Page 151 of Morally Gray Daddies

Sarah Pierce, Crescent’s Selecta corporate liaison, wasn’t more than two or three years older than I was, but she still seemed much more like a grownup to me. It wasn't so much that she looked older than, say, twenty-five: more that she carried herself with a kind of authority that made her seem utterly unapproachable. Her high cheekbones gave her face a sculpted quality, especially because she wore very light makeup. The skirt-suit she had on must have cost thousands of pounds — maybe tens of thousands — and it suited the lean lines of her body perfectly.

"What is it?" I asked. To my horror, my voice came out barely louder than a whisper.

"I'd like to talk to you about what happened Friday."

The way she said it should have turned my blood to ice, but instead it only made my face tingle. I wanted to look down at the carpet, but I knew that would only make me blush harder, so I held her gaze as best I could.

"What… what do you mean?" I asked.

Miss Pierce frowned more deeply.

"You know what I mean, Emily. We're going to need to discuss how you're going to remedy the situation."

"The…"

Her words hung in the air between us for an uncomfortable few seconds. My mind raced, scrambling desperately to find some explanation that might help me save face, or at least avoid having to put into words what I had done. Nothing came, though.

"The situation?" I tried again, raising my eyebrows in what I hoped looked like innocent curiosity.

She sighed.

"I don't want to embarrass you, Emily. You've been here for three months now, and we know how hard you've been working. You can imagine how disappointed we felt when we heard about this foolish thing you did."

"But…"

Her mention of the length of time I had spent in London brought everything crashing back down around me, despite my instinctive protestation. My stomach churned, seeming suddenly to remember how little food I had eaten since arriving in England. I hadn't realized it until that moment, but not having enough money to afford much more than pasta and tomato sauce had taken a toll.

"At first," Miss Pierce went on, "we couldn't believe it. When they flagged your transfer, we thought it must be a mistake."

"They…"

What was I supposed to say? What could I possibly reply? They who?

I swallowed hard, fighting against the urge to hyperventilate. A thin layer of sweat broke out on my forehead and upper lip.

"My bank?" I suggested lamely.

"That's right. Our software has all kinds of safeguards built in — I won't bore you with the details, but they recognized that something unusual was happening. So they contacted their counterparts in the UK, and those people got in touch with our team here."

"And they told you…." I started, but my voice trailed off.

"That's correct. And we looked into it. As you almost certainly already understand, the company is responsible for making good on the money you transferred, because the account was created in error by our system."

"No!" I protested weakly. "No, I… I mean it's not…"

"It's not your fault," Miss Pierce finished for me, nodding. "That's true, Emily. We agree with you on that point. But we also think it's clear you understood what you were doing."

Once more I opened my mouth, but no words emerged.

"Why don't you sit down?" she continued after another pause. "I'll explain what happens next. There are options, you see. You might think the company will press charges, but there are other ways for you to deal with this."

A floral scent filled my nostrils as I took a sharp breath: I realized it must be Miss Pierce’s perfume. Inexplicably, the fragrance seemed to make my knees go wobbly; something about its subtle combination of flowers and spice sent a message straight to my brain, bypassing whatever tiny rational part of my mind I had left.

As she closed the door behind me, the soft click of the latch echoed in my ears like a thunderclap. I felt trapped, cornered, as if the walls of Miss Pierce's office were closing in around me. The room, which had always seemed spacious and airy during my brief visits, felt suffocatingly small. The modern art pieces adorning the walls, once intriguing, seemed to mock me with their abstract swirls and splashes of color.

My legs felt like jelly as I lowered myself into the sleek, ergonomic chair in front of Miss Pierce's desk. I gripped the armrests, my knuckles turning visibly white, as if they were the only things anchoring me to reality.

Miss Pierce glided around her desk with effortless grace, her heels clicking softly on the polished hardwood floor. She settled into her high-backed chair, the very picture of corporate authority. The afternoon light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her cast a halo around her silhouette, adding to her already intimidating presence.

---