Page 3 of Over My Dead Boss
I look over to Verna, who nods in my direction, giving me two thumbs up and a big smile. “I’ll let her know,” she says and quickly leaves her desk, presumably to hide from Isabella for a bit.
“Great. Thanks for the opportunity, Isabella.” I try to sound as professional as I can, afraid I might burst with careful optimism at the prospect of actually getting my own book deal. “I am going to need all the information you have on him. His address, his phone number, contact details of his friends and family, oh, and a picture. I don’t know what he looks like.”
“There are no pictures of him. He hides from the camera like a deer from a rifle, but it doesn’t matter. You’ll know him when you see him.” She holds out her phone in my direction.
What is that even supposed to mean? There are over 7 billion people on this planet, but I’ll know him when I see him?
“Maybe a description?” I ask as I reach for the phone.
“He’ll be the annoyingly good-looking one. Too tall, too dark, features too defined. When you see someone and you get the sudden urge to punch them in the face? That’s him.”
Maybe he’s related to you, I think as I open her phone and navigate to her contacts.
Phoenix Cyrus’s phone number. Feeling like a criminal, I forward the contact details to myself.It even has his address.That should give me at least something to go on.
2
When I get home that evening, Sienna is already waiting, and the pungent scent of Indian curry hits me on the way in.
“Sorry about that. I figured since your boyfriend isn’t dead after all, you wouldn’t need much cheering up, so I got my favorite food instead of yours,” she says with a sheepish grin.
Exhausted from the day, I slump down next to her in our living room, which also features as our bedroom, and help myself to some dinner. “That’s fine. I like curry, but did you get the—” Before I can finish my question, Sienna throws a fortune cookie in my lap. “Thanks. Can’t have takeout without it.”
She nods approvingly with a full mouth. Of course, usually Indian restaurants don’t give out fortune cookies, but when Mr. Menon overheard Sienna and I talk about our fondness for their phony wisdoms, he quickly added them to his menu.
“How is he?” I ask and start stuffing food in my mouth.
“Mr. Menon? Good. He asked about you. Says he misses you.”
“I am sure he does,” I mumble.
“Still don’t wanna go out with his son then?”
I shake my head and chase the spicy food with some water. “I don’t have time to date, you know that.”
“I know you keep telling yourself that, yes. But maybe it’s time for you to live a little. Life can’t just be about work, work, work.”
“I know that, Rihanna. Life isn’t about work. Life is about making enough money so you can pay rent, have delicious Indian food and buy enough books.”
“And pay your parents’ debt,” Sienna adds with a sigh.
I shrug, put another spoon of curry in my mouth, and rummage through my bag. “Not for much longer,” I swallow and let the stapled papers glide into my best friend’s lap. “I got a deal for my book.” Her eyes widen to twice their size, but I quickly stop her before she starts screaming. “Well, not exactly a deal. Just a promise of a deal if I can find the manuscript Phoenix Cyrus was working on before his passing… supposed passing. It’s the last book in his, as of yet, unfinished and highly anticipated Memorandum series and it would make a small fortune, I assume.”
Sienna’s eyes narrow again with skepticism, her brain obviously working overtime. “Wait, so your rat of a boss is gonna publish your book, but only if you can steal a dead guy’s book first?”
“Well, if you put it like that… He’s not dead, okay? But yes, I talked her into it, which was surprisingly easy. She must be quite desperate but it’s a good plan, ok? Well, it’s a plan. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“They could catch you for fraud,” Sienna whispers, deep in thoughts.
“Fraud?”
“Of course,” she exclaims, “you should write the book yourself. Pretend to be him, write it, hand it in, collect your reward, be a successful author, buy me an island. Easy.” Sienna always had a lively imagination; maybe she should be the author.
“Fraud indeed. And they’d notice.” I shake my head.
“Officially, he’s dead. Dead people don’t sue. No one could proof it wasn’t written by him. It’s a victimless crime.”
“It’d be a crime against art. And if it came out, I’d go to jail. I admire Wolfgang Beltracchi as much as the next guy, but I don’t think I could pull off prison.”
