Caught

Chapter 21 - Woman in the Mirror

3 weeks later

The air smells of anxiety and imminent dread. If I were one of those scary monsters in kids' movies who ate fear for breakfast, I'd be thriving right about now. Unfortunately, the energy here at Interim Accounting mixes with my own unease, to the point where I almost feel among friends.

"Sabrina? What are you doing here? Didn't you get my email? All part-time workers have been suspended given the recent... circumstances. You're no longer being scheduled."

For a moment, I forget who Sabrina even is. Although it's only been a few weeks since I've come in for work, the whole place feels unfamiliar. Perhaps because the past few weeks - no, the past month - has felt more like a decade.

I settle for giving Mr. Guillemot a sad smile. "I totally did get your email, I just thought I'd come in because I forgot a few things at my desk. I hope that's okay! I hate being, like... a rule breaker. You know?"

For once in my life, I wasn't lying. I actually did leave some stuff behind accidentally. Not overly important stuff, just a couple of school books and supplies, but I figure it's best if I leave as little trace of my working here as possible.

The identity theft stunt I pulled at this place probably won't be good for my dad's side of the court case. Although Mr. Peiks has already figured out my catfishing, I'm hopeful that erasing as much of my footprint as possible will make it more difficult for him to prove I was ever here.

A girl can dream.

"Sure Sabrina. I suppose that's alright. I don't think anyone else has used your desk since you've last been in so... that shouldn't be a problem. If you could though, try to make your visit quick. And um... don't let too many people see you. Everyone is a bit on edge lately, and even friendly faces like yours can add to the nerves."

"Of course, Guillemot! Thanks so much! You're like, basically a life saver."

Before he can change his mind, I rush off towards the elevator. It isn't long until I'm at my desk, rummaging through drawers and cabinets to collect all of my miscellaneous shit.

"I'm surprised you decided to show your face here."

The voice comes from someone behind me, but I don't need to turn around to know who it is.

Mr. Peiks. I'd recognize his deep tone anywhere. The man sounds like he could be a narrator for some Netflix nature documentary.

"Listen. I'm not here for my father. So whatever you think I'm doing, I'm not." I whisper, craning my neck to look up at him.

He's so tall from way down here. In my current position, bent down to the floor in search of a pen I dropped, Mr. Peiks could stomp me into the carpet in one swift motion. What's that George Orwell quote? 'If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face – forever.'

I think I understand how he must have felt.

"Please, don't mistake my rudeness for anger. I'm glad you're here."

My nose crinkles in confusion. "Why?"

The question is simple enough. Mr. Peiks strikes me as the type of man who appreciates efficiency – perhaps he'll be more willing to answer me if I keep my interrogation short.

"Every minute you spend here makes it easier for me to use you in my favour. Imagine what a judge would think. The whistle blower's daughter, creating a fake persona for the sole purpose of infiltrating her father's ex-employer to dig up illicit information. I'm sure the prosecution's case will take quiet the hit."