Abolition

Chapter Eleven

There's no apology cupcake this time.

I look around the partition at Oliver once I'm settled into my chair and logged into my computer. Oliver, who's looking at his screen and pretending he's doing work, does absolutely nothing to acknowledge me although he surely knows I'm waiting. I say, "Good morning, Oliver."

Oliver takes out one of his earbuds—which is definitely playing no music, because usually I can hear it—and clears his throat. "Good morning, Kirk."

The office bustles on around us. Phones are ringing and papers are getting shuffled and Oliver doesn't say a word.

"So," I say.

"Yeah."

Oliver looks back to his computer, treating it like the security blanket it is. I roll my chair out, scooting closer to his side of the partition. "What?" I say. "No cupcake this time? No...anything?"

Oliver takes his sweet time thinking, and by the time he comes to a conclusion it's ten after twelve and my fingers are starting to itch due to lack of progress. "She didn't tell me what happened, but she'd rather not push if you don't want to talk to her."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Oliver pops a mint into his mouth. "But she is sorry."

Of the few things that I can be completely sure of right now, Finley being sorry is definitely one of them. "I know she is."

A phone rings, and I don't need the raised eyebrow that Oliver sends my way to know that it's mine. I wave him away and he nods once before turning back to his computer screen. I scoot my chair back into my desk so that my legs are completely under it, like the person on the other end of the line can see me and they're judging me for not getting to work right away. The plastic that the phone is made of is cool in the palm of my hand. "Kirk Hawthorne, Tech Department."

It's still weird as hell to answer a phone that way, but I don't want to risk the ire of Weston's unimpressed secretary in case he's the person that's calling.

"Kirk, just because you moved your chair in before you answered the phone doesn't mean I didn't see you talking to Mr. Penn."

I freeze. It's definitely not Weston's unimpressed secretary, but I can't decide if it's better or worse. I wheel back slightly so I can look around the partition to the glass door of Polovsky's office. He waves at me once. He is not smiling.

"Can you come here for a moment?" Polovsky asks. "We need to talk."

Apprehension curls in my chest and settles in for the long haul. "How long do you think this will take? Sir."

"Ten, maybe fifteen minutes."

"Okay."

"Feel free to come over whenever you're done freaking out or you have yourself mostly under control, whichever comes first," Polovsky says, voice turning amused. "But sooner rather than later, if you would. We both have a lot to get done today."

"Yes, sir."

He hangs up. I carefully put my phone back down and take a deep breath when it clicks into place on the base. Worse things have happened, it's okay. I push away from my desk and stand up, smoothing my palms against my thighs. This won't be that bad. It could be about the work that I didn't get done yesterday and nothing else. It's alright.

Oliver says as I pass him, very seriously, "If you're not back in an hour, I'll assume he's killed you and done away with the body."

My nerves ratchet up again as my hands curl into fists. Control. I have control. I am calm. My voice, when I speak, is steadier than even I expected it to be. "What the hell, Oliver."