Page 41 of Only the Devil

He turns into a conference room.

Toby and Gilda sit at a round table with their lunches before them, and there’s a third man with a receding hairline at the table too. Despite the thinning hair, I’d still peg him as late twenties or early thirties.

A whiteboard hangs haphazardly from one nail, as if someone abandoned it rather than finish unscrewing it from the wall. The mismatched chairs and too-small-for-the-room table tell me these guys must’ve scrounged remnant furniture.

“Hey guys. I’ve got Daisy with me. Daisy, you remember Toby and Gilda, and this is Carson.”

“Did you work with Jocelyn?” Carson asks.

“No.”

With that one-word, he dismisses me and continues his conversation with Gilda and Toby. “Did you check the link I sent you to Roanoke Daily? She was at her mountain house. Sherry said that she’d told her she was staying home this weekend. She said she’d be around. Something must’ve happened. Why else would she go away to the mountains to be alone?”

“Who?” I ask, playing dumb and wanting to get looped into the conversation.

Toby answers, “Jocelyn. That’s what you’re talking about, right?”

Carson gives a slight affirmative nod and wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“She changed plans,” Gilda says. “We’ve all changed weekend plans.”

Carson’s phone buzzes. He glances at it and snorts. “Darryl from accounting is asking if anyone knows what the guys in suits were doing on four this morning.”

Gilda looks up from her salad. “What guys in suits?” Her fork pauses midair; a chickpea slides off and drops back into the bowl.

“Security consultants, probably,” Toby says. “I saw them too.” He leans back like he called it first, but his knee jitters under the table.

Ned leans forward. “You think it’s because of—” He flicks a glance at the door, like the walls might be listening.

“Don’t,” Gilda cuts him off, glancing at me.

The silence that follows tells me I am the untrusted one.

I unwrap my sandwich, dropping my gaze, as if by not looking at them, they’ll forget I’m here.

“Here? For us?” Toby verifies.

“Yep,” Ned confirms. “Darryl mentioned it. That’s why I think more’s going on. Like they received threats or something. I mean, think about it. First, we have a fund go under. People are pissed. One of our employees mysteriously dies, and now they’re getting security. I mean, for the executives, obviously. Not us, but…I think one of those people who lost their shirts is coming after us.”

Carson interrupts, elbow on the table, fork pointed between Ned and me. “Daisy, bear in mind, this is pure conjecture. We know nothing.” He flips his phone face down but keeps a thumb on it, waiting for the next buzz.

“They’re hiring security but only for the fourth floor? Are you kidding me?” Gilda asks, completely disregarding Carson.

“Would you expect anything else? Like they give a shit about anyone outside of the C-suite,” Toby spits. He looks angry, until his gaze falls on me, and he looks like he might choke. Gilda’s napkin bunches in her fist; she smooths it flat without looking at me.

“I’m not the C-suite,” I say, holding up both palms.

“Clearly,” Toby says. “Anyway, if they only get security for the top floor, it’ll show how stupid the old guys are. If someone comes in with a bomb or obliterates a floor with an AK-47, it’s not like they’re safe. We’re on the floor below them.”

“I could be off on this, but I don’t think they’re afraid of either of those scenarios,” Gilda says.

“Oh. You think they’re thinking someone’s going to come in with the goal of taking out the CEO or something? Something more targeted?” Toby asks.

“Honestly, I don’t know what they’re afraid of.” Gilda swirls her fork through her bowl of chickpeas and lettuce. “I really hope you’re wrong with your bomb theory.”

“I wasn’t thinking bomb,” Ned says. “I was thinking more like targeted killings. Of the people with faces on the website.”

I stare at him, thinking about Jocelyn’s absence on the website. Ned’s theory is nonsensical.