This office is a shithole, she thought. And why would anyone hardwire the AC to run nonstop? Granted, they were in Texas and, like today, the weather could get unbearably hot. But no off switch? No way to unplug it?
Very strange, she thought.
Then again, nothing about this situation felt right. Not the terms of her employment, not this abandoned, run-down strip mall, and certainly not the fact there was no business name posted anywhere. The only thing identifying this office was the “Suite #45” painted outside in chunky black letters above the frosted-glass door.
What the hell were they really selling here? Mr. Sampson, the man who’d hired her, said they performed “discreet pest control” for the sort of people who didn’t want their neighbors knowing they had roach issues. “It’s a status thing,” he’d said.
But this was El Paso, Texas, not Beverly Hills. People were more caught up with everyday life than what their neighbors thought. It was why she’d moved here. Lack of noseys.
Emily hugged her pilling white cardigan to her shivering body. Any second now, she would have to bust open the AC’s front panel and shut off that icebox. The only reason she hadn’t yet was out of respect for Mr. Sampson, who didn’t vibe as friendly. At least not over the phone. She hadn’t actually met the guy, despite three days passing since she’d started work. “Work” being a term she used loosely here. All she did was sit and wait for the phone to ring.
It never did.
Then, at the end of each shift, she found one hundred dollars deposited into her Zelle account, just as they’d agreed over the phone.
Well, the man did say he might be late coming in to train me. Only, she’d thought he meant hours, not days.
Emily got up from her creaky chair, one of those antique oak things with metal wheels and ass-shaped grooves carved into the seat. With body heat on her mind, she started walking circles around the small, nearly empty office that contained three beige filing cabinets against the back wall, her prison-gray desk made of sheet metal (nothing in the drawers), and a grimy Mr. Coffee. The thing had at least an inch of scale caked inside the carafe. Nasty.
She glanced at the machine, noting a giant cockroach skittering across the yellow Formica counter off to the side of the room. It stopped, turned in her direction as if warning her off, and then disappeared down the rust-stained sink at the end.
She lifted a brow. Pest control, huh? Well, if that was really Mr. Sampson’s business, he sucked at it. The lack of customers was a huge hint, too.
With the blood now flowing again, Emily walked back to the desk and checked her cell for the fiftieth time. Still no new emails from Sampson.
This is insane. Where was he? Why hire her to just sit around and do nothing? She replayed their one and only phone conversation in her mind: “The key to the front door will be taped under the doormat. Keep it safe with you at all times. You are to answer the phone and take messages. No questions. Ever. No conversations. Ever. Just take the message, hang up. If I’m not in the office, place the message in the top drawer of the desk. That’s it.”
“I think I can handle that,” she’d said, knowing full well the entire situation was shady as fuck. But she had to pay rent. She had to eat. The challenge was, employment options were limited for people like her—no real skills, no references, no college education. Ed had never allowed her to work or take classes. Moving to El Paso was supposed to be the first step to a fresh start. Unfortunately, after two weeks she’d already burned through the small amount of cash she’d managed to scrape together before running.
New identities cost a lot.
The red push-button phone on her desk began blaring with a high-pitched ring, making her jump in her black flats.
“Sonofa…” She pressed her palm over her heart. She’d never actually heard the damned thing make a noise until now. Not a soul had passed through the door either.
She reached for the handpiece, not knowing what to expect. “He-hello?”
“Tell Sampson,” said a cold, gravelly voice, “customer ninety-two’s rat has been taken care of.”
His voice sent a chill down her spine. I bet he killed the poor critter just by talking to it. She grabbed the pad of legal paper on her desk and wrote down the message. Should she tell the caller that Mr. Sampson was MIA?
No. She shouldn’t get involved. She was there to take messages from ten a.m. to four p.m. Monday through Friday. That was it. The less she knew about whatever this place really was, the better.
“Got it,” she said, “and may I say who’s calling?”
There was a long, static-filled pause. “Who the fuck is this?”
Shit. She wasn’t supposed to ask questions. “My name is…Jane. I just started working here.” She wasn’t about to give him her name, even if Emily Rockford was an alias. She didn’t have another two grand to buy another identity that came with a social security card and an Illinois driver’s license of a twenty-six-year-old woman who vaguely resembled her: five-five height, Caucasian, green eyes, brown hair, and one hundred and thirty pounds.
“Well, Jane,” the man said in a bone-chilling voice, “I suggest you shut your fucking mouth and pass along the message.” The line went dead.
Emily hung up and released a slow breath. She had a very bad feeling about this job. Very bad. But until she found something else, this was better than sleeping in the gutter. Or worse, next to Ed.
Wearing her only set of PJs—a lame yellow duckie T-shirt combo with matching shorts that she’d found in the 99-cent bin at Goodwill—Emily spent the long muggy night tossing and turning with wave after wave of internal debate.
That voice in her sour stomach screamed not to go back to that office in the morning. Unfortunately, her stomach kept being overruled by necessity, including the need to find a less dumpy apartment. It was bad enough that used needles littered the walkway just outside her door each morning, but she couldn’t even get a decent night’s sleep. The couple next door spent most nights drinking and fighting. Their cruel words—“You’re nothing. You’re a stupid whore. I should kill you!”—reminded her of the existence she’d left behind. Except, in the here and now, the yelling made her anxious. Back home, the yelling had given her a sick kind of relief.
Emily rolled to her side. It was painful to look back and know it had taken almost three years to grow a pair and leave Ed, but there hadn’t been a day when she didn’t think about running. Some days were better than others, like the days when Ed came home from work and spewed the most vile, hateful things. Those were the good days. Yelling didn’t leave bruises. It was when Ed turned silent that she had to worry. Those were the bad days.
Never again. She rolled to her other side, the phantom ache of a once cracked rib throbbing against the mattress. Put it out of your mind. You’re free now. She stared at the orange-and-black striped pattern on her window, a product of blinds that didn’t close properly and the streetlamps just outside.
I really have to find a better place. But that wasn’t a priority. She needed to save every dime she could. It was June, and the fall semester at the junior college would be starting in September. She planned to get her certificate in one impossible backbreaking semester and then get a job as a bookkeeper. A safe home with respectable employment was all she needed.