“That’s not right,” he says. “I don’t remember anything about any section 18c.”

“Oh, Miss Lozano!” I call out.

A moment later, my gorgeous friend comes into the room, carrying a folder. “Why, yes, Miss Tyler?”

“Did you happen to grab Mr. Kidman’s employment contract with this company?”

“Why, yes I did, Miss Tyler,” she says.

She hands me the folder.

“Thank you, Miss Lozano,” I tell her and she leaves the room.

I open the file and toss it onto the letch’s desk.

“Don’t worry, we’ve taken the liberty of highlighting the appropriate paragraphs,” I tell him.

“Wha—Why would you do this?”

“I think a better question is why would you do this to us?” I ask.

“This is all he said, she said,” he scoffs. “Nobody’s going to believe you or your friend. I’ve been with this company for—Mrs. Beck,” he says, interrupting himself.

I turn to follow Kidman’s gaze.

There, standing in the doorway is a tall brunette, dressed in a black pantsuit.

This is my going away present from Annabeth. And to think, I didn’t get her anything.

“I understand that’s no longer a problem?” Mrs. Beck asks, looking at me.

I take the pen out of my pocket and hand it to her. She presses the little button and the recording isn’t playing for ten seconds before his career is over.

“It seems you’ve been caught on tape,” Mrs. Beck says. “How you’ve gotten away with this shameful behavior for so long is nothing short of astounding.”

“I have a contract!” he shouts, rising from his desk. “You can fire me, but I get—”

“You do have a contract,” she interrupts. “It is a contract which you have violated in such an egregious way to do substantial harm to this company and its employees. As soon as these women are done with you, rest assured we’ll be coming for whatever’s left. That is, if they haven’t taken everything.”

“What women?” he asks.

Right on cue, Annabeth calls, “Ladies!” from the other side of the doorway and over the next couple of minutes, every woman, assistant level or lower, every woman this  on this floor comes in, hands a pen to Mrs. Beck and walks back out again.

I’ve never enjoyed watching a grown man cry so thoroughly.

I’m about to head out the door, but realize that I’ve forgotten something.

“Sorry,” I say to Mrs. Beck as I make my way back into the room.

I walk to Kidman’s desk and remove page three from Atkinson’s memo. While it’s clear enough that Kidman’s not going to need any part of it, Atkinson was adamant that I retrieve every copy with the extraneous hyphen.

The things we choose to care about.

I walk back out of the room, expecting—not applause or anything—but some kind of acknowledgment that we’ve finally brought the bastard down. True to form, though, everyone’s back to work and no one but Annabeth even notices my presence.

*                    *                    *

The rest of my work day is spent finishing up favors for Atkinson. For as much commotion as there was in Kidman’s office only a few hours ago, I leave the building without speaking to anyone.

When I get home, the apartment is empty.

Dane should be home by now, but that’s all right. Now I’ll have a chance to take a quick shower and change out of my work clothes before he gets back.

Once the water’s pouring over me, I’m finding it difficult to imagine getting out voluntarily. I clean myself, rinse myself and then just enjoy the water.

I start to fantasize about Dane coming home, finding me in the shower. We have dinner reservations at l’Iris, pretty much the only place either of us believes we might have a chance avoiding a run-in with Wrigley, but I wouldn’t mind pretending that the shower is a waterfall and that the dim light over the sink is a sunrise.

Maybe it’s not my exact fantasy, but it is close enough for now.

I stay in the shower until the water starts to turn cold.

Maybe he came in and I just didn’t hear him.

I wrap one towel around my midsection, another around my hair, and wipe my feet on the rug before leaving the bathroom. It may not be an imagined waterfall at sunrise, but he can still unwrap me before we go to dinner.

I could live with that.

When he doesn’t come home before my exposed skin has air-dried, I start to get a little nervous.

He didn’t mention any plans today, and he assured me that he’d gotten out of work.

I walk back into the bathroom and finish drying myself before checking my phone.

I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent and reasonable explanation, but he’s not answering his phone.

When the call goes to voicemail, I hang up and try it again, walking around the apartment as it rings, thinking maybe he simply forgot it. If it’s here, the ringer’s turned off.

Now I’m really starting to get worried.

Wrigley told me to keep my head down, that she didn’t want me to get involved. I knew it was a threat, but could she really have done something to him?

I’m just being silly and I know it, but still, there’s that heavy pull telling me that something’s very wrong.

Running out of places to look, I find the number for l’Iris and call it.

“l’Iris, please hold.”

I sit on the couch, but immediately get back up again. I don’t really care how long they have me on hold; I can’t relax until I know that Dane is all right.

A minute or two passes before the line goes active again.

“I apologize for the wait, we don’t have any open reservations for tonight, but we might be able to squeeze you in sometime—”

“Is Dane there?” I ask. “This is his roommate Leila. He hasn’t been home, and I’m starting to get a little worried about him.”

“Dane?” the man with the obviously fake accent asks.

“Dane,” I repeat. “Dane Paulson.”

“Ah, monsieur Paulson,” the man says. “I will check. Please hold.”

I’ve really got to tell Dane to do something about fake accent man. It’s really annoying.

“Yes, it seems that Mr. Paulson has the night off tonight,” the man says. “I can leave a message here for him if you would like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I tell him and hang up.

Because there is absolutely nowhere else I know to look, I try calling his phone again, but this time it just goes straight to voicemail.

“Dane, it’s Leila. You’re still not home, and I’ve been trying to call you. Just give me a call back and let me know that you’re all right, will you?”

I hang up, feeling completely helpless.

For as much as I care for him, there’s still so much that I don’t know about Dane. If he has friends outside of work, he’s never mentioned them.

Come to think of it, he’s never actually referred to any of his coworkers as friends. When he refers to them at all, and it’s a rare occasion that he does, he never has a single nice thing to say about any of them.

Maybe he and I are just too different to go on pretending that this is going to work.

Maybe he really should be with that lunatic.

I push those thoughts aside, though, as I really don’t know where he is or what’s happening.

Realizing that there’s no remaining scenario I can think of that would lead to a pleasant lovemaking session, I finally put my clothes on. Once they’re on, I realize I can’t just sit here.

I write a note and set it on the table.

It reads simply: “Dane, if you see this note before you see me, call. You’ve got me pretty freaked out here, and I’m out looking for you. Leila”

I gather my keys then double and triple check that I have my phone with me. With that, I make my way to the door, but that’s when I hear it.

It’s Dane. He’s in the hallway.

He’s singing.

I throw the door open to find him standing there with a palm full of loose change, fingering his way through it.

“What are you doing?” I ask.