Page 17 of Babies for the Boss
I planted evidence. Carefully, methodically, over the course of three months. Financial trails, intercepted communications, a carefully constructed fiction that pointed to Kirill as an Interpol informant.
I did not manufacture the conclusion. I simply laid a trail of breadcrumbs, and Fedor followed it to its inevitable end, because Fedor has always been a man who acts on his suspicions before he confirms them.
Kirill and three others died in Fedor’s car bombing. He was arrested six minutes later on charges that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the attention the bombing had drawn.
Justice, of a kind. The only kind available to me.
I have not lost sleep over it. Kirill was not an innocent man, and neither were the three who died with him. These are the mathematics of the world I inhabit, and I have always been clear-eyed about them.
What I did not account for was Molly. I had no reason to. I didn’t know her then. Fedor’s framing took place just over seven years ago, and Molly’s been with me for the past three years.
I didn’t anticipate that she would become someone I thought about.
I didn’t think Fedor was ever leaving federal prison.
And now Fedor is getting out, and he will be looking for leverage. If he learns that Molly is anything more to me than an employee, he will use her without hesitation. He will use her the way I used Kirill. He will follow the path to its inevitable end.
I will not allow that.
The knock at my door is exactly on time. “You wanted to see me?”
She steps inside and closes the door behind her. She is composed in the way I have come to recognize as deliberate, the straightness of her posture that means she has already prepared for this conversation. She’s bracing. Her strawberry blonde hair is pinned back. Her expression is professional and gives nothing away.
She’s a better actor than most people I know, and I know some of the best.
“Sit down, Molly.”
She sits. Crosses her ankles. Looks at me with those warm brown eyes and waits.
I remain standing. I have considered how to say this on and off since four in the morning, and I have not improved on directness. “What happened last night cannot happen again.”
Something trails over her face. It is brief enough that I would miss it if I were not watching carefully.
“I value your work,” I continue. “I value your position here. Nothing about that changes. But what occurred was inappropriate, and I am responsible. I understand if you feelyou need to step away from this role. I will ensure you have a reference that reflects the quality of your work rather than last night.”
There’s a silence. Then Molly exhales, and her shoulders drop a fraction, and she smiles. It’s a bright smile. Relieved.
Entirely too bright for my liking.
“Honestly? I’m so glad you said that. I was worried this was going to be weird.”
What did she just say?
“I completely agree,” she continues, in the pleasant, professional tone she uses in client meetings. “It was a crazy night, and I think we both got caught up in it, but it’s in the past. We got it out of our system. I have no intention of making this awkward, and I definitely don’t want to leave. I love this job.”
She says it like the matter is already settled. Filed, closed, and returned to the shelf.
I find, unexpectedly, that I am irritated.
Not because she is wrong. She’s not wrong. She’s saying precisely what I said first, arriving at exactly the conclusion I arrived at, and she’s doing it with the easy composure of a woman who has already processed the situation and moved on.
This is the correct response. It’s mature and professional and it makes everything considerably simpler.
But she should not be this unaffected by my rejection.
The thought surfaces, and I recognize it immediately for what it is. Ego. Nothing more than that. I said these words first, and she agreed, and now I’m standing here mildly affronted that sheagreed too readily, which is absurd, and I am not a man who permits absurdity to occupy him for long.
I set it aside.
