Page 5 of Over My Dead Boss
Sienna giggles, her ear pressed against the phone from the other side to be able to listen in. I take a quick breath, and try to finish my monologue, but am cut off before I can even start.
“I have not met a protagonist that I’ve been more in love with than Noël. Absolutely transformative is what those books were, genre defining,” Rosa declares, and I think I can hear the oncoming tears in her voice. She is right, of course. This series was undoubtedly his magnum opus. Epic Contemporary became a new genre overnight when the first book became a hit.
“We all took it very hard as well,” I agree as Sienna starts fake-sobbing in the background. “Well, we’re still taking it very hard, I guess.” I turn around, hoping she won’t ruin my elaborate ploy. “Anyway, uh, so we recently switched addresses, and I just wanted to confirm that you send the bill to the right place.”
“Say no more,” Rosa sobs into the phone, apparently empathizing with Sienna. “I’ll pull that right up.” A few seconds, and a loud blow into a tissue later, she finds what I need. “The contact we have is Ryker Grayson at Grayson LLP.”
Hurriedly, I scribble down the address, that she also mentions, on a piece of paper and can’t believe my plan actually worked. “Oh, well, what do you know? That is the correct one. I guess you can send that bill right out if you haven’t already.”
After listening to Rosa’s theories about what Noël’s notebooks might contain for a little longer and how she wishes for Noël and Roan to end up together (in another life we could have been great friends), I finally hang up and look over at Sienna, who nods with satisfaction.
“You’d make a fine criminal, Oli, but one question: why the Swedish accent? That person doesn’t know who you are.”
“Swedish? I was going for Scottish and plausible deniability? Now she thinks she spoke to a, well, British or Scandinavian person and that’s definitely not me.” Without losing more time, I pack my bag. Bras, socks, shirts, my laptop and a few packs of ramen, everything one might need to survive out in the wilderness.
“Moving out?” Sienna asks, sipping her coffee with observing eyes.
“Not quite. First, I am going to rule out that he’s just hiding at home, which he won’t be because he’s not an idiot.” I think about it for a second and shake my head.No, he isn’t.He might be a cruel boss whose last act before resigning was to slash our wages, but he’s not stupid.“Then I am going to check out this lead that I just got and—”
“And if that doesn’t pan out?”
I shrug and, just in case, pack a warm blanket and the binoculars we use to check whether we need to call an ambulance for old Mrs. Pohler down the street.
Sienna nods, and from the way she wiggles her butt, I can tell she has been saving what she is about to say for a while now, “I was thinking we could name the book that you’ll be ghostwriting ‘Over My Dead Boss’…”
I try to hide my laughter, give her a hug, pat Chairman Meow, who went back to sleep on our bed, and head out. Luckily, I still have the run-down piece of junk that legally counts as a car and had functioned as my humble abode before Sienna and I moved in together into our much-too-tiny-for-two-people apartment. I put the almost bursting bag into the back, ignore the smashed-in window on the passenger seat (because of course someone had to do that in our neighborhood) and drive straight to the address I have gotten from Isabella’s phone. Naturally, his house is located in the nicest part of the city and when I park a little down the road from what I assume must be his building, I can feel how I am sticking out like an amputated and then put-back-the-wrong-way-around thumb. The houses aren’t just houses; they are old, oversized, well-maintained brownstones that probably have beenin the familyfor centuries, next to modern, over-engineered glass palaces that probably were bought with money made from an app that does nothing but charge you money and sell your user data. It looks more like a row of museums than homes.
I grab a baseball cap and a jacket with a high collar to hide my face and walk down the street.No concierge,I check, try to open the door into the lobby and, to my surprise, walk right in. Pretending like I belong, I go straight to the elevator and press the button when I suddenly hear steps behind me. Quickly, I slip into the stairway to my right and carefully close the door. Through a small gap, I watch as the doorman makes his way back to the entrance. Not wanting to risk getting caught, I quietly close the door and hike up the stairs to the penthouse on the top floor. There are no name tags anywhere, but where else would one of the richest people in the world live? He probably owns the entire building.
I think about just ringing the doorbell but doubt he would actually open, so instead I do what every good PI would do in this situation: I break the law.
3
Without thinking twice, I pull the fire alarm and wait for the door to open and Phoenix Cyrus to run out in his underwear.
I could do a year in jail,I think as I ponder possible punishments for the crime I just committed.
I should do a year in jail, I think, for wanting him to be in his underwear.
A minute later, no one has left the apartment.
I was right. He is not here.
Quickly, I run down the stairs and bump right into the doormen from earlier.
Busted.
“What are you still doing here?” he screams, running my way while trying to keep his pants from sagging with one hand. “Get out. NOW!”
I can’t believe my luck, nod without saying a word and run outside, straight to my car.
I really should tell him to up his security once I find him.
Not eager to get caught, I floor the gas pedal and start fleeing the scene before I remember that this is exactly how all criminals get caught: by violating basic traffic laws. So I slow down, take a deep breath and turn on the radio, hoping to hear a rendition of Smooth Criminal. I am slightly disappointed when the news is on instead, reporting on Mr. Cyrus’s death as well. A few hours later, I make it all the way to my second destination. The small university town it is located in, is surrounded by extensive woodland and apparently not much else. I park my car in a parking lot, opposite of the law firm, Grayson LLP, before getting out and stretching a bit. The parking lot belongs to a diner in a charming 50s style where I use the bathroom and get a bagel to-go before staking out in my car, not sure what to do next. I would need a good plan to get them to admit that he is still alive. If the employees are even in the know, which seems unlikely. Calling them from Sweden and/or Scotland would probably not be enough.
I contemplate my options as I stare at my metaphorical dead-end when the door of the building moves and is held open by a towering figure who escorts an old lady outside. From the distance, all I can see are shoulders like a mountain range, a thick stubble that hides half his face and the old lady poking him with her cane as she holds onto his arm. Quickly, I dig for my binoculars and spy on the spitting image of Noël. He looks just like the main character from Phoenix Cyrus’s epic series.
Did Mr. Cyrus model his character after a real person?
