Page 55 of Flock This

The idea helped ease the stress of the moment as I surveyed the table of contents.

Assigned Staff. Procedures and Rules. Disciplinary Actions. Employees and Access Codes.

I found the page for the Employees section and turned back to it but didn’t get quite far enough.

Instead, I found myself on the Disciplinary Actions just before.

And boy was this a bad section for me to turn to. Immediately, I spotted my number listed every three lines or so, with some tiny infraction.

Well, most were tiny. Being late, complaints from customers about my attitude, and the one time I kept a puppy I was supposed to deliver for a week because it was just too freaking cute to turn over.

In short? It was a compelling tale of all my fuck-ups. At least, all the ones Ruben knew about. It almost felt like reviewing a yearbook, recalling all the times when my boss had called me into his room and lectured me. However, it wasn’t his name beside the infraction—it was Rubens.

Which meant Ruben had known about each of those but allowed my boss to handle it rather than dealing with it himself.

Why?

Normally, it would stop with the boss, or if it came to Ruben’s attention, he’d intervene himself. This almost suggested Ruben had kept an eye on me personally, but that made little sense.

He never showed an interest in anything or anyone—and I had no reason to think I’d be any different.

I flipped the pages, chuckling at how often my number turned up in the disciplinary section. It would probably have been more helpful to have a notebook just for when I got into trouble. Otherwise, Ruben would find himself having to change books often to make room for all my little rebellions.

Finally, I got to the list of current staff. There were two different lists—one by name, the other by code.

I flipped to the code area, each in numerical order. I checked my own code just to verify the information, and found my name written beside my code.

I searched through, but nowhere could I find six-nine-six. No matter how many times I reviewed it, how many times I looked through the lengthy lists of numbers, I couldn’t find it.

Which meant the person wasn’t associated with the Justice Department? Then how could they even have a number, since those were assigned during orientation after hiring?

I went around and around in my head, but came to nothing that could explain it. The fact was, when it came to the inner workings of how the Justice Department ran their mail system, I just didn’t know that much.

I froze when steps from the hallway signaled someone’s approach. They weren’t the light steps of a person sneaking but suggested someone heavy and someone heading right for this office.

Fuck, it has to be Ruben. Leave it to him to manage to know exactly when I was up to no good and ruin my perfectly laid-out plan.

I curled my lip up at the word perfectly, which was probably not quite accurate.

I tossed the book back into the box, then shifted my gaze around the room, unsure what to do. My only option seemed obvious, so I changed into my crow form, my body shrinking down.

And leave it to Ruben to be extremely organized. He didn’t have things everywhere, didn’t leave his shit out to give me places to duck behind.

Curse organized people…

The only choice I saw was the box the book was in. With no other option, I fluttered into the box and wedged myself beneath the book and in the scraps of cloth that sat beneath it to hide me fully. The box was wooden, seeming rather old, with a small line of space between each plank that made it up.

That gave me the ability to see out, and the darkness inside kept me hidden.

The lock beeped before the door opened, and just as I expected, Ruben entered. He walked with sure steps, his confidence as annoying as ever.

Everything shifted, and it took a moment to realize why. Ruben had lifted the box, and light poured in through the slats when he left the dim office.

Please don’t be throwing this box in the incinerator.

Trash? I could deal with that. I was pretty sure I wasn’t fireproof, however.

A heavy sound echoed, like hinges that needed a serious lube job, then the box jerked as it was dropped on a hard surface.

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