Conspire

by SE Hall

  Or, it clamps down on your heart like a vice and begs for your tears ‘til you surrender them all.

  Off.

  Silence is good too.

  Instead of looking for reasons to be miserable, I switch gears to what I do best: produce results. With one eye on the road and a knee controlling the wheel, I maneuver the phone out of my pocket and record an agenda. “One—get an apartment for Bravo Golf, three months upfront, loan from Benjamin. Two—finalize resume. Three—get interview scheduled. Four—visit homeland.”

  Chances of my phone falling into the wrong hands? Zero. Unless they pry it from my own cold, lifeless ones, which is why I’m more lax than usual on the code; a third grader with an imagination and enthusiasm for Scooby Doo could crack that message.

  Over the next two hours, my best girl—Siri—hooks me up, and I’ve got appointments to view three apartments tomorrow afternoon. Tasks two and three, even Wonder Girl in my phone can’t accomplish, so I relax back in my seat a bit, trying the radio again, scanning until I find something upbeat for the rest of the trip.

  I have approximately three hours of driving left, likely closer to two with my lead foot, to savor the silence, the calm before the storm. For tomorrow, the games begin, and I don’t mean the ones someone had sloppily played on my brother. No, I mean the kind I play…and win.

  AT NINE O’CLOCK ON THE DOT, I spring out of my car—parked in my assigned front row spot, directly between those of the CEO and COO—who also happen to be my father and boyfriend. I’m surprised either, let alone both, of them are here before me. Maybe they’re just as excited about the extended holiday weekend as I am, hoping to finish their work and sneak out early. Lord knows, that’s my plan on this glorious Friday!

  I bounce up the white marble stairs that perfectly match the exterior of the sprawling building that houses JCC Pharmaceuticals, and damn near dance through the solid glass entrance.

  “Good morning, Floyd,” I sing happily, waving at the security guard positioned right inside the doors.

  “Morning, Ms. Craig,” he says gruffly, despite the smile in his eyes; the man never drops the tough act.

  I smile and wave at the group of employees waiting for the elevator, but I’m full of pent up energy, so I opt for the old-fashioned method instead. Two at a time, I vault up the four flights of stairs—past the administrative and marketing offices located on the ground floor, the state-of-the-art biotech laboratories dedicated to our research and development team on the second level, and the regulatory and legal department on the third—directly to the top, where the expansive executive offices are situated around a lavish boardroom in the center.

  I’m whistling a cheerful tune, floating like a bird amongst the clouds, until I step out of the stairwell and crash head-first into a window.

  My personal assistant, and childhood best friend, Alyssa is crying quietly at her desk, face buried in her hands, body shuddering with sobs. Rushing over, the smile falls from my face as a concerned scowl takes its place.

  “Lys, honey,” I circle around the desk to soothingly rub her back. “What’s wrong?”

  At the sound of my voice, she peers up with her brown, sad eyes and throws her arms around my waist. “Oh, Jocie,” she wails hoarsely, “you’re here. Thank God.”

  “I’m here, now tell me what’s going on.”

  She looks around my body, checking to see if anyone else is nearby, then dips her quivering chin. “Can we talk in your office?”

  “Of course, let’s go.”

  Alyssa follows me inside, shutting the door behind us, and sinks down into the leather chair facing my desk. I hurry putting my things away and open the blinds to let some natural light in before I take my own seat. With a patient smile, I wait for her to spill.

  “Do you remember Devon Harrison, the intern I’ve been ogling the past few months?” she asks, the tears slowed but not completely stopped.

  I nod, creasing my brow in confusion. “You mean the cute blonde with the dimples to die for? Of course I know who he is, you do that little ‘dance in place like I need to pee’ thing every time we see him, and…he does work here. Why wouldn’t I remember him?”

  “H–he, killed himself last night,” she croaks, setting off another onslaught of hysterical crying.

  “Oh my God, are you serious? Are they sure?” I shriek, disbelief my initial reaction.

  Her head bobs up and down as she wipes at her eyes with the wadded tissue in her hand. “Yeah, I’m not exactly sure how she knew, but your dad’s secretary... whatever this one’s name is... told me when I came in.”

  Feeling like someone punched me in the gut, no immediate “correct response” comes to me. So many questions are swimming in my mind, but none of them can be answered by anyone other than the young man who apparently took his own life. “I–I’m stunned. I have no idea what to even say. I mean, I didn’t know him well, but still, why, so young?” My voice drifts, as do my eyes and wonderings, picturing him, and what I thought was always an upbeat bounce to his step, a noticeable, positive energy. “How sad,” my head bows, a quiet sniffle with my whisper.

  “I know,” she sucks in a much louder sniffle of her own. “I’m not sure why I’m so emotional about this, I barely knew him either, not a fourth as much as I wanted to. I don’t understand how anyone could do that, especially a young guy who seemed like he had everything so put together? Such a waste,” her voice and bottom lip resuming their quivering.

  My desk phone rings and we both flinch, the loud, unexpected noise jarring us from our grief-stricken bubble.

  “Jocelyn Craig,” I answer, assuming it’s someone in the office, otherwise the call would’ve gone to Alyssa’s desk.

  “Ms. Craig,” Alessandra, my father’s secretary barks into the phone. “Mr. Craig would like to see you in his office.”

  “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes, Alessandra” I reply courteously.

  “He said now, Ms. Craig.”

  I roll my eyes and stick my middle finger up at the phone, eliciting a small, much needed giggle from Alyssa. “Yeah, I got it. I’ll be right there.”

  We both rise from our chairs, knowing our conversation will have to be continued at a later time. I give her a tight hug prior to exiting my office, then she returns to her own work area as I take the few steps next door to answer my bidding.

  I tip my head to acknowledge the bitch of a secretary stationed outside and glance up briefly at the letters CEO printed to the right of my father’s name on the ornate gold plate displayed on his door before letting myself in.

  “Jocelyn, my favorite daughter, I’m so glad you’re finally here,” he exclaims with a welcoming smile the moment I enter the massive, overly-extravagant office. “I hope Alyssa has briefed you on what happened with…that kid. I need you to throw together a quick statement about how awful this is and how sorry we are for his family’s loss.” He pauses to twirl his finger in the air, insinuating we don’t really feel those emotions, which I know for certain—he doesn’t.

  Disgusted by his cool and aloof attitude over the death of one of his employees, regardless of the fact that Devon was only an intern, I narrow my eyes at him and snap, “A young man is dead, Dad. As in: Never. Coming. Back. Dead. Why don’t you try to at least feign a little compassion? What’s wrong with you?”

  “He wasn’t even a paid employee here, Jocelyn,” he retorts firmly, staring me down with his obsidian eyes. “I’m not sure why this guy decided to off himself, but it’s not really my problem. The only reason we need to address this at all is because apparently, his father recently retired as the longtime Dean of Harvard University, and there may be a few reporters that ask for a statement. It would look good on our company if we beat them to the punch.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” I squawk. “He was somebody’s son, and probably someone’s brother, uncle, boyfriend, best friend…who knows?!”

  “Him being someone’s son is the only reason we’re having this conversation in the
first place! Now go do your job as PR Director and write the damn press release like I’ve instructed you to!”

  My father doesn’t raise his voice often, especially not at me—his only little girl, so the second he’s finished shouting, my traitorous eyes start to water. But today, I’m not sure it’s simply the shock of his volume that has me unnerved; I know exactly where I stand with my father, and how he prioritizes—my happiness very low on that list—but I did not realize exactly how frigid the often cold blood in his veins ran. His total disregard for human—young, promising—life and complete inability to empathize disappoints me to new, quite painful levels.

  Yes, sir,” I manage before trudging from his office, feeling worse now than when I entered; which I wouldn’t have guessed possible.

  Alyssa is perched on the edge of her chair when I emerge, her wide eyes searching mine for an explanation of what had happened. Still unsure myself, I force back the threatening tears of bewilderment and shrug my shoulders, retreating into the peaceful solitude of my own office.

  Less than an hour later, I’ve written and handed Alyssa the statement, asking her to release it to the press.

  And just like that, JCC Pharmaceuticals, Inc. has washed its hands of the dead intern.

  Alone, behind the safeguard of my closed door, I slump down in my oversized chair and stare out the windows, still shaken up to the point that I can’t even think about focusing on work. Contemplations on how someone reaches the point of suicide plague my mind; I’m simply incapable of understanding that mentality or level of absolute hopelessness. No matter how discontent I am in the life I’m living—the one that’s been chosen for me by my parents, who claim I’ll thank them someday—I could never possibly fathom taking my own life.

  Running away? Sure. It crosses my mind every time I’m with—

  “Good morning, darling!” On cue, Hunter busts into my office without a single knock and rushes over to my side, kissing the top of my head. “Your father told me you’ve had a rough start today, but the good news is, I’m here to make you forget all about it.”

  Darling? I’d ask who he’s talking to, but I’m the only one in the room. I pry my eyes from the window and glance up at him. “And how are you going to do that?” I ask, void of emotion of any kind.

  “I’m going to rescue you from this place and drive you out to Stone Harbor early. Our parents and Alyssa will meet us there this evening. Lys will drive your car out so you can ride with me now. Then, we can all enjoy a wonderful holiday weekend like we used to when we were kids, without the worry of everything that’s happened here today. When we get back next week, we can fill the empty position, if necessary.”

  Unable to hide a sigh of annoyance, I stand up and grab my purse to leave. There’s no point in arguing with him over this. My father tells us what to do, we do it, like we always have. I walk out to fill Alyssa in on the plans, but of course, she already knows.

  So, resolved to go with the flow, having never once won an upstream battle with Hunter or my father, I temper any indications of my despondent mood and follow Hunter out to the parking lot. Retrieving my already packed suitcase from the car, I hand it over to him to stow away in his trunk, and before I know it, we’re on the highway heading to the coast.

  Not ten minutes into the drive, he’s on the phone with one of his friends, and instead of listening to a one-sided conversation I care nothing about anyway, I stare out the window lost in memories. I remember how as a child, and even well into adolescence, giddy anticipation would overflow from me as I sat in the backseat of my parents’ luxury sedan, driving this exact same route. Holiday weekends spent with the Pierce family meant endless fun with my best friend and hours upon hours of trying to get her older brother to notice me.

  Lys and I still enjoy hanging out together as much as we did back then, even if we have to work together during the week, and for that much, I’m thankful. But Hunter? I’d be eternally grateful if he would stop noticing me.

  And I can’t help but let my mind drift sadly to the fact that Devon Harrison won’t ever have a family vacation again.

  I PULL INTO PHILLY AROUND MIDNIGHT, mentally browbeaten but physically wired, currents of torment and questions still sparking, making me antsy. Choosing the first hotel I see, I check in under Bravo Golf, hand over two crisp Benjamins, and head up to my room. No roaches scattered when I turned on the light and the furnishings seem acceptable, no stale, lingering scent of smoke, and there’s a decent sized bed made up with what appears to be clean—unstained, at least—sheets.

  With all my gear offloaded from my back and shoulders, I check the room phone, two lamps, TV, remote, and wall sconces for bugs out of habit, but now coupled with justifiable, mounting paranoia, finding nothing. Deciding it’s all clear and safe to enjoy a long, hot shower, I head to do exactly that.

  Make that a short, cold one—hotels never have enough hot water. You know how many rooms you built, so buy enough water heaters to accommodate them all!

  Anyway, with chilled beads of moisture still clinging to my skin and a towel wrapped around my waist, I stretch out on the bed and lean back against the headboard in a pseudo-relaxed position, when I’m anything but.

  I lean over the side to my gear and grab what I need, then open my red laptop, completely different in purpose than my blue one. I pull up the three apartment listings I’m scheduled to view tomorrow and do a quick scan. I know within seconds which one I’ll be taking; it could be located right next door to a crack house and smell like a litter box, and still, 509 Emily Apt. C14 will undoubtedly be my new temporary home.

  According to Google Earth, it sits cattycorner with no tall trees, buildings, or other obstructions in the way of my view to Devon’s old apartment. In fact, to be polite, I’ll go ahead and call the other two possibilities first thing in the morning and cancel my appointments; I’m that sure.

  With that settled, and extremely pleased with how well it worked out, I switch to my blue laptop and get down to business. Yes, you’ll notice a trend; some things I keep very simple, as the brain can only retain so many factoids you dare not write down—B for blue, B for business.

  Devon worked at JCC Pharmaceuticals, Inc., and knowing they likely won’t replace an intern, I’ll just have to remove all possible doubt for them; they need me.

  According to my research, JCC’s biggest competitor—always ranging ten-to-fifteen points ahead on the Dow—is Phillips and Taylor Co., and my initial ‘visitation’, as hacking is such an ugly term, tells me P&TCo are the ones who really need me. I’ve had more trouble opening the plastic bag inside the cereal box than getting into their system. A drug company, peddling ‘alter the chemicals in your brain’ products…and I could alter about anything I wanted to right now.

  Wicked scary.

  Skipping right past the Analyst and Researcher Staff profiles—obviously, I don’t want to announce ‘I know how to crack in and analyze your records’—I peruse my choices in Lab Technicians, and then the Regulations and Procedural Development. Between the two, I narrow it down to six possible candidates I could easily perpetrate, should anyone ever go snooping and ask about ‘that tall, brown-headed guy who worked for you’. Not too worried, however, I’m beyond good, and they’re…not.

  Fingers dancing over the keys, the first ounce of exhilaration I’ve felt in days, I have managed to turn the record of one Damian Roth, Regulations & Development Director of P&TCo, to that of Bryce Griggs, same title, different picture, his direct line now my cell number, who just so happens to proclaim he’s on personal leave. Internally, no one will ever be the wiser; anyone inside at P&TCo will still see the same profile as always, dear ol’ Damian…but externally, those sent looking will see exactly what I want them to.

  A few tweaks to his resume and one cord attached and plugged in later, the impressive resume of Mr. Roth, quite the go-getter, displays my new name on the header, and is printing out as we speak. While I wait on that, I masterfully email the same irresistible docume
nt to the Director of Personal Relations, CEO and Head of Human Resources at JCC.

  Now, I sit back and wait—like candy swiped from the chubby hand of a baby. Shouldn’t take too long for the sharks to smell the blood of their competitor, dangling like bait in their inboxes, and give me a call.

  With two balls rolling and a full day planned tomorrow, I finally close down my screen of superiority and decide to get a good night’s rest.

  Never a fan of skull-splitting alarm clocks, I wake bright and early to my phone playing “Bottoms Up” by Brantley Gilbert. Badass beat, dude telling everyone exactly what’s up like a boss, then picking up, as in ‘GET UP’, in rhythm; it’s the perfect wake up tone. It also gives me this whole outlaw vibe to get me going.

  Checking the time as I turn off my morning song, I see I have one hour until I meet my new landlord. Another hurried shower and shave, then after throwing on my favorite pair of jeans and a tee, I double check I’m toting the right wallet—B for brown, B for Bryce—set my ‘traps’ and head out the door. Choosing the stairs instead of the elevator, I use the time to call and cancel with the other two apartments, thanking them for their time with the reassurance I’ll pass along their information to anyone I hear of looking for a place.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m shaking hands with Mr. McMullen, then being led inside apartment C14. Inconspicuously, I simulate a thorough walk-through inspection, while really only considering one thing: a firsthand gauging of the view from each of the three east-facing windows. Excellent; no one built or planted anything since Google Earth took their picture.

  “I’ll take it,” I turn to him and smile like it’s the greatest apartment I’ve ever been inside. “I understand you’ll want to run a background check, not a problem, but I hear those can take a while. I’ll tell ya now; I have no former landlords for reference checks—straight from Mama’s, to college, to here.” I pull out my wallet and subsequently a thick stack of stiff, new one hundred dollar bills, obtained from a designated ATM in the middle of my trek with a card bearing a name that need not be mentioned.