Page 155 of Every Silent Lie

In their power suit and policeman costume.

There are many things I know about Dec Ellis. And one of them is this. He doesn’t spend time on things that he’s not passionate about.

I chew my lip, very aware that I’m restraining my smile.

He spent time on his wife.

No, he spent time on Albi.

He really didn’t love her. And that feels like one weight lifted from the various weights on my shoulders.

I tiptoe across the snow and stamp my heels on the mat just inside the doors of my building, noting it’s quiet in the foyer. When I make it up to our floor, it’s no different. A ghost town. I pass Debbie’s empty desk and push my way into my office, dropping my bag on the chair and shrugging off my coat, hanging it on the hook, then I make my way to the kitchen to get a coffee. I don’t see one person on my way, and the kitchen is empty too. I scroll through my emails while I wait for the machine to spit out my caffeine, and sip on my way back, flagging and deleting as I work my way through my inbox.

The elevator doors open as I’m passing, and Thomas’s son steps off. “Morning, Anthony,” I say out of politeness, rolling my eyes when he grunts his reply.

“So what lucky company will have the pleasure of Camryn Moore next?” he asks, stopping me in my tracks.

“I’m not following.” I face him. Face his smarmy, smug face.

“We’ve sold up, Camryn, which means you’re out of a job.”

What?

“And it isn’t your boyfriend who bought us, but well done on your efforts to help him sabotage the deal.” He smiles wide. “Merry Christmas, Camryn.” Off he goes, an irritating, cocky swagger to his stride as he whistles his way to his office.

“Fuck,” I whisper, deflating on the spot. Out of a job. Endless days killing time. Nothing to distract myself.

Feeling like I’ve got bricks in my heels, I go back to my office and lower to my chair, staring at the screen of my computer, wondering . . . what now?

The door swings open, halting my thoughts in their tracks, and Anthony swans in, a box in his hand. He places it neatly on my desk, still smiling like a psycho. “You’re welcome,” he singsongs, turning but stopping on a theatrical, “Oh!” He pulls something out from his back pocket—a pile of papers—and slaps them on my desk. “I’ve highlighted the vacancies that I thought were a good match for your skillset.” He leaves, slamming the door so hard it shakes on its hinges. I pull the papers forward and scan the highlighted vacancies. Pot washer. Road Sweeper. Cleaner for the public toilets across various city parks. Chicken plucker.

“Prick,” I mutter, shoving the papers away and slumping back in my chair. My phone dings, and I swipe it up, softening the moment I see the message from Dec. It’s a picture of Albi in the boardroom in his policeman costume. Head of the table.

How’s your day going?

I laugh under my breath. But stop. Does Dec know he’s failed to secure the deal with TF Shipping? I contemplate asking, my thumbs hovering over the screen of my phone, but think better of it, dropping it to my desk and blowing out my exasperation. No job. What the hell am I going to do?

Pulling open the drawers on my desk, I start to empty them of my personal things, dropping it all in the box. Deflated. I failed to get TF Shipping ready for the team to come in and prepare it for debut on the market. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. The odds were against me, but I’ve never failed. It’s a smear on my CV I don’t need.

A familiar knock sounds on the door. “Come in, Thomas,” I say tiredly, surprised once again he’s sought me out. “I suppose I should congratulate you on the sale,” I say flatly, making his eyebrows jump up. “Anthony wasn’t at all creaming his pants when he shared the news.”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “I told him I wanted to tell you.”

“A lot sure did happen while I was off for two whole days.”

“Are you feeling better?”

I toss my paperweight into the box. “Much, thanks.” I rest my palms on the edge of my desk and lean on them. “I had no idea who Dec was when I met him.” Not that it matters now, since he’s failed to buy the company. “And I know he’s told you man to man he wasn’t fishing.”

“He knew what he was doing.”

“You think he planned to . . . what? Seduce me?”

“If the boot fits.”

“It doesn’t.” I drop a pile of pens into the box. They’re not technically mine, but I have no pens and . . . fuck him. “I want a decent reference.”

“I don’t think so.” Anthony laughs, appearing behind Thomas.