Takeover

by Diana Dwayne

  This is somehow my fault.

  “Pearson!” he screams as soon as I get within his line of sight. “What the fuck do I pay you for? I had to talk to the secretary of the ambassador fifteen minutes ago. Do you know what that feels like? Having to field a call from someone’s secretary? Bloody hell, now I have to miss happy hour with the wife to meet with this fuck. Get your fucking ass back in that goddamned chair and get back to work!”

  I would answer that speaking to other secretaries is about eighty percent of my job description, but he slams the door before I can take the required amount of air into my lungs to begin to make such a statement.

  This leads to a curious phenomenon that I can only assume occurs in every office which houses a temperamental boss: all of the people, who had somehow been hidden at the first sign of my boss’s eruption, start slowly peeking their heads out from their cover. A couple of them timidly make their way toward me, apologizing for the way that he talks to me. A couple of them even tell me that I should just scream right back at him. This is coming from the people who were too scared of the man to even be present during my reaming. For some reason, I can’t help but think of antelope on the Serengeti after a lion has just left the area.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say. “I should really just get back to work.”

  The antelope sense danger again through some unknown mechanism and quickly retreat back to their own workstations. I would laugh, but I have that same feeling building in my chest, too.

  Mr. McDaniel opens his door and says, “Pearson?”

  His voice is soft, almost comforting. He must have just reached that stage of midday drunkenness where he’s about to tell me how sorry he is for being so mean to me, but justifying himself at the same time by blaming me. If that sounds convoluted, that’s because it is.

  “Listen,” he says, “I’m sorry that I yelled at you. It wasn’t your fault. You were just on your lunch break. I shouldn’t have answered the phone. I should know better than this by now, but when you’re not here, I sometimes forget what I’m doing.”

  Now he’s going to make sure I know that it’s still my fault, but that he’s so generous, he’s going to let it slide.

  “Yes, you should have been here to take the call—I mean, it is your job after all—but I understand that you’ve got a lot going on right now, so no hard feelings, right?”

  “Thank you, sir,” I respond. He doesn’t have the first clue as to what’s going on in my life right now, but he’s still only half a breath away from going back to angry-drunk, so I don’t bother to inform him.

  “Good talk,” he says. “Why don’t you head on home, I’ll have Cynthia fill in for you.”

  This would be a generous offer, but I remember Cynthia’s disheveled hair as she’s walked out of Mr. McDaniel’s office after more than a few of my Monday afternoon lunch breaks.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say again, and collect my things. If I don’t get out of here quickly enough, he’s going to forget his “generosity” and make me stay late. You know, I might be more willing to quit this job if I hadn’t spent so much time and energy into reading every signal from Mr. McDaniel. It’s kind of like Marie Curie dying of radiation poisoning after her work as a chemist. My hair is already falling out, so I may as well stick with what I know.

  I’m on the elevator within a minute of thanking my boss for benevolently allowing me to go home early so he can plug Cynthia from accounting in his office without an audience. Wow, that’s a mouthful. And now I’m trying to erase the image that comes into my head due to the juxtaposition of the words “plug Cynthia” and “mouthful.” Eww.

  The elevator gets to the ground floor, and I’m already pulling up James’s number.

  “Hey sweetheart,” he answers, “is everything okay at the office?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “my boss actually let me off early. He apologized for calling me back in so abruptly and told me that I could go home.”

  “That’s wonderful,” he says, “your surprise should be about ready when you get here.”

  “You didn’t have to do anything,” I say, welling up with tears. You know, at some point, I’m going to have to get over my schoolgirl disbelief and proneness to tears.

  “I wanted to,” he says. “I know what a big deal it is for you to move in with me, and I want to make sure that you feel just at home here as you did at your apartment.”

  I make my way into the parking structure and try to hide the quiver in my voice as I answer, “Anywhere with you is home.” Maybe I’ve been overdosing on chick flicks.

  “I’ll see you soon then?” he asks.

  “Absolutely,” I say. “See you in a few.”

  “I love you.”

  I smile. “I love you too.”

  I get in my car, and I’m in the mood for something bouncy and stupid, so I forego the next installment of my self-read audiobook of Kafka short stories and flip the radio to a nineties pop station. My voice is nearly hoarse by the time I pull up in front of the house, but it’s not my fault they make that crappy music so darned catchy.

  James’s house—well, I guess it’s our house now—was left to him by his parents in their will. They died when he was still sixteen but, being an only child whose coffers had just been filled to overflowing by his parents’ life insurance, he was able to be declared an emancipated minor. I still remember being a junior in high school and driving by his house, seeing dozens of people so much cooler than I was partying there almost every night.

  Now it’s my home.

  I park the car on the side of the curb, my usual spot, and get out, reveling in the adrenaline as it makes this moment finally seem real. I get to the front walk and James opens the door.

  “Close your eyes,” he says.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Your surprise, silly.”

  I close my eyes, and I can’t help but feel vindicated for all the torment that is still too much on my mind from ten years ago. I feel James’s strong hands come to rest on my shoulders and he slowly guides me forward.

  “All right, now step up,” he says, making sure that I don’t take a bad stride. “One more,” he says, and I get to the landing just before the door. “Now, keep your eyes closed,” he says, and he leaves my side to open the door. His hands are back on my shoulders in a moment, and he’s guiding me the rest of the way into the house.

  I’ve never been much for surprises. Either I figure out what the surprise is beforehand, or I build it up so much in my mind that, no matter what it is, I’m disappointed. It’s been all I could do to try and keep the possibilities out of my head since I saw James an hour ago.

  He positions me in what must be the living room and says, “All right, open your eyes.”

  I do, and what I see in front of me takes my breath away. It’s a bookcase. It’s gorgeous, and he’s already filled it with my books. “Oh my god,” I say, starting to cry for what feels like the tenth time today.

  “Do you like it?” he asks. “I couldn’t get all of your books on it, so I just put up the ones that looked like they were the most worn. I figured those were your favorites. I put the rest in the bookcase in our room.”

  “I love it,” I say and wrap my arms around the high school jock who turned out to be the sweetest man I’ve ever known.

  He chuckles a little bit, well, about as much as my way-too-tight grip will allow him to, and he puts his arms around me. “Welcome home,” he says.

  I don’t even know what to say except for the words, “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” he says. “I talked to this guy who runs an antique shop in town, and he said that this is Japanese, and it’s made from a special kind of wood—”

  “Cocobolo,” I answer. “I’ve always loved the smell of it.”

  “Why am I not surprised that you know that?” he chuckles. “He said that, even though this particular bookcase is very old and has been treated with some special varnish, that the wood can be oi
ly, and can actually stain things, so I put some thick paper under the books. I hope that doesn’t take away its atsthetic”—he stumbles—“atsthetic,” he says again, frustrated.

  “Aesthetic value?” I chuckle, “not at all.” I squeeze him again and say, “It is absolutely perfect.”

  “I promise, I know the word, that’s just a rough transition,” he says. “Try it. Put the words ‘its’ and ‘aesthetic’ together a few times.”

  We spend the next minute or so repeating “its aesthetic” until we both can’t say the phrase without laughing, and I am so in love with this man.

  “That’s not all though,” he says. “I have another surprise for you. Let me go get it, I’ll be right back.”

  He rushes off through the hallway to the kitchen on the other side of the house, and I take a minute to look at the bookcase. All but the faces of the drawers are a very dark, very rich tone with absolutely stunning striations, giving an incredible contrast between the wood and the books sitting on its shelves.

  I barely feel comfortable approaching it, it’s so beautiful; but if this is mine, I may as well acquaint myself with it better. Who am I kidding, I just want to bask in the one area of my life that not only makes sense, but actually makes me happy that I’m alive.

  I can hear the rattling of pots and pans in the kitchen. James isn’t—well, James can be a great cook or an awful cook. There’s not much in-between with him when it comes to food. He’s wonderful with steak and potatoes, but just thinking about that time he tried to make pasta still makes me a little queasy. I’m not sure how he burned the noodles; they were in water for god’s sake.

  He must know that I heard the sound, and am growing a little nervous about his next surprise, as he calls out, “Don’t worry, you’re going to love it.” He probably doesn’t know that I can hear him quietly add, “I hope,” but at this point, he could serve me spaghetti made with shoelaces—again—and I’d still be happy.

  I don’t remember a time in my life where I felt so good about a decision that I’ve made. Sure, I’ve had more than a little back-and-forth on the idea of moving in with him, but he’s made me feel not only welcome, but like this is truly my home too.

  He comes back out to the living room as I’m admiring the fact that he actually went to the trouble of organizing my books by author’s surname. I don’t know if it makes me old fashioned or not, but that just seems like the only way to arrange books that makes any sense at all.

  “So,” I say, teasingly, “you’re cooking, huh?”

  “I’m cooking,” he says. “Don’t worry. I’ve been practicing this recipe all week. The first few tries didn’t go so well, but I think I’ve gotten the hang of it.”

  As if on cue, the smoke detector in the kitchen starts blaring, and I can’t help but laugh loudly as he runs back to the other room. I shrug and whisper to myself, “Life is just too perfect sometimes.”

  Then I get my own little synchronicity: my phone rings. I don’t care who it is, I’m not answering. I press the button on the side of my phone, silencing the ringer, but in another minute, the phone rings again.

  “Seriously?” I ask my phone as if the incredulity in my voice will make it feel bad for disrupting my moment. I silence it again, but it’s not long before it’s ringing once more, so I finally answer. “Rose Pearson,” I say.

  “Rose,” says Melissa from the office, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I thought you should know because they’re coming to your house.”

  “What? Who’s coming to my house? What happened?”

  “It’s Rory,” she says, out of breath and frantic, “he’s dead. Cynthia found him in his office that way. The police are on their way to your house.”

  “My house?” I ask. “Why?”

  “Right now it looks like you were the last person to see him alive.”

  “What, did he have a heart attack or something?”

  “No,” Melissa says sharply. “Somebody killed him. They stabbed him in the neck, Rose.”

  “Jesus.” I don’t know what to say. It couldn’t have taken Cynthia long to get there, and I think I would remember someone walking toward his office. Cynthia. “Cynthia found him?” I ask suspiciously.

  “I know,” Melissa says, “that’s what I thought when I first heard, but Mark down the hall said that she barely got the door open before she started screaming. It wasn’t her, Rose. The police are coming—” She continues talking, but I lower the phone as I hear at least two vehicles come to a screeching halt outside the house.

  How did they know I would be here? I still have my apartment. “James!” I call out.

  The tone in my voice must convey my fear and confusion clearly enough, because he doesn’t say a word until he’s back at my side. “What’s going on?” he asks as the police knock on the door.

  “I have no idea.”

  The officers only knock once before the door crashes open, and James and I are standing in the front room with our hands in the air and guns in our faces.

  Chapter Three

  Politics

  After being told, “Get the fuck on the ground with your hands behind your heads,” and being swiftly and jarringly handcuffed, James and I do a lot of waiting while the officers present tear the house apart in search of a murder weapon or any other evidence that might link me to the death of my boss.

  Every time I start to ask a question, I’m quickly told to shut up, and before long there’s a foot pressing hard against my upper back. The weight of the officer is compressing my chest, making the simple act of breathing difficult enough itself that I’m no longer able to ask questions.

  James hears the sound of air being forced from my lungs, but can’t turn his head quite far enough to look at me. “Are you okay?” he asks in a tone I’ve never heard before.

  “Yes!” I wheeze quickly, hoping that it’s enough to dissuade my fiancé from doing whatever it is that he would do if I answered any differently.

  “Why are you here?” James asks.

  “Your wife killed her boss,” the man with his foot in my back answers.

  “No she didn’t,” James says without hesitation. “That’s ridiculous. Besides, even if you suspected her of something, don’t you need a warrant or probable cause to just bust into our house and assault us like this?”

  The weight on my back grows for a moment, and then relaxes again as the officer answers, “We have a warrant.”

  “We’ll cooperate,” I say, trying to make this all go away as quickly as I possibly can.

  The man’s foot comes off of my back, and he says, “You’re ready to give a full confession?”

  “I didn’t kill my boss,” I respond, “and I can prove it.”

  This isn’t the answer the man wanted, so his foot is back where it was. “Why don’t we just wait until the detective gets here?”

  “I want to see the warrant,” James says, and the man takes his foot off of my back long enough to put it hard into James’s side.

  “Stop resisting!” the officer shouts; apparently, he’s the only one in the room at the moment, and so he kicks James again.

  “I’m not resisting!” James groans, and I’m already flinching as I expect the officer to kick him again.

  He doesn’t.

  “Officer Robertson, what do you have there?” a new voice asks.

  “Detective,” the man who had just finished kicking my fiancé answers, “these two were resisting, and—”

  The new voice, assumedly the detective answers, “You know, every time an officer greets me with a rationalization, I can pretty much assume that he’s just done something seriously wrong.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Why don’t you wait outside?” the detective interjects, more an order than a request.

  Robertson quickly leaves the room, and the detective’s voice is mild as he says, “I think you can get up off of the floor now. Robertson out there has a bit of a loose temper, but I don’t think the two of you ar
e going to pose any threat to me or anyone else if I uncuff you.” He waits a beat. “Are you?”

  “No sir,” I say, having somehow managed up until to this moment to keep from crying.

  “No,” James moans through a thick breath.

  The detective walks over and uncuffs me and then James and directs us toward the couch. “Don’t worry,” he says, his voice still so sickly-sweet that I’m having trouble believing in his benevolence, “Robertson will be reprimanded for the way he treated the two of you.”

  “It wasn’t exactly him that was the problem in the first place,” James says, trying to contain his anger, but hardly succeeding. “Your people broke down the door and put guns in our faces without identifying themselves or showing us a warrant.”

  “Your fiancée is accused of murdering a very powerful man,” the detective responds. “But you do have a right to see the warrant.”

  “Murder?” James asks, the charge still not computing in his mind. “Rose would never hurt anyone, much less kill them.”

  “That’s not for me to decide,” the detective says. “Well, actually, I suppose that right now it kind of is.” He turns to me. “It’s my understanding that you were the last known person to have spoken with Mr. McDaniel, is that correct?”

  “I don’t know who talked to him after I left,” I answer, my voice feeble, seeming to come from a great distance even to me.

  “I’m sorry,” the detective says, “could you repeat that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

  “I don’t know who talked to him after I left,” I repeat, my voice only slightly louder, “but he was perfectly fine the last time I saw him.”

  “I see,” the detective says and makes a note in his pocket tome. “And when was this?”