Page 2 of Over My Dead Boss
Sienna: What do you mean?
Olivia: Well, how many 36-year-olds do you know who write their own obituaries? Conveniently, right before they die.
Sienna: How do you know he wrote it himself?
Olivia: I know all of his writing by heart. I would recognize it anywhere… even if it was but a single pickup line in a dirty glory-hole-bathroom-stall down on Route 69.
Sienna: Solid idea for a new short story. So you think he’s alive?
Olivia: I don’t know. I think this just doesn’t add up.
Sienna: Are you sure you’re not just delusional so you can keep obsessing over your billionaire boyfriend?
How sure can we ever be of anything, really?
“I can get it.” The words leave my mouth before I finish my train of thought.
“What?” Isabella asks, her back still turned towards me.
“The manuscript. If it exists, I can get it.”
She huffs a breath of air through her nose, glancing over her shoulder. “And how would you be able to do that?”
That’s a good question. I wouldn’t. I have no idea how I could.
“Well, you know… I used to work as a PI in college.”
“You did?”
Me, Veronica Mars, what’s the difference?
I have read enough detective novels to know that it involves a lot of sitting around and possibly peeing in empty bottles, two things I am willing to endure if it means uncovering this mystery, and potentially saving our jobs. Even half a manuscript might be worth publishing (in fact, it would be a crime not to) and I doubt any of us can afford to lose our jobs.
“Yeah, family business,” I lie through my teeth and see the suspicion on Isabella’s face. “I mean, it’s not like we have anything to lose, right? We’ll be bankrupt soon enough if nothing happens. So whether I am here to get you your coffee or not won’t really make a difference.”
“You always get my order wrong, anyway.” Isabella sighs, rolls her eyes, and throws her head back in defeat.
I do always get her order wrong. It’s one of my favorite things to do around the office.
“Ugh,” she rubs her temples and seems to consider my idea, “whatever. What’s the worst that can happen? Just don’t expect me to pay any expenses.”
“Yeah, no, that’s alright, but you’ll publish my own book if I am successful,” I demand in a surge of desperate exuberance, trying to make the best of this situation.
Isabella manages a tired laugh. “I told you: we do not publish children’s books.”
“I am writing a steamy paranormal thriller-romance…”
“I meant books written by children. Besides, steamy? Judging from your librarian bun, I’d question whether you even know what that means.”
My librarian bun is exactly how I know what that means, that and all the pastime during my high school job in our local library.
“You can’t write something that you have no idea about,” Isabella adds.
“That’s a quote by Douglas Adams, isn’t it? Famous author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and also well-known alien tour guide?”
I overhear Verna at reception, slamming on her keyboard to drown out her own laughter.
“Don’t get snarky with me, Olivia.” Isabella seems to have mentally clocked out already, along with her will to chastise me like she usually would. “You know what? Fine. We have nothing to lose. If you get me a printable manuscript by Phoenix Cyrus, one that we can turn into cold, hard pecunia, we will publish your silly little book. Tell Ruth to draw up a contract that says what I just said.”
