I’m going to invite her out to dinner. For sure. Just as soon as the 5K is over.
“Anyway, I better get back to work.” Kim glances down at her watch. “I’m not Miss Saleswoman of the Month like somebody else here…”
My cheeks color slightly. My sales are admittedly better than anyone else at the company, but I work my butt off for it. “You got married this month. You have an excuse this time for the low sales.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Kim shrugs because she doesn’t really care that much. Her new husband is loaded. At some point in the near future, she’ll be pregnant for real, and when that happens, she’ll quit and never look back. “Anyway, good luck with the T-shirts. I’ll see you later.”
After Kim takes off, possibly in the direction of her cubicle, but more likely in the direction of the break room to get her third or fourth cup of coffee of the morning, I close the flaps of the box of T-shirts and head back to my cubicle. When I get there, I notice something on my desk that I hadn’t seen before.
It’s a turtle figurine.
It’s small—no longer than the length of my index finger. It’s green and blue in color, the geometric patterns on its shell shining in the overhead fluorescent lights. Its head is lifted, and its beady black eyes stare up at me.
A while back, Dawn excitedly presented me with a turtle figurine for my cubicle. It was so sweet of her, and I felt terrible when the turtle she bought me toppled to the linoleum floor and shattered into a dozen tiny pieces. But that turtle was never replaced. And it was different from this turtle on my desk right now.
I pick up the turtle figurine and roll it between my fingers, feeling the smooth surface. What is this turtle doing here? Who put it here?
Was it Dawn?
But it couldn’t be. When I got back to the office yesterday at the end of the day, she was already gone. And she doesn’t seem to be here yet. So how could she have put this turtle on my desk?
When I rest the turtle back on my desk, there’s a stain on my fingers. Something dark red rubbed off on my hand when I picked up the turtle. I stare down at my palm, trying to figure out what I just touched. It can’t be paint, since the turtle is green. Ketchup?
No, it couldn’t be. It’s too dark in color and not sticky with sugar. And it doesn’t have that sweet smell. It smells almost… metallic.
What is this stuff?
As I’m examining the dark red material that has caked into the grooves of my fingerprints, I am vaguely aware of a phone ringing nearby. Coming from Dawn’s cubicle.
I return to Dawn’s cubicle, hovering by the entrance. It’s still empty. Is it possible she came in earlier this morning and is in the bathroom or something? She must be here, and she must’ve been the one who put this little turtle on my desk, even though her jacket isn’t hanging on the back of her chair. And her computer screen is dark—no screensaver, just black.
The phone on her desk is still ringing. Usually, the caller’s number flashes on the screen, but it’s not this time. It’s a blocked number.
I snatch the phone off the hook. It isn’t my job to answer her phone, but if she is out sick today, I could at least try to take care of any issues that have come up. I’m sure Dawn would do the same for me. She always tries to help other people, almost to a fault.
I wonder what it was she wanted to talk to me about yesterday. A matter of great importance. Coming from Dawn, that could mean just about anything, from a dirty milk carton in the fridge to a terminal cancer diagnosis. There’s no reason to worry.
“Dawn Schiff’s desk,” I answer.
There is silence on the other line. It almost sounds like ragged breathing.
“Hello?” I say. “Is anyone there?
More silence. Just when I’m about to hang up, two words are spoken in a tortured female voice that send an icy chill down my spine:
“Help me.”
And then the line goes dead.
Chapter Two
I stare at the dead receiver, a sick feeling growing in the pit of my stomach.
Help me.
It sounded a lot like Dawn, although I can’t be absolutely sure from just two words. But whoever it was, they sounded hysterical. Panicked.
Help me.
And then the dead line, which has now turned into a dial tone.
I toyed with the possibility that something was wrong when Dawn was late this morning, but I didn’t genuinely believe it was anything serious. Was I wrong? Has something terrible happened to Dawn?
Is she in danger?
I reach into my purse for my phone. I select Dawn’s name from my contacts and click on her number. It rings several times and then I hear the monotone of her voice:
You have reached the cellular phone of Dawn Schiff. I am not available to answer your call at this time. At the beep, please leave your name, a callback number, an alternate contact number, and your reason for contacting me.
I decide against leaving a message. Instead, I shoot off a text message:
Hey Dawn, everything okay?
I watch the screen, waiting for the little bubbles to indicate she’s typing. They don’t appear.
I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to talk to Seth.
Seth Hoffman has been the manager of the Dorchester branch of Vixed since before I started working here. Seth and I have an understanding—he gives me a long rope, and I kick ass at sales. It’s nice having a boss who isn’t up in my business all the time about every penny I spend on my customers and makes me account for every nanosecond of my time. I’m sure it would be different if I didn’t get results, but Seth trusts me.
I rap on the door to Seth’s office, which is already partially ajar. He does have a secretary, but she’s sort of the secretary for everyone, and she doesn’t monitor who goes in and comes out of his office. So when he calls out for me to come in, I go right on in.
When Kim and I started working here, we used to giggle about how cute our boss was. Seth is now in his mid-forties—fifteen years my senior—but he’s got a youthful look. He has lines around his eyes that crinkle when he smiles, a sprinkling of gray hair in his temples that suits him, and while he always wears a tie, it’s never quite cinched all the way to his throat.
“Hey, Nat,” he says when he sees it’s me. “What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Not exactly…” I hover in front of Seth’s desk, wanting to share my concerns with him, but not wanting to sound like I’m overreacting. “Did Dawn call out sick today?”
His dark eyebrows shoot up. “No. She didn’t. Why? She’s not here?”
Like me, Seth must know that Dawn operates like she’s controlled by a master clock. “I haven’t seen her.”
“Huh,” he says.
Damn. I had been hoping she had called him. Told him she had a sick grandma and she wouldn’t be in for the day. “I called her and she didn’t pick up. And also…”
He frowns. “Also what?”
“Dawn’s phone was ringing and I picked it up. And the person on the other line said, ‘Help me.’”
Seth nods. “Okay, so what did they need help with? Did they need information on one of the products? Was it a customer complaint?”