Page 42 of I Hope This Finds You Well

Caitlin:If you’d like more help, don’t be afraid to ask me. I can even look things over for you—make sure Jolene’s leading you on the right track.

Rhonda:Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.

Rhonda:And if you’d like me to double-check your inventory reports before submitting to Gregory, I’d be happy to. Make sure no future errors.

The gasp I let out. The grin that stretches across my cheeks. I smack my hand over my mouth to hide it. I always knew Rhonda had sharp knives, but not these razors. I dare a peep at Caitlin; her eyes are locked hard on the screen, typing double speed. Caitlin continues to type furiously, but I don’t see any bouncing dots in the chat. I double-check her DM history; she’s not chatting with anyone else either. She must be crafting a new email. I can be patient.

But after forever, or eleven minutes, her email to whomever still isn’t complete. What is she even writing?

I stand up and grab my coffee cup to fill it at the watercooler. As I pass, I tilt just enough to catch her screen open to a giant email filled with a messy clump of text.

“Well,” Caitlin finally says, “I’m off to speak with the HR guy.”

As she walks away, I immediately go into the server and search her sent folder. But whatever she was writing, she didn’t send it.

Time ticks onward. I try not to think about Caitlin and Cliff sitting in his trinket-filled office, discussing how horrible I am. Right now, I am being slandered beneath the gaze of several plastic Marios and Storm Troopers. I contemplate pulling a fire alarm.

I stare at their messenger icons. Both of their circles are red and their statuses readin a meetinglike a threat. I should’ve hidden a camera inside Cliff’s office. It would’ve been such a simple move and notthatcreepy if you don’t think too hard about it.

Becausenotbeing able to listen in on conversations is actually terrible, now that I’ve seen behind the veil.

I attempt to distract myself by focusing on emails again. A new message appears in Rhonda’s outbox.

From: Rhonda Staples

To: [email protected]

Subject: Where in the heckin heck are you?

Honey,

I know it’s not always easy, but could you please reach out here if you can?

When you were little, I used to wake up to check on you, just to see if you were still breathing even though I knew you were perfectly safe. I can’t do that now. I thought you’d be my baby forever and I can’t stop feeling like a mom no matter what.

Maybe it’s because your birthday is coming up that I’m hoping extra hard to see you. I’ve been looking at cake recipes and would love to have a small party. You could spend a few nights in your bedroom too and I’ll cook a bunch. Remember the R2D2 one I made when you were five?

My work is busy busy—we’re making all my documents digital!

Email me here if you can get to a library. Call me, message me on Facebook.

I love you,

Mom

Shit, Rhonda’s situation with her son is more dire than I thought. I search other messages to Carl’s email address. There’s like an email a month, going back for years—some of them begging to know if he’s okay. Other times it’s recipes.

If I make this tonight, will you come?

She’s got more exotic Rachael Ray recipes than my mom...

I click my monitor off, the weight of the stack of unanswered emails drawing into my bones. I open my phone. Several messages from my mom are queued up in my texts, shamefully unread.

Mom:I’m watching a show where this ugly man is trying to put his kir in so many sister wives each week. He’s not even nice guy.

Mom:During your lunch hour, you should still work so your bosses know you’re serious.

Mom:I should make ashe reshteh