Page 35 of Only the Devil
“Pet costumes are fun. And support my argument. If you’re that depressed, do you do something fun like deck your cat out in an American flag hat and T-shirt on July Fourth?”
Laughter sounds from someone nearby.
“I’m serious,” the woman adds, and she means it.
“Did you guys hear about Jocelyn?” This is a third, male voice.
Apparently, the cubicles outside my office are where it’s at. They know I’m here, maybe not hovering by the threshold, but my office door is open, so they aren’t actively trying to prevent me from hearing. I guess the lone Doc Marten-wearing newbie isn’t intimidating. Which means…
I exit my office and step closer to the conversation, coffee still in hand.
“What happened to Jocelyn?”
Three sets of eyes stare at me like I’m shining a spotlight on them and am about to hand one of them a karaoke mic.
“I overheard.” I point at my ear as if they don’t know what I mean. “Suicide?” I ask, pointedly tilting my voice upward and doing my best water-cooler gossip position, likely coming across as freakishly weird.
“Actually,” a male twenty-something in a khaki suit and scuffed loafers, says, “reports are saying it was a gas leak. Massive fire. Like, can you imagine? You’re sitting in your home, thinking you’ve maybe had one too many glasses of whatever you’re drinking and that’s why you’re lightheaded, you light a match for candle ambience, and then whoosh, flames.”
“That’s how they’re saying she died?” Where did they hear this already?
“Yep,” scuffed loafers says, thrusting his hand out to me. “I’m Toby. I’m in sales. Like these guys.”
“Sales?” I ask. “Oh, you mean, like telemarketers?”
“Well, I’m a marketing assistant,” Ned interjects. “I don’t want their job.”
“Oh, why?”
“Cold calls,” Ned says, making a face.
“Because writing scripts and email copy is so much better,” Toby says.
“It is,” Ned smiles. “I have the power of AI.”
I have to give it to Ned. If forced to choose between the two jobs, and by forced I mean like my choice for my next meal was to do their job or to sell my body on the street corner, I’d go for Ned’s job.
“What did Jocelyn do?” I ask, and scratch at a nonexistent itch, hoping my conversational transition back to death wasn’t too awkward.
Toby gives me a what-the-hell look that flusters my socially awkward self.
“I’m Daisy. By the way,” I say, wobbling my head back and forth like a bobblehead. “I’m a programmer.” My hand gestures down my black sleeveless dress that this morning I thought was office-y but these three have me second guessing the office attire algorithm.
“I’m Gilda,” the woman says. “Jocelyn was a comptroller. Financial reports and what not. I’m glad it wasn’t suicide,” she says, directing the conversation to Toby. “Valerie didn’t come in today. She called me this morning, crying, worried that she should’ve seen the signs, that she should’ve done something. Instead, she skipped lunch and ducked out early. She’s got this crazy guilt complex that if she’d stayed for lunch, maybe Jocelyn wouldn’t have…” she blinks, and revises what she was saying. “Anyway, this is good news. I’m going to go call Valerie. This will make her feel better.”
I can’t help but wonder who is spreading the news? How did Gilda learn about Jocelyn’s death? I’ve seen nothing in the media that assumed suicide, and I’m actively monitoring.
I file away each piece of information like variables in a dataset: Jocelyn worked Friday (data point 1), scheduled a Monday meeting (data point 2), cat costume photos (personality profile). I agree with Gilda. The suicide-narrative math doesn’t math.
And of course it doesn’t. These three don’t know that someone hauled a body out of the building in the dead of night, set her up in her getaway weekend mountain cottage two hours away from here, and that someone else must have lit the match. Last I checked, ghosts can’t light matches.
“I suppose I should get a fresh cup of coffee before I start my calls,” Toby announces.
“You literally spend your entire day making cold calls?” I ask, a little bothered on his behalf. What a horrible life.
“Gotta prove your abilities on the phone, then you get to travel,” Toby says.
Now that’s interesting. “Travel means what? You go knocking on doors selling into the crypto fund?” That question earns me an inquisitive expression. Probably too direct.
