Page 20 of Whistleblower

“Are you calling me out?”

“Well, you’re telling everyone I’m HR, so I’m assuming dress code enforcement is part of my responsibility.”

“What’s your issue with being called HR?” Callen asks, taking another large bite of donut.

“People hate HR. No one wants to talk to HR. It’s impossible to get people to open up when all they think you’re going to do is use their words against them. These days, most companies are going out of their way to call it something else—talent management or employee support for example. ‘Human Resources’ has a negative connotation.”

Callen nods in understanding. “That makes sense. And to answer your question, suit and tie at Pennsylvania Avenue, but this is a very private facility, so I guess it’s up for discussion.”

I point to Callen, surveying him head to toe. “May I suggest this for the compound?”

“What?”

“Business casual—collared shirt, sports jacket, no tie. Slacks or jeans—neat, no rips or holes. I’m assuming you guys have work boots or tennis shoes?” I quickly shake the image of blood-stained white sneakers from my mind. “Let’s say dark-colored, closed-toe shoes.”

“Sure…but, why?”

“It just sends a message. Propriety without rigidity. I’ve seen that work well for organizations in the past,” I say as Callen nods along. “You won’t even need to make a big announcement. Just lead by example and they’ll do what you do. How many female agents do you have? I’ve only gone through about fifteen of the personnel files you left on my desk.”

“Three. Vesper, Cricket, and now you.”

That’s it?

“Technically, I’m not an agent. Just a civilian.”

“True,” Callen says, popping the rest of the donut in his mouth. He holds his hand up while he chews and swallows. “But you’re now privy to a lot of top-secret information. You have an off-the-record clearance at this point, so for all intents and purposes, you are a part of Operation PALADIN.”

“Well, then I’ll be happy to discuss the ladies dress code with Vesper and Cricket when I conduct their interviews. Did you get my email about that?”

“Yup,” Callen says. “The sign-up sheet is almost full. I sent an email saying it’s mandatory and missing their interview will result in serious consequences.”

“Dammit, Callen!”

“What?” he says, reaching for a pastry this time. It’s remarkable to me that Callen is so fit. I’ve seen how he eats on multiple occasions and, based on his diet, he should not be so athletic, especially as he nears his forties.

“Do not use words like mandatory and consequences when it pertains to me, okay? I’m here to welcome open conversations, not swoop in like the iron hammer. A hammer shatters things. From now on, let me send my own emails. Please.”

He rotates his finger as he points at me. “This, Eden. This is why I knew we needed you. My brain doesn’t work like that. It’s the retired military in me.”

“Mhm,” I respond, unconvinced.

It’s an excuse a lot of military service members use, but it wasn’t my experience. My dad knew how to leave it at work. To Delta Forces he was Major Abbott. At home he was just “Daddy Duck,” which I called him all the way up until I was fifteen.

Grumbling, I begin to rearrange the platters that Callen stole his breakfast from, trying to cover the bare spots. “Are you finished looting?”

“Probably not. These are delicious, where’d you get them?”

“A fantastic little bakery up the street.”

I point to the boxes with the purple logos by the tall wastebasket. Immediately my mind lands on Chandler and our brief encounter the other evening. Funny, I never thought seeing a trash can would give me butterflies, but then again, I never thought I’d be so instantly attracted to a stranger. I went back to the compound on Sunday to continue research, and I’ll admit, I lingered late into the evening. I was really hoping to see him again. Yes, he’s hot—beautiful even—but that’s not what had my head spinning.

I felt comfortable, strangely enough. I haven’t felt comfortable around people in over a year. I’m suspicious, my guard is always up, and it’s been hard to converse with new people. I’m always afraid that I’ll slip—about my real identity, the burden of information I’m holding that weighs a thousand pounds—or most dangerously…how the trauma of unbridled fear has changed me.

But Chandler…

Chandler had me at ease almost instantly. It wasn’t anything he said in particular, it was his presence. For fifteen blissful minutes, I didn’t feel like a whistleblower who ruined her entire career. I just felt like a normal girl…

With a little crush.

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