Page 44 of Ghosted
“You’re always distracting, Alderwood,” he says, standing from his desk and smoothing down his already perfect tie.
I smile, looking down at my phone to try and hide it.
“First things first, I need to go make coffee,” he states. “And you need to come with me. Sense memory and all that. I need to actually go through the process of making the coffee, and I don’t want it to go to waste. It’s a Nespresso,” he says gravely, as if that’s supposed to mean something to me.
I shake my head in exasperation but comply. He’s determined to have me along for the ride the whole way through. As much as I want to be hands-off to allow him to remember things, I also know he needs the support of having me close, even if he’s unwilling to say it and would rather joke around or flirt to distract both of us.
I follow him out into the main office and down a walkway to the right. The whole place is eerily quiet; I get the same feeling I had in high school when I’d walk back to the student parking lot at night after putting the yearbook together. Youknow it’s supposed to be bustling with noise and people, so when it’s silent, the energy feels wrong. Lifeless. As if the whole building is holding its breath in wait.
I shake off the chill from being in here (mostly) alone, and we enter a decent-sized break room. I’m impressed with the stock of snacks and drinks on display. They have everything from healthy granola and fruit to Rice Krispies Treats and chips. It makes me soften a bit towards Jack. He cares about his employees, or at the very least doesn’t want them going hungry.
Like the crown jewel, a giant coffee machine sits in the middle of the long countertop against the back wall. I swear there’s even a spotlight shining on it. I scrutinize the ceiling above it and—yep, spotlight.
“So, you guys really like this thing, huh?” I ask skeptically.
“When you don’t want to run out of the office every few hours for a decent cup of coffee, it’s great. It doesn’t top an actual pulled espresso, but it’s a good substitute,” he says, lovingly rubbing the machine like a long-lost pet. Or lover. I can’t decide which I’d prefer at this point.
“Can you make a drink, or is that too much?” I ask, not wanting to mess up the machine.
“What’s that? You want me to be your sexy barista?” he jokes, cupping his hand around his ear. I heave a long-suffering sigh and he says, “Yeah, I got you. I’m making my favorite, though. And there will be no complaints, capiché?”
“Deal,” I agree with a salute. I sit at the circular table in the middle of the room and watch while Dean fiddles with the machine. I’m so impressed with how much control he has. I mean, just a couple weeks ago we couldn’t hold a conversation for more than a few minutes without it exhausting him. And now the man is making me a cup of coffee.
He turns around with an artisanal ceramic mug in his hands—one of those fancy ones that you can tell has been hand thrown—and sets it gingerly in front of me. I breathe in and smell a rich caramel mingle with the deeper tones of dark roasted coffee. He gives me a smug look as he sits next to me. “I told you it was good.”
“I haven’t even tasted it yet,” I scoff. He watches while I pick the mug up and bring it to my mouth. I take a small sip and laugh. Because, of course, it’s blisteringly sweet. Dean would never have anything less.
“Told you,” he says victoriously. I smile and shake my head at him because “good” isn’t exactly the adjective I would have used. “Now obviously, I have to taste it,” he says, leaning in until his face is only inches from mine. If I was confused before about what he meant, I’m not anymore. I know I’m supposed to be the responsible one and keep us on track, but one little kiss can’t hurt, right?
Right.
So, when he leans in towards me, long lashes fluttering closed and his infuriating mouth ticked up in a smile, I meet him halfway. I open on a gasp when he cards his fingers through my hair, giving it a gentle tug. He sucks at my lower lip and dips his tongue into my mouth. “Delicious,” he says lowly before coming back for more. He kisses me until I’m breathless and needy, gasping into his mouth.
I sit back with a sharp inhale. “I am not going to let you distract us from what we need to do here, Dean,” I scold, although the sting is probably lessened by the whine in my voice.
“Worth a try,” he says, leaning in to steal one final peck. What is it about him that makes me so feral? One kiss and I’mready to strip naked and let him have his wicked way with me.
“Later, I promise,” I say, reaching out to caress his cheek with my thumb. I can’t stop touching him, no matter how hard I try.
He shakes himself like he’s trying to recalibrate. “As long as you mean it,” he says, laser-focused on my lips.
“I don’t break my promises, Crawford,” I say. “Now come on, what’s next?”
TWENTY-SIX
We’re nearingthe end of Dean’s workday run through when he hits a roadblock. “Usually I start shutting down my computer and packing up my stuff, but this time, something happened. Something changed,” he says, brows furrowing in concentration. He squints at the files on his computer that he was reading through. They’re the same ones he would have been looking at the day he died. His eyes widen a fraction when he reads some more. “Oh my god.”
“What?” I ask, standing from the surprisingly comfortable leather loveseat across from his desk. I stand so suddenly, I feel a little woozy. I shake my head to clear it and focus on Dean.
“That’s what changed. I found something that would have helped my client win the case. It was an employee’s family suing the factory she worked for, because they knowingly exposed her to hazardous health conditions. The poor woman ended up with lung cancer that metastasized to her liver. She died just a month after her diagnosis.
This report details all their internal testing and memos dating back at least ten years, showing Bushell Inc. knew about the dangers she was exposed to. Apparently, they were using pesticides inside the factory and would frequently spray them when workers were present. Their food products were free to absorb it as well. Basically, their reports say, ‘Yeah it’s bad for people, but worse for ants and roaches, so let’s keep doing it,’” Dean says, shaking his head in disgust.
“That poor woman,” I say sympathetically. I can’t imagine how awful it must have been finding out that how you provide for yourself and your family is also what’s going to kill you. I hope she moved on and is at peace now, at least.
“I know,” he agrees. “I remember being excited at this finding because it was buried under layers and layers of bullshit. It was in a folder titled ‘tax returns 2008,’ and it seemed only a handful of people at Bushell knew about it. I knew that this was the smoking gun we needed, so I practically ran to my dad’s office to tell him.”
He flits out of the room in a blink, and I scramble after him, trying to keep up. I catch the tail end of him melting through the door of his dad’s corner office. He pushes it open for me from the inside, and I take a tentative step into the office. I don’t want to encroach on Jack’s privacy or step into any legal trouble. This has already been more “breaking and entering” than I’ve ever done, even if I do have the owner’s permission. Breaking Jack’s trust in general seems like a bad idea, especially when he’s been so accommodating.
