop my face into my hands. I don’t feel any real connection to Greenbacks anymore or to Damien, but it still bothers me to think that something bad might be happening there. Or that Sasha, in her foolhearted desire to transform herself from beauty blogger to muckraker, will cause people to think there’s trouble when there isn’t.
Regardless of what’s going on—or not—at Greenbacks, Damien would of course be pissed about the idea of Sasha nosing around. Or me nosing around if he thinks I really did put Sasha up to the call. I flash back on the bluntness of his first text to me the other day. Can we meet? I need to see you. And how the temperature dropped at the café when I mentioned the call to the company PR person. Maybe his interest in seeing me was never concern for my well-being but instead a fishing expedition. Even his coming to the bistro last night might have been nothing more than a ruse to learn more.
How stupid of me to allow myself to be touched by his texts and calls. I thought they were a sign that he’d cared more than I realized all those years ago.
I’m never going to be able to concentrate on work today, I realize. I scribble down a note for Nicole, saying something’s come up but I’ll email her later with her next assignment, and punch my arms into my jacket, desperate to get out of here.
But as I’m turning to leave, an unseen force tugs at me. I’d promised Mulroney a good look around and I need to be thorough. Bending slightly, I open the top drawer to the filing cabinet underneath my desk, which usually holds nothing more than a few empty hanging folders.
I almost recoil in shock. My purse is sitting there.
The soft black leather hobo bag that’s been missing for days. It’s crouched toward the very back of the drawer, like a little kid who’s been hiding in a game of Sardines.
I spin around and stare through the glass wall of the office. Across the hall, three people are gathered around a drawing table in a slightly larger office, their backs to me.
Swiveling back, I grab the bag and tear it open. My wallet’s inside, holding my license and the now-canceled bank card and credit cards, minus the one I used at Eastside Eats; my Metro card; and my WorkSpace key card. Rooting through the bag, I also find my apartment keys; rollerball pens; tiny Moleskine notebook; a comb; my makeup bag with blush, lipstick, and a Bobbi Brown foundation stick; a small Ziploc bag containing Claritin and Advil. There’s no cash, I notice, other than twenty cents in the change purse.
No receipts either, or scraps of paper teasing me with hints.
And no phone, which seems to confirm that my purse and phone disappeared at separate times.
I peer farther into the drawer and pat my hand around in there. Nothing else. I yank out the bottom drawer next but it’s entirely empty.
Nicole will be back any minute, I realize, and I don’t want her to find me stupidly holding two full handbags. I stuff the hobo purse into my tote bag and quickly exit the premises. Once I’m on the street, I hurry down the block and duck into a Walgreens. I have no intention of buying anything but I drag one of the wheeled plastic baskets up and down the aisles with me, trying to pull my frayed thoughts together.
It seems that I must have purposely left my bag at WorkSpace when I left that Wednesday morning, taking only cash and one credit card, which I no longer seem to possess. It also means that my early theory that I was mugged is definitely dead in the water.
But why would I have left my bag behind—and my keys? It’s as if I’d made a decision to travel light, unburdened, like someone on the run.
I tuck into a corner of the store and call Mulroney. I notice that he hasn’t responded to my previous texts, but he may not have seen them yet.
“I ended up finding something at WorkSpace,” I say when I reach his voice mail. “Can you call me as soon as possible?”
It’s almost an hour and a half until my MRI appointment, but after exiting the drugstore and scouring the immediate area with my eyes, I hail a cab to the East Side. When the driver starts to turn onto the side street where the medical building’s located, I ask him to drop me off at the corner of First Avenue instead, where I spot a small Italian restaurant.