Page 98 of Can't Stop Watching
When I step out of the Uber, I stare up at the building. Inside, editors will decide if I'm worth taking a chance on. If I belong in their world of bylines and breaking news instead of memorizing drink orders.
I go in, repeating my personal mantra:You survived New Orleans. You can survive anything.
I follow the instructions I received by email. The appointment is in a different place than last time. The elevator takes me to the 32nd floor.
The receptionist smiles professionally, a different one from last time. "Ms. Marks? You're early."
"Better early than sorry," I say, then mentally kick myself. 'Early than sorry?' Did I really just mangle that cliché?
She doesn't seem to notice. "Please have a seat."
I sit ramrod straight on the edge of a sleek leather chair, going over my portfolio one more time. This internship is my ticket out of late-night bar shifts. My chance to write stories that matter. I'm not messing this up. I remember my phone and dig it out, thumbing the power button until it dies with that unsatisfying little vibration. Can't have it blaring some embarrassing ringtone in the middle of my interview, like that time my dad called during a final exam, his custom tone ("When The Saints Go Marching In") echoing through the silent classroom. Nope. Not happening today.
I shove the device into the bottomless pit that is my purse, burying it beneath wadded receipts, half-empty packs of gum, and about seventeen loose pens I've accidentally stolen from various establishments. Deep enough that even if I wanted to check it—which I absolutely will if it's within reach—I'd have to make enough noise to alert the entire floor during my excavation attempt.
The receptionist lifts her phone and whispers something I can't quite catch. She glances at me, her smile tightening at the corners. Something cold slithers down my spine.
"They'll be with you shortly," she says, then returns to her computer, the click of her keyboard unnaturally loud in the silent reception area.
I look around. Where is everyone? It's so quiet and… empty. Like a movie set after the actors have gone home.
The elevator dings behind me, but nobody steps out when the doors slide open. They simply close again with a soft hush that makes my skin prickle.
Get it together, Marks. It's probably just lunch hour or something.
But it's not even 10:30 AM.
The AC kicks on with a mechanical groan that makes me jump. Jesus, I'm wound tight. Maybe it's all the caffeine and sugar I consumed earlier. Or maybe it's the way the receptionist keeps watching me when she thinks I'm not looking.
"They're ready for you," she announces, clicking her pen shut with an air of finality.
She rises from her desk, heels tapping across the marble floor, and gestures toward a heavy wooden door to the right. I grab my portfolio, smoothing my borrowed suit one last time.
"Good luck," she says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as she opens the door.
I step inside, my rehearsed introduction dying on my lips as I scan the empty conference room. Long wooden table, eight leather chairs, water pitcher with perfectly aligned glasses—but zero people.
What the actual hell?
I turn to ask the receptionist what's going on, but the door clicks shut with a sound that feels way too final. Why would she bring me to an empty room?
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I reach for the door handle, already picturing myself making some excuse about needing to reschedule. Before my fingers touch the handle, a door at the opposite end of the room swings open. Brian Langford steps through, looking every inch the finance bro in his tailored suit, his smile as practiced as a knife thrower's aim.
"Lila Marks," he says, my name sounding wrong in his mouth. "So glad you could join us today."
My stomach drops like I've just watched someone drop a full bottle of top-shelf whiskey. Where's the panel of interviewers? Where's Vanessa Holt? This isn't right.
I force my face into what I hope resembles professional interest rather than the internalohshitohshitohshitcurrently running through my brain.
"Mr. Langford," I manage. "I was expecting the interview panel from last time."
He closes the door behind him, shutting us in together. "Oh, no. The final round is more... intimate. One-on-one."
The way he says "intimate" makes me want to douse myself in hand sanitizer.
"Have a seat, Lila. We have so much to discuss about your... potential," he adds.
Everything in me freezes as Brian takes a step closer. That tiny voice in my head—the one that got me through countless job interviews before—tries to rationalize. 'This is normal. Big companies do one-on-one final interviews all the time.'
