The Other Black Girl(85)

“Oh, speaking of—I’m sure you’ve heard about this, but Darrin sent us a new project this morning that he’s positive is going to go fast. It’s about this tiny town in northern North Dakota that doesn’t believe in using—”

“That’s great. Listen, Nella, I’m going to cut to the chase.”

Nella blinked. Had he found out that she’d been creeping outside of his door—and therefore, that she knew he was cheating on his wife? Or had he heard what she had really said in the meeting?

Richard pushed his chair a couple of inches away from the table so that he could cross his long, left leg over his right thigh. “Hazel mentioned something to me in private recently. Something that has been happening to you here that is, I must say, deeply disturbing. And I wanted to know if you’d like to talk about it. The floor is yours.”

Nella sat up in her chair. “Disturbing?”

“Yes. Now, I know this might make you uncomfortable, which is why I didn’t want to get Vera involved. Not unless you explicitly tell me that you want me to.”

“I’m not sure what you’re…” Nella stopped herself. Relief washed over her, followed by trepidation, then anger. Hazel had opened her mouth again. “You mean the notes.”

Richard rested his elbow on his thigh, cupping his face with the palm of his hand. He stared at her expectantly in this position for an unbearable amount of time without saying a word. “Can you tell me what those notes said, exactly? Do you remember?”

Nella closed her eyes. It had been a little while since she’d read them—since she’d even had time to really think about them. But how could she forget? “The first one said ‘Leave Wagner now.’ And the other said something like ‘The longer you stay, the harder it is. Leave.’?” She’d left out the bit about the phone number on purpose, aware of how poor it looked that she had an actual phone number but hadn’t reported it to the police.

Richard shook his head. “And they weren’t signed?”

“Nope,” she said, surprised and a little pleased by how disgusted he sounded. “Not signed. Just left by my desk.”

“My god!” Richard said, banging his fist on the table. “Cowardly fuckers.”

Nella stared at his pink, pinched face, intrigued at this new and unfamiliar version of Wagner’s editor in chief. She had never heard the man swear before, and the expletive didn’t quite mesh with his avocado-colored cashmere sweater.

“Have you told anybody about these letters?” he asked. “Besides Hazel, of course.”

She shook her head.

“No? Have you tweeted about it, or anything? Or told any of your friends who might have written about it?”

“Sorry—what?” asked Nella, genuinely confused. “No, I haven’t told anyone. What did Hazel tell you?”

“Never mind. Don’t worry about it,” Richard said quickly. He visibly softened. “Can I see them?”

“See what?”

“The letters. I’d like to see them.”

“Well, they’re more ‘notes’ than they are ‘letters.’?”

Richard peered at her, curious. It seemed as though he wanted to comment on the distinction, or at her need to make the distinction, but he said nothing.

“It’s been almost two months since I got the last one, and I got rid of them, actually,” Nella added, sliding one of her own legs over the other as the lie slipped seamlessly between her teeth. She’d actually put the notes in the pocket of a raincoat that hung in the back of her closet. This explanation just felt much easier.

“Well, in any event, I want you to know that we have zero tolerance for that kind of behavior here at Wagner. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Natalie is looking into it as we speak. Starting tomorrow, she’ll begin talking to the mail staff one by one.”

“Oh. Thanks, Richard. I really appreciate that.” Nella put her pen down, which she realized she’d been clicking and unclicking nervously in her lap. She thought of C. J., with his wide, unassuming smile and disarming velvety charm. The mailroom was filled with C. J.s—kind, helpful people who kept their heads down and their eyes averted. They all had different origin stories, but almost every mailroom staff member had skin that fell somewhere in the brown portion of the color wheel. They all knew her, too. Maybe not as well as C. J., but well enough to greet her. “But, with all due respect, I don’t think anyone on the mail staff is responsible for those letters.”

Richard shrugged. “Maybe not. But they might recall someone handing them those envelopes to give to you.”

“I guess that’s possible.”

“Well, then.” Richard paused to remove his tortoiseshell glasses and hold them up to the light. He rubbed at something on his lenses with his thumb before putting them back on. “I’m glad we had this chat, and that you’re aware we’re on it. Sounds good?”

“Sounds good,” agreed Nella. “Thanks.”

“Of course. And, one more thing, between you and me: There are going to be some changes around here.”

Nella stiffened. “Changes?” she asked, her mind immediately going to that list of Black names she’d found on the printer.