Page 24 of Work: Strictly Professional

Yes. Cold and distant.

Very distant. Can’t say I blame her, really. Must be hard to live with someone like that.

No. Can’t say I blame her either.

During the day, I don’t care about things like this. During the day, I rise above it, and despite what Barbara Anne’s always said, I know there’s no such thing as winning a divorce.

No one wins. Everyone loses.

That’s in the day. During the night, words grow claws and hook into my skin. When I sleep, those claws rake down my face and chest and make me bleed. During the night, there’s sure as shit such a thing as winning a divorce. And I’m sure as shit not the one winning.

Since it’s nighttime now and my heart rate has yet to return to normal, I close my eyes and replay Barbara Anne’s message over and over in my mind.

Plus one. Plus one.

What a fucking ridiculous way of putting it.

Plus one?

I’ll show them plus fucking one.

I’ll show them plus fucking one and a half if they aren’t very careful.

9

Wyn

The wedding is ineight days. Thank God I’ve managed to sort out an officiant with Saint Emily’s help, but I’ve yet to find a photographer, and here I am, happily carving valuable time out of my day to drop Derek’s dry cleaning off.

I don’t even know what to say to myself about it anymore. I’ve tried reasoning with myself. Believe me, I have. I’ve tried everything in my power to talk sense into myself. It’s just that, unfortunately, my attraction to my awful boss has yet to abate.

We’re still not panicking. We aren’t. We’re just getting a little concerned, that’s all.

The elevator doors open, and I step into his apartment. I’m instantly hit by a heady blend of coffee, leather, and Derek MacAvoy’s intoxicating musk. I kick my shoes off at the door and toss my phone and keys onto the console table. I take a moment to fix my hair, studying my reflection critically in the mirror, and then walk to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water with ice. I throw the doors open and amble through the garden, absently thumbing the leaves of a fern before taking a seat in my usual spot. A lounger in a sunny spot I like best. A lounger I’veworryingly started thinking of asmy lounger. I reach over and break off a sprig of rosemary and mint from the herb planter box and drop them into my water as I put my feet up and enjoy the view.

When the antsy feeling that always finds me when I’m here becomes too much, I head inside and walk down the hallway to Derek’s room. My heart starts causing a racket as I do it. It knows a fool’s errand when it runs one. Sadly, it does nothing to stop me.

Derek’s room is darker than the rest of the house. The walls are painted a deep slate gray, but I’m not sure that’s the reason. The mood in here is darker. It has Derek stamped all over it. It’s big and severe. Large pieces of furniture dominate the space. I can’t explain it exactly, and I’m aware this doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I can only say that being in here feels like I’m walking through the innermost parts of his being. Like I’m inside his mind.

I’m not though. Any fool can see that. I’m not in Derek’s mind. I’m trespassing. That’s what I’m doing.

I shouldn’t be here. I really do judge myself for doing this. At some point, life’s going to throw me a real curveball, and I’ll know that doing this kind of thing is why it’s happening. I won’t even be able to be very upset about it. I’ll know I totally deserve it.

It’s just that I can’t help it. I like it here. It’s ordered and controlled. Heavy and dark with brilliant splashes of light. It’s beautiful here. So beautiful.

I sit on his bed and remind myself yet again that this isn’t me. I’m better than this. I don’t do this kind of thing. I don’t invade people’s privacy. I wasn’t raised like this. Then I reach over and open the bone inlay box Derek keeps next to his bed. The first time I did it, I told myself it was a one-off. I promised myself all I’d do was take a quick look, just a peek, really, to dispel themystery of it, and then I’d never, ever do it again. I told myself it was an act of public service. Derek is such a question mark and keeps to himself so much that who really knows what kind of thing he would think is important enough to put next to his bed. I mean, what if it was evidence he’d committed a murder or something like that?

I opened the lid tentatively that time, skittish, looking behind me as I lifted the lid, fully expecting to get caught, fired, shamed, canceled on social media, and a whole bunch of other things that would be life-changing and truly terrible. My hand shook like a leaf, the lid creaked softly, and my breath caught as I looked in the box.

Photographs.

That’s all. Not the bloody souvenirs of a serial killer. Not even a key to a safety deposit box housing a schedule that details the deepest, darkest secrets of Derek MacAvoy.

All the box next to his bed contains is pictures taken of people a long time ago.

Miller. Barbara Anne. Miller and Barbara Anne. Baby Miller, little boy Miller, and big boy Miller. Miller as he is now, grown up with his arms around a dark-haired man with a prominent nose, black-rimmed glasses, and a very begrudging smile on his face.

There are photographs of Derek too. Derek on his wedding day. Derek with an older man who looks just like him. Derek holding a tiny Miller to his chest, hair a mess and eyes bleary from lack of sleep. Young Derek, standing next to a sold sign planted in front of a small building. Derek a few years later, hair tamed, next to a sold sign in front of a much bigger building. Derek was handsome then, no doubt, but somehow, at least to me, the fine lines around his eyes and flecks of gray in his hair seem to have amplified his appeal.

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