I stopped near the brass coat rack, holding my leather briefcase tightly against my side.
“What kind of adjustments, Arthur?” I asked.
He tapped the manila folder against his palm, the sound sharp in the empty lobby.
“We are moving your desk to the warehouse office down by the river,” he said. “We need someone with your analytical skills closer to the shipping logs and inventory control.”
The warehouse office was a drafty wooden shed that sat at the edge of the property, smelling of diesel exhaust and wet gravel.
“You are sidelining me because of the pension ledger,” I said.
He offered a warm, reassuring smile that did not reach his pale blue eyes.
“It is a temporary reassignment to help with the winter inventory transition,” he said, stepping closer. “Sienna understands how the real world works, Eleanor, and we need everyone focused on the future.”
Before I could answer, his smartphone on the desk beside him began to vibrate, its buzz loud against the polished wood.
The screen lit up with an incoming call, displaying a ten-digit number with an area code I recognized instantly.
Two-zero-six.
Seattle, Washington.
Arthur quickly snatched the phone, flipping it face down against his palm, but his fingers remained tense against the casing.
“I have to take this call,” he said, his smooth tone slipping for a fraction of a second.
“Is that a client from the West Coast?” I asked.
“It is a shipping subcontractor,” he said, turning toward the inner offices before the phone could ring a second time.
At six o’clock, a knock sounded at the door of my small apartment on Elm Street.
Outside my window, the delivery truck for the local oil cooperative was idling, the driver dragging a thick black hose toward the basement fill pipe of the building.
I knew a gallon of heating oil now cost four dollars, and my winter budget was already stretched thin by the sudden change in my position.
