Chapter 15: Office Politics

The bookstore signed a long-term contract with the company across the street, so I often volunteered to run errands there. Sometimes, I’d catch a glimpse of James from afar.

He always wore black, never a hint of any other color. The only exception was the white collar of his shirt.

He moved quickly, always surrounded by subordinates in suits, their heads bowed.

To outsiders, he was cold and unapproachable, nothing like the pale, vulnerable man I’d seen that night.

Sometimes, passing by the office, I’d overhear employees gossiping in the break room.

They said their terrifying boss’s office didn’t have a single splash of color—not even a plant. The whole decor was oppressive, all gray and black.

“He’s colder than Tom Brady after a bad loss,” one woman whispered.

James’s early-deceased wife was no secret. Maybe because his son often came to the office, or maybe because of the plain ring he wore, never taking it off.

They even speculated that James, living like a monk, was keeping himself chaste for his late wife.

I hugged a stack of books, head down, slipping quietly through the crowd.

For the first time, I started to wonder if agreeing to this mission was a mistake.

The office smelled of printer toner and takeout, the walls lined with framed sports memorabilia—signed baseballs, a photo of the Cleveland skyline at sunset. My footsteps squeaked on the tile, and I wished, for a moment, to be as invisible as the dust motes in the air.