“No, thank you. Just please get onto Xavier. ASAP,” I remind her.
“Of course, Mr. Ashley,” she says before she turns on her heel and the door closes behind her. I can hear her already talking to my lawyer on her headset before she’s reached her desk.
I walked over to my massive work station to the small parcel that sits on the corner. It’s a plain white cube box, tied in a bright red bow. Handwritten on the top is just my name, “Kaine Ashley,” with no return address or sender’s name.
I hold it in my hands for a moment, turning it over, examining every inch. It isn’t my birthday or Christmas, not that anyone knows my birthdate anyway, and I am not in the habit of giving or receiving Christmas gifts.
I bring it to my ear and shake it, drawing out my own suspense, trying to solve the mystery. Not knowing something is a sensation that isn’t common to me these days, and I’m glad for something to take my mind off the events of the last few days.
Finally, curiosity gets the better of me and I carefully untie the ribbon, open the box and look inside.
My blood instantly runs cold.
Ice cold.
Freezing in my veins.
I pick up the small round contraption in my hands and stare at it.
Uncanny.
Peering inside the box, I pull out the note inside.
“What a beautiful product. You’ve really outdone yourself this time. But maybe you’ve been a little too greedy. It’s time to share, don’t you think? Can’t keep everything to yourself. Think about it anyway. We’ll talk soon,” the note reads. A single italicized “J” ends the letter.
How? How did he get this? I wonder.
How did he get his hands on the FireFree by Ash Industries?
My brand-new, ground breaking, industry changing, fire safety changing baby about to be launched in a month’s time. How did he get his hands on the specifications to make it? I know it isn’t one of ours, on the bottom, there isn’t the Ash Industries brand that is on all of our prototypes. Prototypes that no one out of the specialised project team in this company has seen or touched. He has to have the product blueprints to be able to produce what looks like an exact copy… and who knows what else.
Someone, someone had to have given them to him. Someone I am going to find.
“Jemima!” I growl.
She recognizes the tone and comes running.
“VPs. Now!”
HER
“Get back into bed!” Harriet yells at me when I shuffle into the kitchen.
“Nooooooooooooo, bed and I are no longer getting along. I think we’ve spent too much time together and now we need some space. He got custody of the bedroom, so I’m moving out.” I sit down at the table and grab a banana from the fruit plate.
“Let me…” Harriet starts.
“Let you what? Peel my banana for me?” I laugh, smiling at her gratefully. “I think that that’s one step away from choo-choo train feeding me, and I’m, like, 22 years too old and 80 years too young for that.”
Harriet balls up her tissue and throws it. It hits me on the forehead and I feign pain, “Owwwww… it hurts… I need help. Peel my banana for meeeeeeeee.”
“Oh hush. I was just trying to help,” she pouts.
“Oh really, with that kind of heinous violence?” I say, pointing at the crumpled tissue on the floor. I look back up at her and smile. “I’m okay. I really am. My headache’s completely gone and the stitches in my back itch more than anything right now. Only thing left is this bitchin’ black eye, but I thought I’d keep it, scare people and young children away in the ice cream line, you know?” I wink at her with my good eye.
She shrugs and goes back to her sandwich, “Fine. But, if you’re sick of bed, just sit on the couch and watch some TV or something, okay? It wouldn’t hurt you to rest for a few more days.”
“I was going to go back to work with you tomorrow.” I admit.
“Yeah. Definitely not. Next topic of conversation?”
“Why not? I’m BORED and anyway, I need the job, I’m dreading that hospital bill. Dealing with insurance is a bitch.”
“Honey, the way Harold feels, you’re going to be there after we’re all dead and dust. You’ll have a job there for life.”
“How does Harold feel?” I hadn’t really had a chance to talk to him since the incident, just a quick call once we got back to Harriet’s house to let him know I was okay.
“He still feels SO guilty. He thinks it’s his fault because he made you stay late for the delivery.”
“Awww, it’s not his fault, it could’ve happened to anyone at any time. Does he not remember where we live? Giuliani only cleaned it up so much.”
“You try telling him! Not to mention, those manuscripts have gone missing,” Harriet makes a sad face.
“Yeah, damn. I was so looking forward to going through those as well… you know, when I go back to work tomorrow.”
“Nice try.”
“Fine, I’ll stay home, and you know, climb up on this chair here and dust the tops of your cabinets… then I might go out on the fire escape and clean your windows before…”
“Okay, okay! We’ll see how you feel when you wake up tomorrow. Something tells me, you’re going to be just fine!”
I grin at her, “Yay! I win. Hey, hand me my phone, will you? I’ve got to call the hospital make sure they have my insurance details.”
***
“You are NOT going to believe this,” I yell through the bedroom wall to Harriet on the other side.
“What?” She yells back.
“HE paid for it.”
“He who paid for what it?”
“HE, my guardian angel! He paid for my hospital bill!”
“WHAT?!!?” I hear a thump and an ‘ow’ then she comes running into my room. “He did what?” she repeats climbing into bed next to me.