The crowd begins to grow. The police have cleared out the entire city block.
An officer returns to drill me with questions. “Has Mr. Graham received any threatening letters or other mail?”
The head of Mr. Graham’s security, Jim Adelson, materializes next to me. He drapes a coat over my shoulders.
“Thanks, Jim.”
“We’ve received a few small threats in recent months, but we’ve passed them along to Detective Lenning,” Jim informs the officer.
“Tell me more about how you got the package,” the officer prods.
“It was delivered to Mr. Graham’s office, addressed to me, and he pointed it out when I arrived.”
“Why didn’t you call the police immediately?” the officer presses.
“It never occurred to me that it could be anything other than a stinky box.”
“A stinky box?”
“The stench was strong, so I just shut the box and held it as tightly as I could while I took it down in the elevator.”
“How do you know the threats you’ve received are insignificant?” the officer asks.
I shrug. “I figured it was an extremist environmental group unhappy with the company.”
They’ve evacuated the neighboring buildings now, and people are fleeing quickly. I can’t blame them.
We watch through a camera as the robot approaches the package behind a piece of glass that I’m told will withstand a blast. I spot the television crews zooming in, and everyone can see what’s going on.
An arm extends from the robot. All eyes are riveted as it carefully opens the first flap. I’m holding my breath. The robot carefully opens the second flap. I’m freezing, but sweat is running down my back. A camera extends and zooms in on the box, focusing on a note that is partially covered in what looks like feces.
Once I read what it says, I want the Earth to open up and swallow me whole. Keep your hands off my man.
The robot carefully removes the note, and a man or woman dressed in a Pillsbury Dough Boy suit takes it away. The robot then reaches into the box. The officer explains that the camera is looking for signs of electronics, but nothing is sending off any signals. After a moment, the bomb squad seems visibly relieved.
I watch in horror as the robot clasps an article of clothing and pulls it out. It’s a Goldminers jersey— number eighteen with Sanders in block lettering across the shoulders. It’s covered in feces.
This is not a threat to Mr. Graham. It’s for me.
Every single one of the twenty-five hundred building occupants that have spilled onto the sidewalks are going to be pissed at me. Jackson will be beyond pissed since he’s lost an entire day of productivity because someone wants me to disappear from the asshole’s life. Which I already did!
I can feel eyes on me, and I fight back the tears. The news crews are watching every moment.
As the police pack up and people file back into the building, I take the stairs to the forty-second floor. I can’t stand around and listen to the snark. If Heather hadn’t spread it around the building that Bobby and I were dating, I could play dumb. Bobby didn’t name me specifically when he broke up with me on the news. But thank you, Heather, for making sure everyone can fill in the gaps.
By the tenth floor, I’m asking myself why I chose to walk up. I stop to catch my breath and overhear a conversation a few levels down in the stairwell.
“I bet she did it for attention.”
“Why would Bobby Sanders date her? She’s not that pretty.”
“Did you see her smile when Jackson Graham walked up to her? He was pissed.”
“We should start a death pool to see how long she has her job.”
“I’d bet on that…” A fire door squeaks open, and their voices grow faint. I don’t hear the rest.
I keep climbing. I hear others, but I don’t want to stop to listen. It only makes me feel worse.
I finally make it to the forty-second floor, and I won’t have to go to the gym today—or maybe even all week.
Three women are standing with Heather when I return to my desk, and all of them look me up and down with complete disdain. I sit down hard in my chair. Jim walks out of Jackson’s office with a police officer.
He smiles at me. “Come on in.”
I nod. “I’ll be right there.” I click a few buttons on my computer, print a document, and open a few files. I’m ready to be fired. This is it.
He points me to the couch. It’s just Jim and the officer in the room.
“This is Officer Parker,” he tells me. “Jackson was clear that a messenger sent over the package?”
I nod. “Mr. Graham said it arrived early this morning.”
“Did you break up with your boyfriend?” Jim asks.
“I believe so,” I say.
“You don’t know?” Officer Parker asks.
“Well, he didn’t call and tell me to my face,” I explain.
“Is he ghosting you?” Jim asks.
“No.” I take a big breath. “He announced it in response to a question at a press conference.”
“Press conference?” Officer Parker asks.
“I was dating Bobby Sanders, from the San Francisco Goldminers.”
The officer’s eyebrows rise in surprise, and he scribbles in his notebook.
“Tell us about the news conference,” Jim says gently.
I explain what happened, adding that I was out with a friend last night and ran into Mr. Graham.
“Have you called Bobby Sanders or gone by his home?” Officer Parker asks.
“No. Bobby made his decision abundantly clear during the press conference.”
“When did you call his girlfriend?” he asks.
“Never. I don’t even know who she is. I haven’t reached out to either of them. The last time Bobby and I talked was Sunday after a tough practice. It was a difficult workout, and he wanted to be alone.”
Jackson walks in with his team. I stand.
“I need to speak to Mr. Graham,” the officer informs me.
I nod silently, wondering if this embarrassment could possibly get any worse. I guess I’m going to find out.
As I return to my desk, my cell phone begins to ring. Eight missed calls. It’s Gabby.
“Hi.”
“Oh my God, you made the news wire.”
“What?” This can’t be happening.
“There are at least six news agencies now talking about whether or not you sent the package to yourself. Through his agent, Bobby’s saying he and his new girlfriend, Collette, had nothing to do with it, and you’re mentally unstable.”
“Are you kidding?”
“I wish I was. I’ll send you some links. The coverage is split. The real news stations say you called the police because it was a suspicious package.”
“It was Bobby’s jersey, and it was covered in shit.”
“What kind of shit? Paint?”
“No. I mean actual shit.”
“Why?”
“It had a note that said Keep your hands off my man,” I whisper into the phone. “I’m so embarrassed. The police are talking to Mr. Graham now. The whole block knows. If it’s all over the news, I guess the whole world knows.”
“How about drinks after work?”