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Coralie

“Mr. Wincott’s office, this is Coralie speaking...” She has to stop in the middle of the sentence and swallow the extra saliva in her mouth. Sudden nausea is a new and unwelcome sensation in her life. “How may I help you?”

“I need to speak with him,” the caller snaps without identifying himself.

She takes a steadying breath and a sip of water. The fact that Mr. Wincott’s older brother has to wait is just a side benefit. The man is such an asshole. He always rings in this way—overbearing and in a big hurry.

“One moment,” she says eventually. “Let me see if he can be interrupted.”

“It’s important.”

She rolls her eyes as she puts the call on hold. Then she scrubs a hand across her face before pressing another button on her phone. The door to the inner office isn’t very thick, so she hears the answering chime inside. “It’s Mr. Wincott, sir,” she says. “He says it’s important.”

“That’s just what I need,” he grumbles through the open line. “Fine. I’ll take it.”

She releases the button and watches as the light on her phone goes from blinking to solid.

The other Mr. Wincott calls maybe twice a week. She’s never met him, but he’s always a dick. Her boss is always grouchy after those calls.

That’s usually when the bottle of scotch comes out. Among other things.

Coralie finds her handbag and freshens her makeup. Her face is sallow, and her eyes are tired. The boss has a thing for red lipstick. She doesn’t need him asking questions. She’s not ready. She may not ever be ready.

Mr. Wincott’s voice is raised now, one question coming through quite clearly. “Would you just let me handle it, you arrogant fuck?”

Such a charming family.

She pops a Tic Tac, because they seem to help, and bends over her work. She’s labeling and alphabetizing a heap of donor files. If she misspells anyone’s name, he’ll berate her for it.

Her concentration is so intense that she startles when he comes storming out of the inner office.

She braces herself for a barked order, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she watches as he marches out of the room and makes a left into the corridor, his footsteps receding as he leaves the premises.

Okay. Well. Maybe he’ll return in a better mood. In the meantime, she can file these away without his looming presence. She picks up the stack of finished folders and hurries into his office.

The first file drawer she’ll need is behind his desk. She files ALLEN in the “A” drawer and moves on down the stack. She’s kneeling in front of the “G” cabinet when she notices the bottom drawer of the boss’s desk has been left ajar.

Hot diggity. This is the chance she’s been waiting for.

She goes still for a moment, listening. When she’s satisfied that no one is coming, she places her stack of files on the floor near the open file cabinet. Her cover, if she needs it.

Then she turns and crouches behind his desk. She can’t see the doorway from here, but she’ll be able to hear him coming. She hastily opens the desk drawer all the way and starts sifting through the contents.

It only takes a second to find the extra checkbook—the secret one. But the check register is blank. He hasn’t been recording the recipients, and the carbon copies have been torn out.

Shit.

But hang on. When she squints at the next check’s carbon, she can make out the name and amount. It’s faint, but the heavy pen he uses makes an impression.

Elizabeth Jones. $700.00.

Not a bad payday, Elizabeth. Not bad at all.

She hears footsteps and freezes, her heart jumping into her mouth. Slowly, she releases her grip on the checkbook and prepares to back away.

But then a vacuum cleaner starts up, and her eyelids slide shut with relief.

That was close. She can’t listen for him anymore, not with someone vacuuming the corridor. Still, a few more seconds seems worth the risk.

She quickly reaches into the drawer again, opening the checkbook. She tears that blank check and its carbon out of the book—for inspection later. She’s returning the checkbook to the drawer when she notices his elegant handwriting on the tab of a file folder. Address Labels .

Hmm.

She lifts the folder to peer inside. There’s a page of typed-up labels in three columns, and a few of the labels are missing. Each column has the same address—the first column is Elizabeth in Westbrook, the second is for a woman in York, the third to one in Biddeford.

Three women. None of them employees of the foundation. Fascinating.

Working fast, she nabs one label for each woman and sticks them onto the back of the stolen check. Then she tidies up the drawer and closes it.

She gets off the floor and straightens her skirt. It’s a looser style than she’d usually wear. Getting dressed is trickier than it used to be.

She folds the check and the carbon into thirds and tuck them into her shoe. Then she picks up her stack of folders and hastily finishes her filing.

As she works, the pilfered check itches against her foot, and she can’t shake the feeling that Mr. Wincott will somehow know what she’s done.

BECAUSE YOU’RE A STUPID BITCH, CORALIE.

The voice in her head startles her, and she has to take a deep breath.

She glances around the office and then out the window. Often, she has the prickly sensation of being watched.

You never know where the eyes are. Some days it feels like they’re everywhere.