Page 44 of Roma King
“Who the fuck is Larissa, Roger?”
“She’s the head of human resources. She thinks it would be ill-advised if you came to work for the next couple of days. A week. Two weeks, max. Just until all of this is ironed out.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. “I’m not getting a lawyer, Roger. I haven’t done anything wrong. And even if I did get one, what am I supposed to hire them to do, if I don’t even know who’s making up this utterbullshitabout me?”
“Uhhh…”
“Let me get this straight. I’m suspended from work. That’s what you’re telling me. Because someone said I’m being mean to them. I’m having a hard time trying to work out what’s going on here.”
“I’m sorry, Zara. It’s not my call. I know…this is a bit of a shock, but—”
“No, Roger! This is not ashock. This is a fucking nuclear bomb going off, and my entire life it at its goddamn epicenter!”
“I’m sorry, really I am. My hands are tied. This is our policy when a complaint is reported. We have to do things by the book. I know you’re a good girl. This…this is all stuff and nonsense. We’re going to get to the bottom of it, and you’ll be back at your desk in no time, mark my words. In the meantime, I took the liberty of packing up your belongings. Just in case you need anything. A guy let me into your building a couple of hours ago and I left the box outside your door. I would have knocked, but it was still dark, and I just thought, well…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. Doesn’t need to. We both know what he’s trying to say: he thought it would be easier to avoid a confrontation in person, and he dumped my stuff on my doorstep like a motherfucking coward and then ran away. I’ve never had a problem with Roger, but right now I want to punch him square in the face. I look down at my cell. I don’t have a landline. If Pasha hadn’t brought the device back to me last night at the bar, what would have happened? I would have strolled into work later on this afternoon, completely oblivious and unaware of what was going on, only to find myself shamed, embarrassed, and escorted from the building.
I can hear Roger mumbling on the phone, but I can’t bring myself to lift the thing to my ear, so I hit the end call button and stare at it until the screen goes dark.
What.
The.
Actual.
Fuck.
Is.
Happening?
I drag myself to the front door, on the verge of tears. This month. This stupid month has been off the charts weird already, and it just got infinitely worse. Roger didn’t say anything about my ‘leave’ from work beingwithpay, so I’m guessing it isn’t. I love my job, but it doesn’t exactly land me a huge amount of money at the end of each month. Roger said I’d be away from dispatch for two weeks at the most. Half a month’s salary, gone, down the drain. And for what? I literally havenoidea.
As promised, a small white box sits on my doormat with my name scrawled across the top of it in sharpie. I snatch up the box and carry it into the kitchen, then remove the lid. The contents inside make my stomach drop. It’s everything from my desk. Everything from my drawers. Not a pen, a notepad, or knickknack left behind. Even the few photos I had tacked up around the edge of my computer screen have been slipped into the box.
I collect the photos, slapping each one on the kitchen counter, the tears that had threatened to fall now doing so.
A photo of my mom and dad on vacation in Cabo, toasting each other, champagne flutes in hand. A shot of my friend Jillian and I at the top of Machu Picchu—the one and only time I’ve ever left the country. A trip I paid for with the money I saved working at Starbucks for three years while I was in school. The third photo I let float down onto the counter is of my friend David and his wife. I was meant to go to their wedding six months ago, but I’d had to work. The fourth photo—
I stop. My hands shake as I look down at the photo in my hand. Except it’s not a photo at all…and it wasnoton my desk. Something roils in my chest, a pressure rising to uncomfortable levels. I’m either going to have a heart attack or I’m going to explode. Flashes of gold glint as I turn the card over in my hand, studying the detailed, delicate illustration of the woman on its face. She’s beautiful. Her long, wavy hair is thick and full, streaked with bolts of gold. Her dress is a spring green, the color of freshly sprouted leaves. The same color as Pasha Rivin’s eyes. In her hand, she holds a gleaming scepter, topped with what looks like a cut diamond, and on her head sits a blazing crown of stars. The matte surface of the tarot card is smooth and silky beneath my fingers as I carefully set it down next to the unopened mail I brought up last night and I stare at it.
How on earth?
I didn’t take the tarot card from Shelta’s tent. She snatched it up and slipped it back into the pack before I could even get a proper look at it, but Iknowthis is the same card. It’s theexactsame one I selected from her pack back at the fair. It has absolutely no business being here, amongst my things from work.
It’s impossible to rip my eyes away from the card. I keep it locked in my gaze like it might disappear if I so much as blink. It doesn’t go anywhere, though. I’mnotimagining it, which is a bit of a surprise. Quickly, I throw on a sweater and shove my feet into my Ugg boots, pocket the card, and then I’m tearing up two flights of stairs and beelining for Sarah’s door.Fuck. This is un-fucking-real.I brace myself against the door frame as I wait for her to answer—it really does feel like I’m going to have a heart attack now—but the door never opens.
A minute passes by, and then another. I check the time on my cell, my vision blurring when I see that it’s only six forty-five am. Sarah isnota morning person. There’s no way she’s already up and out for the day. It takes more than two hours for her to fix her hair alone, and she’d never take a booking from a client at the nail salon before dawn has properly broken. That means she’s either dead inside her apartment, or she went somewhere last night, after telling me she was planning on getting to bed early, and she still isn’t back yet.
Sarah’s too stubborn to die alone and unnoticed in her apartment. It’s just not her style. It’s beginning to look like the woman lied to me last night, but I’m too wound up to care about that right now. Ineedher. I need to know what this stupid fucking card means. I need to know what happened between her and Shelta.
I need to know what her sister is capable of.
17
PASHA
FOR THE BEST
