Page 53 of Selfie

I keep punching harder and harder, falling into a rhythm.

Pushing past the pain…

Just trying to stay focused on the task at hand.

17

Nathan

“Where to, boss? Home?” my driver asks me as we sit in an idle car.

“I, um… Give me a minute.” I don’t know where I want to go. It’s not home. After rehashing all that traumatic shit at dinner, I don’t want to go back to my home and sit alone with the ghosts of my should-be family.

I dragged out dinner as long as possible with Finn so I wouldn’t have to face my grim thoughts. But when he opted to skip dessert, I know he just wanted to get back to his wife with her dinner while it was still hot. He promised he’d check in with Senior about the parking lot, and I very subtly told him to warn his grandpa about possible spies in his company. Of course I didn’t tell him my dad was behind the whole debacle, but I felt a warning was the decent thing to do. What are they going to do? Find Casey and fire him? From what I understand, he already put in his resignation. I just want to ensure no bugs were placed or important documents are missing.

“I can’t wait here much longer, Mr. Hatcher. We’re half-blocking a fire lane and a cop keeps circling. He’s bound to notice. Should I pull into a parking garage?”

Still not answering, I release a deep sigh. My chest slowly rises and falls like the emotional exhaustion is inhibiting my breathing. I’m not sure what to do. For three years straight, I wanted to be alone. But now, when I’m dreading it, I don’t have anyone I can call. Or, do I?

It’s past eight on a Friday night… I shouldn’t call my assistant. It’s creepy. But, then again—she didn’t get the reports done I asked her to. Maybe that’s excuse enough.

Finding Spencer in my contacts list, I press the green call button. She answers on the first ring.

“Iknow,” she snaps. No hello, or what do you need. She was expecting my call, and probably anticipating some form of verbal discipline.

“You know what?” I ask, playing dumb.

“Oh.” She sighs into the phone. “Sorry, what are you calling about?”

I picture her big brown puppy-dog eyes, probably thinking she dodged a bullet.Nope.“I’m calling about the fact I asked for the voicemail notes on my desk by Friday. As far as I’m aware,it’s Friday.”

“Nathan, I tried my best. I got everything else done on the list. I’ve been listening to voicemails in the car, on speaker while I shower, and basically every single waking moment. I’ve only made it through about half. I don’t know why you think one person could get this done in time. I sent you an email earlier with my progress and the spreadsheet.”

I’ve been at dinner with Finn. I haven’t checked my email in a few hours. “What spreadsheet?”

“My old boss, Hank, was a data guy. I became quite the whiz at Airtables while I was working for him. I figured you wouldn’t want to read through hundreds of pages of my call notes, so I made a spreadsheet organized by property location, complainttype, and severity. There’s even a column in the spreadsheet about profanity level, scale of one to ten.”

“Profanity level? Impressive.”

“That’s actually a pretty useless column. They are mostly all nines and tens. Go ahead and assume everyone calling these lines is beyond irate.”

“What are the tenants so pissed about?” I look up and meet my driver’s stare through the rearview mirror. He widens them in a look that asks,What the hell are we doing?

“That’s the thing,” Spencer says, surprising me with her sudden enthusiasm. “The great thing about spreadsheets is it’s easy to identify patterns. I listened to about half of each property’s voicemails and for Midlake Townhouses and Falcon Crest Apartments, the complaints are pretty varied. Some legitimate, some bogus, but there’s a good mix of various issues. Now, with Lakeshore and Graystone apartments, that’s where it gets interesting.”

I relax in my seat, enjoying the sound of her voice. We’re talking about work, but suddenly I don’t feel so alone. “Well, Nancy Drew. Sounds like you’re on a trail. Fill me in.”

“Nancy Drew? As in you’re calling me a child?” Her question has a bitter edge.

“Spencer, I’m ten years your senior. Please believe me, when people in their thirties call a young twentysomething a ‘kid,’ it’s a compliment, and out of pure envy.”

She laughs. “Okay, I’ll take it. Anyway, I live at Graystone.”

“You do?” I cringe. Those are mostly corporate housing apartments in desperate need of a facelift. We get an obnoxious overhead return on those units because they were cheap as fuck to build, yet because of the location, we can charge about triple what they’re worth. From a businessman’s perspective, it was a fantastic investment. Knowing Spencer is living there leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

“Yes. Remember a couple weeks ago when my closet flooded? It’s still not completely fixed. Building maintenance came through and put up new sheetrock where the water leaked, but the plumbing issues in the unit above us are still ongoing. I overheard the maintenance team complaining to each other that the plumbers were purposely dragging out the job for more billable hours.”

I shrug as if she can see me. “Not ideal, but that’s common in the industry. They have to feed their families somehow.”

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