So I don’t text Stuart. instead, I pick up the phone and tell Emily to schedule status meetings with all of the section presidents. I don’t apologize for anything. I’m done being sorry.
They’re probably calling me a tyrant behind my back, but that’s too bad. Most of Brandon, Inc. will be working late tonight.
Chapter Three
Angelica
Adam stays with me at my place for the weekend, so it’s a blessing my roommate Sarah is gone for a few weeks. She’s a sparky redhead with a great sense of humor, but Adam clearly doesn’t want to talk about what happened. He mostly camps out on the couch and broods in silence. We watch shitty movies and order takeout.
Charlie’s punch didn’t break his nose, but the skin over his cheekbone was cut so badly that he needed four stitches, and his left eye has a deep purple ring circling it. Friday morning before I left for work, I overheard him in the bathroom calling in sick to Freddy’s, the pub where he bartends, his voice low and shuddering.
I spend all weekend trying to tactfully ignore the fact that my brother is a wreck. He jumps every time the delivery people knock on the door. By lunchtime on Saturday, I’ve started leaving instructions for them to leave the food with the doorman.
With every hour that passes, I get angrier.
I’m not thrilled with Adam for getting himself into this situation, but these scumbags are far worse. I’m not sure exactly what kind of “assignment” they want to send me on, but I’m sure as hell not going to do it.
Late Sunday night I send an email to Hadley, telling her a family emergency has come up and I need to take a few hours off on Monday to sort things out. Her reply comes back within minutes, like she’s been sitting in front of her computer waiting for messages to come in. I feel a flash of pity for her. She can be a real bitch, but at least she’s not cutting herself any slack either.
I’m assuming you have enough sick time? -H
I write back immediately.
Hi, Hadley. Yes, I do. Thanks for your understanding. -Angelica
On Monday morning, Adam is still asleep on the couch when I head out the door. I’m all set for work, wearing a lightweight blazer over a navy sundress with a white-stitched flower pattern that I love. I plan to head to the office as soon as I visit the police station.
Charlie said that if I called the police, the deal would be off. His words echoed in my ears all weekend, making my heart race whenever I thought about it. I don’t have any way of knowing if he’s listening in on my phone calls, so even though it’s paranoid, I didn’t make any calls all weekend except to restaurants that didn’t have online order forms.
It’s going to be hot out today, but at 8:00 in the morning the air still seems pleasant and light as I make my way down 21st Street in the direction opposite from my apartment. It’s only half a mile to the 10th Precinct station house, so I take my time. The story I have to tell sounds insane, so I’d rather not arrive looking like a sweaty mess. A little over a block and I turn right onto 8th, then take another left onto 20th.
At first, the man standing halfway down the block—between me and the police station—barely catches my attention. He’s lingering on the edge of the sidewalk holding something in his hands. CD cases. The closer you get to Times Square, the more of those kinds of guys you run into. I’ve lived in the city long enough that they’ve started to blend in with the background.
I’m almost even with him before it all comes together. It’s 8 a.m. The 10th Precinct building is nowhere near Times Square. And he looks way too interested in me. Goose bumps rise along my arms. Shit.
“I’ve got music,” he calls out, then reaches up and adjusts the baseball cap he’s wearing.
I cut my eyes toward him and give him a tight-lipped smile. “I’m all set. Thanks.”
“You’ll like it,” he speaks to me again, his voice a little louder this time.
I focus my eyes on the doorway of the 10th Precinct. I looked it up on Google Maps last night to be absolutely positive I knew where I was going, so I recognize the arches from the photos. All I need to do is get past this asshole, and—.
Too late. He’s stepped out onto the sidewalk, blocking my path. “Don’t be so rude,” he says, an edge to his smile and a dark glint in his eyes.
The pain from my clenched jaw spikes up toward my temples. “I need to be going. I’m not interested in any music this morning.” I want to yell at him, force him to get out of my way, but for all I know he’s some creep wielding a knife, and the police wouldn’t get here in time even if I screamed. At the same time, my heart pounds, and I want to get this errand taken care of so I can move on with my life. So my brother can move on with his.