Page 52 of Love Under the Microscope
I end the call, and warm tears stream down my cheeks. I pick up my stapler to hurl it across my office, but I check myself. Breaking an inanimate object won’t help anything. That’s something Nigel would do.
Breathing heavily, I place it on the desk and swipe at the tears on my cheeks. I won’t let Nigel Carrington be the reason I fall apart. It’s what he wants, what he’s counting on. Well, he can go to hell.
“I fucking hate you,” I whisper. “You’ll regret messing with me and Nate, you bastard.”
I will stop him somehow. With Jack’s help, I know I will succeed. I pick up my phone and type.
Zelda: Nigel called. He admitted having those pages and threatened to destroy Zentello.
Jack: You were right.
Zelda: Yes, but I wish I was wrong. You were right about this being about Nate. Nigel is jealous and wants what Nate has.
Jack: Including you?
Zelda: No, he was clear about that.
Jack: What does Nate have to say?
I glance at my desk, wondering how far I can throw that stapler. It’s a metal one, not plastic. I pick it up. Not that heavy. My phone vibrates again.
Jack: Zelda, Nate knows what’s going on, right?
Zelda: I was hoping to take care of this so he wouldn’t have to know at all.
Jack: You have to tell him.
Zelda: I know.
Jack: I don’t think you do. Zentello is Nate’s company, and Nigel seems to have a vendetta against him. You can’t keep him in the dark.
Zelda: I’ll talk to him.
Jack: Tell him now.
Zelda: He’s in a meeting.
Jack: You know what I mean.
Zelda: I do.
Jack: Want me to come over tonight?
Zelda: Please!
Jack: See you later.
As I dive back into the archives, I lose track of time. I finally surface, glance at the clock, and realize I’ve worked through lunch. I rub my tired eyes, wondering if I should just call it a day. I have so much PTO built up that no one will say a word if I go home. I’ll talk to Nate tomorrow, but I could really use a break now.
My head feels as if it’s in a vise that’s tightening every few minutes. Truth be told, the walls are closing in on me. My breathing is labored, and my chest is so tight.
Damn. I might be on the verge of a panic attack.
I haven’t had one of those since grad school, and back then, it was entirely justified. Nate had even taken me to the ER, he’d been so worried about me.
Whatever’s happening to me now is justified too. Thirty minutes ago, I found the original Happy Pill formula, and no, it’s not from the notebook. This formula is typed and dated—a date is vital—but it’s two years after what was written on either side of the missing pages in the notebook, which is bad.
Very, very bad.
