Page 36 of I Hope This Finds You Well

Rhonda:Jolene? She’s trying to help.

Caitlin:Yeah, maybe.

Caitlin:But when has she ever offered to help, or even joined a conversation? I feel like she’s been watching our every move lately.

I feel Armin’s eyes tick toward me and my skin goes taut. Admittedly, the creepy factor wasn’t something I considered when I tried to enact my plan, and the optics were unfortunate in that sense.

His reply finally flashes across my screen.

Armin:She was just being nice.

Caitlin:Yep. Anyway, I’ve got lots of work. Best of luck with the nice stalker. You should probably report her before you end up tied up in her apartment, though.

Caitlin clicks the chat closed and starts toward the copy room.

I should log in to her email now and send a message to herself that reads:You are a goddess.It would be the only time getting fired might be worth it.

But at least I’ve achieved one small victory here. Armin hasn’t totally been swayed by Caitlin to join the firing squad against me. I don’t think.

Yet, even as the office returns to its normal beat, I still jitter from it all. I do a quick scan of Armin’s emails. He still hasn’t replied to Cliff’s meeting request, but I’ll have to keep an eye on that. I’ve bought myself some time, but not much.

I check Rhonda’s again next. She’s pulled one email out of theThings to Figure Outfile and responded to Gregory:Will have this ready by the end of the week :)

When I glance at her, I expect her to look pleased. But instead, she’s slouching, staring at the inspirational sayings pinned along the border of her cubicle. After a beat, she picks up her phone. I silently hiss through my teeth. What if she’s calling Gregory, or even Cliff in HR, because she believes Caitlin and thinks I’m plotting something?

I quickly click into her phone log and check the number. It’s not internal; it’s that same number again. This is it: the Ghost Call.

A few moments pass; presumably she is listening to a ringtone. I hold my breath and wait. Only it’s like a balloon deflating. Just as her phone records predicted, every time she calls this number it goes unanswered. I hear her receiver placed down with a solemn click.

The curiosity is too much. So before thinking too hard, I grab my desk phone and dial the number from her log.

I make sure my earbuds are plugged into the phone about twenty times, my heartbeat picking up with every drawn-out ring. I check behind me for no good reason. After four rings, the automated voicemail lady voice comes in:You’ve reached the mailbox for: Carl Staples. Mailbox is full.

My heart plummets, matching the drone of the punishing dial tone.

I put down the receiver.

Minor Distractions

After a lunchtime spent eating a ham sammy while solo people-watching at Prince’s Island Park, clashing with the crowds of laughing families, ball-busting businessmen, and brightly colored runners, I return and confirm that Rhonda has officially shared my half of the inventory data grid with me, even though Caitlin received her piece yesterday evening. No matter, because I already finished it. Now I just have to wait a believable amount of time to return it.

Caitlin is throwing a plastic container, half full of browning Caesar salad, into the waste bin under her desk. Typical. There’s a whole recycling center in the lunchroom, yet she chooses to leave it up to the members of the cleaning service to properly dispose of her mess.

I log in to check if Caitlin’s already returned her part of the grid. Instead, I find another email from Cliff asking to schedule a meeting. Unlike Armin, Caitlin’s already responded and offered to see him tomorrow.

Fuck.

A DM appears from Caitlin to Garret.

Caitlin:I am so ready for this HR meeting. Have all my talking points prepped.

Caitlin:I don’t want to be too obvious, but I have plenty of examples of why I’m a better fit here than Jolene.

Garret:Yeah, be careful to not go overboard. What are you going to say?

Three dots bounce across the screen as Caitlin types. I lean in, my skin cooling, the goose bumps on the back of my wrist matching the ones continuously dancing on the screen.

Before any message appears, the accessible door beeps open, followed by a sleek stroller. “Helloooo!” calls the stroller pusher, alsoknown as Celeste Laird, who is supposed to be on maternity leave for another six months. And unless that baby knows how to file, she must be bringing it to meet us.