Version 1.11.0

  Tuesday November 1st

  The day after Halloween, Kate and I were sprawled across her couch nursing matching headaches. Empty coffee cups everywhere. Curtains drawn against the offensive sunlight. Chaos moving back and forth between the two of us. Purring too loudly for my headache to appreciate.

  "Last night was fun," Kate murmured into a throw pillow.

  "It really was." I stared at the ceiling, still replaying moments from the karaoke bar. The costumes. The laughter. The Dread Pirate Roberts watching from across the room. "Hey, Kate?"

  "Mm."

  "You ever think about karma? Like, whether people actually get what they deserve?"

  She lifted her head slightly petting Chaos absently. "This feels like a trap question."

  "It's not. I'm just..." I traced patterns on the armrest. "Thinking about things. About how some people do terrible stuff and just... get away with it. Forever. And whether that's just how the world works, or if sometimes the universe balances things out."

  Kate was quiet for a moment. "Is this about Holloway?"

  "Maybe. Sort of." I kept my voice casual. "I just wonder sometimes. If someone had real evidence about, you know, the kind of stuff that goes on. Would it even matter? Would anyone actually do anything?"

  "Depends on the evidence, I guess." Kate yawned. "And who had it. And what they did with it. And like, what that evidence meant. Like, was it evidence of murder or tax fraud. Oh, I don’t know.”

  "What would you do? Hypothetically. If you stumbled onto proof of something really bad. Something that could hurt a lot of people if it stayed hidden."

  Kate rolled onto her back, staring at the same ceiling I was. "Hypothetically?"

  "Hypothetically."

  She was quiet long enough that I thought she might have fallen asleep. Then: "I don't know. I'd want to do the right thing. But what's the right thing? Blow the whistle and watch everything burn down? Sometimes exposing the truth just makes things worse for everyone except the people who were already safe. Kind of like what happened with Daniel. Exposing what happened didn’t help anyone.”

  "So you'd do nothing?"

  "I didn't say that." She rubbed her eyes. "I said I don't know. It's complicated. There's no good answer. I was so stressed during our reconnaissance, and afterwards really. The whole thing lying, sneaking around. I’m not cut out for it. My headache hasn’t gone away in over a week and honestly last night did not help that at all.” A pause. "Why? Did you stumble onto something?"

  "No," I lied. "Just thinking out loud."

  "Well, stop thinking. It's too early for moral philosophy." She threw a pillow at me. "Put on something mindless. My brain can't handle anything deeper than reality TV right now."

  I put on a show about people renovating houses. Kate fell asleep within ten minutes. I stayed awake, turning her words over in my mind. I'd want to do the right thing. That was what she'd said. I'd want to do the right thing. She hadn't said don't.

  * * *

  Wednesday November 2nd

  The email went out on a Wednesday morning.

  I'd stayed up most of the night crafting it carefully. The tone had to be perfect: guilty but not pathetic, confessional but not melodramatic. The kind of email a man like Greg might write if he'd genuinely had a crisis of conscience. If such a thing were possible.

  To whom it may concern,

  I can no longer live with what I've done.

  For years, I've used my position at Holloway Design to take advantage of the people who trusted me. I've manipulated, threatened, and paid off anyone who tried to hold me accountable. I've destroyed careers to protect my own. I've hurt people who deserved better.

  Attached you'll find documentation of my actions. Emails, financial records, signed agreements. Everything you need to understand the scope of what I've done and who I've hurt.

  I'm sending this because the guilt has become unbearable. Because I've realized that no amount of money or power is worth the person I've become. Because the people I've wronged deserve to have their stories told, even if it destroys me.

  I'm sorry. I am ready and willing to face the consequences of my actions.

  Greg Harrison CEO, Holloway Design

  I sent it from Greg's own Holloway email account, CC'd to the company's board of directors, to three major news outlets, and to a journalist who'd written about corporate misconduct before. The attachments included everything: the spreadsheet, the NDAs, the payment records, all of it.

  Then, for good measure, I logged into his LinkedIn and posted a condensed version. Public. Visible to his 12,000 connections, his industry colleagues, everyone who'd ever shaken his hand at a conference or congratulated him on another successful quarter. The post went live at 8:47 AM, right when most professionals were checking their feeds with their morning coffee. I wiped the external hard drive sat back and waited.

  * * *

  The news broke faster than I expected.

  The journalist I'd contacted was hungry and fast. By 3 PM, there was an article online with the headline "Holloway Design CEO Confesses to Years of Workplace Abuse." By 5 PM, it was trending.

  At 7 PM my mom called. I had prepared for this. I took a deep breath and answered.

  "Hello."

  "Oh, Samantha, thank goodness. We've all been so worried." Her warm fake overly caring voice purred through the phone. I could almost hear her smiling.

  "What are you worried about, mom?"

  "Oh, you of course. Catrina and I were just on the phone when we saw the news about Greg Harrison. We thought that maybe you'd been fired when we heard about things through the grapevine and when you didn't return my calls..." Her voice became sharper, less fake at the end of her sentence. Then she returned to that performative honey-sweet purr. "I realized you must've been a part of what that monster did. Don't you worry honey. Your aunts and cousins will all be super understanding about your situation this holiday."

  I took a breath but before I could say anything she continued, "Like I was saying, I was talking with Aunt Catrina just a moment ago and we decided we're going to host a prayer circle this Sunday."

  "Well gee, mom, that's great. But you know I am not religious."

  "It's not for you, dear." The way she hissed the word dear made it sound almost like a curse.

  "Oh, good, I thought..."

  "It's for me, of course. The amount of stress you put me through, I've barely been able to eat dinner. Just remember to make it up to me and bring that guy of yours to Thanksgiving. Okay dear. Nice chatting, I need to get back to Catrina. Ta."

  The line clicked and I realized, when my vision started to darken, that I was still holding my breath.

  By 8 PM, the board had released a statement announcing that Greg had "willingly taken a paid leave of absence." Kate called me at 9.

  "Sam." Her voice was strange. Tight. "Did you see the news?"

  "I saw." I kept my voice carefully neutral. "Are you okay? That must have been a shock."

  "It's insane. The whole office is in chaos. They asked me to come in and cancel the rest of my PTO this week.” She paused. "Sam, tell me you didn't do this."

  "What? How would I have done this?"

  "I don't know. I don't know how you did any of it. But the timing, and everything that's happened, and I just after the hypothetical questions yesterday it..." Another pause. "Never mind. I'm being paranoid. Greg confessed. It's right there in the email, in his own words."

  "People do have crises of conscience sometimes."

  "Do they? Does Greg Harrison seem like the kind of man who suddenly grows a conscience?"

  I thought about what I'd found in his files. The meticulous record-keeping. The insurance folder. The complete lack of remorse in any of his communications.

  "Maybe the guilt just got to him," I said. “I’ve been watching the news about it. I can’t believe what he’s confessed to. Seems like a lot.”

  Kate was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Yeah. Maybe. I just... I don't know what to think anymore. About anything."

  "Do you want to get coffee tomorrow? Talk about it?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that. Our usual place?"

  "See you at noon."

  I hung up and stared at my phone. Kate suspected. She didn't have proof, and she wanted to believe me, but she suspected. I told myself it didn't matter. Greg was exposed. The women he'd hurt would get justice, or at least acknowledgment. That was worth some suspicion from Kate, wasn't it?

  Wasn't it?

  * * *

  Thursday November 3rd

  The coffee shop was busy when I arrived, full of people on laptops and hushed conversations. I spotted Kate at our usual table, a large latte already in front of her, staring out the window. She looked bad. But there were dark circles under her eyes, and she startled when I sat down.

  "Hey. You okay?"

  "Honestly? I have no idea." She wrapped her hands around her coffee cup like she was trying to warm them. "It's been a weird couple of days."

  "Tell me."

  "The board's in full panic mode. Stock's dropping. There's talk of selling off parts of the company, or bringing in outside management, or just shutting down entirely. Nobody knows what's going to happen." She took a long sip of her latte. "Priya's been crying in the bathroom every day. She just bought a house, Sam. She and Dev stretched to afford it because she thought her job was secure."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "God."

  "And Marcus in security? He got let go yesterday. 'Restructuring,' they said. Like he had anything to do with any of this." Kate shook her head. "He has three kids. His wife just had surgery."

  I thought about Marcus's kind eyes, the way he'd tried to make small talk in the elevator to ease the awkwardness of escorting me out. He'd been doing his job. And now he didn't have one.

  "What about you? Is your job safe?"

  Kate shrugged. "For now? Probably? Everyone's too busy putting out fires to think about layoffs. But long-term..." She shook her head. "I don't know. I've been updating my resume, just in case. Maybe us finding a job together somewhere will be needed more quickly than I anticipated.”

  "I'm sorry."

  "It's not your fault." She paused. "It's not, right?"

  "Kate."

  "I know. I know. Greg confessed. It's his fault, all of it. I just..." She met my eyes. "You have to admit, the timing is weird. First Daniel, now Greg. And your question the other day about karma, it just got me thinking.”

  "Sometimes the universe has a sense of justice."

  “That’s the thing though, Sam. The universe doesn’t ever have a sense of justice. Does the universe usually send detailed evidence packages to journalists?"

  "Maybe it does." I stirred my Americano, not meeting her eyes. "Maybe some things are so bad that they can't stay hidden forever. Greg hurt a lot of people, Kate. At least now the women he victimized will get some kind of justice. Women like Jessica."

  The name slipped out before I could stop it.

  Kate's brow furrowed. "Jessica? Jessica Hudson?"

  "Yeah." I kept my voice casual, but my heart was pounding. Stupid. Stupid. “You mentioned her on Halloween and after this news broke…”

  "I hadn't heard Jessica was involved. I should reach out to her."

  "Don't. I'm just saying, statistically, if Greg was doing this for years..." I trailed off, reaching for my coffee. "Forget it. I'm just speculating."

  Kate was quiet for a moment, studying me. I could see the gears turning, see her filing the comment away. But then she shook her head slightly, like she was dismissing the thought.

  "I guess you're right. God, when I think about all the people who left over the years..." She shuddered. "I always thought Jessica just got a better offer. She was so talented. Remember how she used to stay late helping us with our presentations?"

  "Yeah." My throat felt tight. "She was really nice."

  "I tried to reach out to her, after she left. She never responded. I figured she was just busy, or wanted a clean break from Holloway." Kate stared into her coffee. "Now I wonder if she just couldn't talk about it."

  I thought about the NDA in Greg's files. The $50,000 payment. The way Jessica had simply vanished from our lives.

  "At least now people will know," I said. "The truth is out there. That has to count for something."

  "I hope so." Kate didn't sound convinced. "I just keep thinking about what happens next. If the company folds, that's hundreds of people out of work. Priya, Marcus, everyone. And for what? Because one man couldn't keep his hands to himself?"

  "Exactly, because one man chose to be a predator for decades and no one stopped him," I corrected. "It seems like the board should've outed him years ago."

  "I know." She sighed. "I'm just tired, Sam. I'm tired of everything being terrible all the time. I’m tired of this freaking headache. My eyes hurt all the time.” She rubbed absently at them. “Everything is fuzzy. Why can’t we go back and every day be Halloween.”

  "Hey." I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "We still have our bar date tomorrow night, right? Let's focus on that. You and me, overpriced cocktails, judging strangers. Ogling men. It'll be fun. Just like Halloween.”

  Kate smiled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "You're right. We need to look for your mystery hottie.”

  "That's the spirit."

  "Although if we're going to a bar, you need to actually talk to people this time. No hiding in the corner with your phone."

  "I didn’t hide."

  "Sam. Before Halloween the last time we went out, you spent forty-five minutes reading Wikipedia articles about the history of gin."

  "It was interesting! Did you know juniper berries aren't actually berries?"

  Kate laughed, and for a moment it felt like Halloween again. Or even before, like old times. Before I knew the world was comprised of code and my boss was a predator.

  Before I could say anything else, there was a commotion behind us. Someone swore, a chair scraped, and then something warm and wet splashed across our table and down my leg.

  "Oh god, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..."

  I looked up to see a man about my age, maybe a little older, holding an empty coffee cup and looking mortified. He was cute, in a nerdy kind of way: plastic-rimmed glasses, slightly too-long messy brown hair, the kind of face that looked like it smiled a lot. Right now it was bright red with embarrassment.

  And I recognized him. The Dread Pirate Roberts. From Halloween.

  "I tripped over my own feet, I can't believe I... here, let me..." He grabbed napkins from the dispenser and started mopping up the spill, which had mostly landed on the table and floor rather than on us. "I'm so sorry. Can I buy you both new drinks? Please let me buy you new drinks. It's the least I can do."

  Kate was grinning. "It's fine, really," she said. "No harm done."

  "No, I insist. What were you having? Large latte? And you?" He turned to me, and I noticed his eyes were a warm brown, almost amber in the light from the window. The same eyes that had watched me sing karaoke three days ago. "What's your poison?"

  "Medium Americano," I said. "But you really don't have to..."

  "I absolutely have to. My mother would disown me if I spilled coffee on two beautiful women and didn't make it right." He flashed a self-deprecating smile. "I'm Scott, by the way. Professional klutz, amateur IT consultant."

  "Kate." She was practically beaming now. "And this is Sam."

  "Sam." He repeated my name like he was filing it away, and I wondered if he remembered me from Halloween or if this was genuinely the first time he was hearing it. "I'll be right back with those drinks. Again, I'm so sorry."

  He headed for the counter, and Kate immediately leaned across the table.

  "Oh my god, Samantha Marion. It’s him! It is him, right?”

  “There’s no way it’s him. It’s got to be a coincidence.”

  "Did you see him? And he's in IT? His eyes!" She watched him order at the counter. "And he's got a great smile. Did you see that smile? And," she said in a hissing whisper, "did you see that ass? Hot damn. That man does not miss leg day."

  He did not. His very snug jeans definitely highlighted his ass-ets.

  "I saw," I said, trying to nonchalantly catch another glimpse.

  “You absolutely need to get his number this time.”

  "Kate. No one wants to date an unemployed artist."

  "Sammy, come on. I'm serious! When's the last time you went on a date?" She shook her head, counting on her fingers. "It's been at least six months. You need to get out more. Live a little. Stop obsessing over revenge and start obsessing over something fun."

  "I'm not obsessing over revenge."

  Kate gave me a look but didn't push. Scott was already heading back with our drinks.

  "One large latte, one medium Americano." He set them down carefully, as if afraid of causing another disaster. "And again, I'm really sorry. I promise I'm not usually this clumsy. You both just looked like people I saw the other night and I couldn’t believe it, then my laptop bag snagged on the chair and…” He mimed an exaggerated stumble. "Physics happened."

  Kate laughed. "It happens to the best of us."

  "Does it? Because I feel like it mostly happens to me." He glanced at me, then back at Kate, then at me again. There was something in his expression I couldn't quite read, but it felt like he wanted something. "Anyway, I should let you get back to your conversation. Sorry again for the interruption and the mis-identification.“

  "No worries," Kate said. Then, with a gleam in her eye that I recognized as dangerous: "Wait, where did you see us? We don't get out much."

  Scott's ears went pink. "Oh, uh. Karaoke bar? Monday night? You were dressed as..." He gestured vaguely at his own outfit. "Princess-y? And there was a song. NSYNC, I think?"

  Kate's grin turned predatory. "You remember the song."

  "It was memorable." He was looking at me now, and I felt my face heat up. "The performance was... committed."

  "She was serenading you," Kate said, and I wanted to sink through the floor.

  "Kate."

  “What? He should know. I dedicated it to the hot pirate across the bar. That was you, right? Dread Pirate Roberts?"

  Scott laughed, surprised. "You recognized the costume?"

  "She recognized the costume." Kate pointed at me. "Sam's a sucker for anyone in all black with good hair."

  "I will murder you," I said pleasantly.

  "Worth it." Kate stood up, grabbing her latte. "I need to use the restroom. Scott, keep her company. Sam, don't do anything I wouldn't do." She practically skipped away.

  Scott and I stared at each other.

  "Your friend is..."

  "A lot. She's a lot." I wrapped my hands around my Americano. "Sorry about her. And sorry about the song. Kate has no boundaries when she's had a few drinks."

  "Don't apologize." He sat down in Kate's vacated chair, then seemed to realize what he'd done. "Is this okay? I can go, I don't want to..."

  "It's fine." It came out softer than I intended.

  He settled into the chair, long legs folding awkwardly under the small table. "So. Karaoke princess by night, and by day...?"

  "Unemployed." The word came out more bitter than I intended. "Recently unemployed. I was a graphic designer."

  "Was?"

  "Company drama. I'd rather not get into it." I took a sip of my coffee. Perfect temperature, I'd adjusted it without thinking. "What about you? You said IT consultant?"

  "Freelance, mostly. Security stuff. Companies hire me to find holes in their systems before the bad guys do." He shrugged. "It's less exciting than it sounds. Mostly spreadsheets and telling people their password shouldn't be 'password123.'"

  "Is it really that bad?"

  "You have no idea. I once worked with a Fortune 500 company where the CFO's password was his dog's name. Which he posted about on LinkedIn. Weekly." Scott shook his head. "Sometimes I think people want to get hacked."

  I laughed, actually laughed, not the polite half-laugh I'd been giving everyone since Halloween. "That's horrifying."

  "Right? And then they act shocked when someone steals their data." He leaned back, coffee cup balanced on his knee. "But enough about my glamorous life of yelling at executives. What kind of design did you do?"

  “Branding, mostly. Logos, visual identity, that kind of thing." I hesitated. "I was good at it. Really good. And then..."

  "Company drama," he finished.

  "Company drama."

  He nodded, not pushing. I appreciated that. Most people wanted the story, the gossip, the details. Scott just accepted it and moved on.

  "Well, their loss," he said. "Anyone who can command a karaoke stage like that clearly has talent."

  "Oh god, please forget that happened."

  "Absolutely not. That performance is seared into my memory forever." His eyes crinkled when he smiled. "I don't think I've ever seen someone put that much emotion into a boy band song."

  "Kate chose it and forced it on me.”

  "What would you have picked?"

  I considered, “I’m not much for Karaoke. But maybe some Hands Down by Dashboard Confessional or some My Chemical Romance. Lean full into the angst of the costume.”

  "See, I respect that. Full commitment to the bit." He gestured at himself. "That's why I went full Dread Pirate Roberts. If you're going to do something embarrassing, do it with conviction."

  "The costume was good. Very... swashbuckly."

  “Swashbuckly." He grinned. "I'm adding that to my vocabulary."

  Kate was taking forever in the bathroom. I suspected she was watching from somewhere, giving us time. I should have been annoyed, but I wasn't.

  "Can I ask you something?" Scott said.

  “Was that it? Or do you have an additional question to asking a question?”

  “Ha… An additional question.”

  I nodded.

  And he continued, “The song. When your friend dedicated it to 'the hot pirate'..." He paused, ears going pink again. "Was that actually aimed at me, or was there another pirate I didn't notice?"

  I could lie. Deflect. Make a joke about there being pirates everywhere these days.

  Instead, I heard myself say: "There was only one pirate."

  Scott's smile softened into something warmer. "Good to know."

  We sat there for a moment, the coffee shop noise fading into background static. Not the unsettling static I'd been seeing lately, just the pleasant blur of other people's conversations, the hiss of the espresso machine, the world continuing around us while we existed in our own small bubble.

  "I should probably let you get back to your friend," he said, though he made no move to stand. "I've already interrupted your morning enough."

  "You bought us coffee. I think we're even."

  "Still." He pulled out his phone, hesitated, then looked at me. "This is going to sound forward, and feel free to say no, but... would you want to grab lunch sometime? Or coffee again, somewhere I haven't already made a scene?"

  My first instinct was to say no. I wasn't in a good place. I was unemployed, possibly losing my mind, definitely doing things that could land me in prison. The last thing I needed was to drag some nice IT guy into my disaster of a life.

  But he was looking at me with those warm amber eyes, and Kate's voice echoed in my head: Stop obsessing over revenge and start obsessing over something fun.

  "Lunch could work," I said.

  His face lit up. "Yeah?"

  "Yeah." I grabbed a napkin and borrowed a pen from the cup on the table, scribbling my number. "Text me. Just... fair warning, my schedule is pretty open these days. Unemployment perks."

  "I'll keep that in mind." He took the napkin like it was something precious, folding it carefully and tucking it into his pocket. "I'll text you. Probably today. Definitely today, if I'm being honest. Is that too eager?"

  "Ask me after I see the text."

  He laughed, standing up. "Fair enough. It was nice to officially meet you, Sam."

  "You too, Scott."

  He grabbed his laptop bag from where it had tangled with the chair, gave me one last smile, and headed for the door. I watched him go, watched his reflection in the window check back over his shoulder at me before he stepped outside.

  Kate materialized beside me approximately three seconds later.

  "Please tell me you got his number."

  "I gave him mine."

  She actually squealed. "Samantha Marion, you absolute legend. I leave you alone for five minutes…”

  "You were gone for fifteen."

  "And you land a date with the hot pirate. I'm so proud." She clutched her chest dramatically. "My little girl, all grown up."

  "It's just lunch."

  "It's never just lunch." She grabbed my arm. "Okay, tell me everything. What did you talk about? Did he mention the song again? Did he seem nervous? He seemed nervous, right? In a cute way?"

  I let her interrogate me, answering her questions while my mind wandered elsewhere. Scott seemed nice. Normal. The kind of person who worried about spilling coffee and made self-deprecating jokes and remembered what costume I wore to a karaoke bar.

  The kind of person who deserved better than whatever I was becoming.

  But when my phone buzzed twenty minutes later with a text from an unknown number,

  UNKNOWN: So, scale of 1-10, how eager is texting before you've even left the coffee shop?

  I smiled despite myself.

  Me: Depends on how good the lunch place is

  I updated his contact in my phone.

  Scott: Challenge accepted. How do you feel about Vietnamese food?

  And just like that, I had a date.

  Patreon if you're the kind of person who reads the last page of a book first.