Page 75 of The Checklist
She was just about to tell him the switch was over by the door when the story caught her eye:
On Thursday morning, theExaminerreceived an exclusive invitation to observe the underpinnings of an employee-appreciation extravaganza arranged by none other than Technocore’s embattled CEO, Tim Gunderson. Our reporter arrived at an isolated West Seattle warehouse that Gunderson rented for the day in order to surprise his staff with items he termed “personalized, bomb-ass swag.” Trailed closely by a consultant doing damage control, Gunderson walked through the massive operation of over 35 freelance seamstresses, engravers, organization professionals,plaque makers, and swag artists, all of whom had been commissioned to create more than 2,500 employee “thank-you bags” in under 12 hours.
“This wasn’t supposed to come out until Sunday,” Dylan grumbled, the sleep beginning to lift from her brain. Somewhere in her secondary consciousness, she could hear her father stumbling around the room looking for a light switch and mumbling encouraging things about her not being named explicitly.
Gunderson, who’s been in the news multiple times for a series of mishaps, wanted to show everyone he’d turned over a new leaf. However, evidence of the improved foliage was scant on the ground.
As Gunderson ignored warnings from his consultant, the freelancers became increasingly irritated by his whims and the unexpected long hours. “It’s certainly something we are concerned about,” said Susan Moore, president of the freelancers’ union. “It is typical of these tech guys to assume that a freelancer is there to be worked to the bone.” When asked if there could be legal repercussions for Gunderson and Technocore, Moore replied, “I don’t have all the facts yet. But yes, we are concerned, and we will be investigating the conditions Mr.Gunderson asked his freelancers to work under.”
Given the stakes, why Gunderson, often referred to as Gunderpants on employee social media accounts, dismissed the good advice of his consultant remains a mystery to theExaminer. At one point, the consultantcould be seen crawling around the warehouse floor arranging sewing machine cables and begging the CEO to do something more meaningful for employees, like changes to the break room and parking facilities, as a way of saying thank you.
“I wasn’t crawling on the floor,” Dylan said as the lights flicked on. Henry let out a triumphant squawk before returning to the bed and peering over her shoulder. Looking up at her father, Dylan asked, “Does this get any better?”
Henry shrugged in a way that reminded Dylan of her mother and said, “Honestly? Not really.”
“I need coffee,” Dylan said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
This is not how I envisioned my Friday, Dylan thought as she waited for the light to change. While she waited, she eyed the spilled contents of the staff-appreciation bag still lying on the passenger-side floor. She was cold and tired. The embroidered fleece jacket stared back at her, looking comfortable. It was so early; she could sneak into the office and take it off before anyone saw her in personalized synthetic fabric. As she reached over to grab the jacket, her breath caught in her throat. There, in lovely script italics, was the wrong name.
Or, rather, the right first name but a very wrong last name. Forcing her freak-out aside, she wondered if anyone at Technocore was named Dylan Chavez. Maybe Tim didn’t know her last name?
Dread squeezed at her insides, making her skin prickle with sweat. Tim knew her name. There was no Dylan Chavez. There was, however, a Rebecca Chavez in what was left of the front-end development team. The file Tim had sent over wasn’t just out of order; it was wrong.
She made it to the office in record time. Slamming her car door with her hip, she took a sip of the hot coffee her father had prepared, grateful for his unexpected thoughtful gesture and relieved to find it wasn’t a reheat of Bernice’s leftovers from the evening before. Not for the first time, Dylan marveled at her parents’ capacity to show up for her on occasion, even though they had literally no idea what she did all day. Her father making fresh coffee was so sweet and startling thatDylan had almost hugged him. In fact, she would have if she hadn’t been in such a hurry. Surprising Henry with a hug could mean a substantial time delay, which was not in the cards. Dylan reasoned that later she would give him a bear hug and listen to whatever random joke he wanted to tell. Right now, she had bigger problems.
Rocketing toward her office, she thought through all the possible scenarios for the day. Jared might not even see the article until later in the afternoon. After all, reading through all her half-finished documents would take him forever. Dylan had almost talked herself out of a panic when a stuffed gift bag, strategically placed on a chair in someone’s cubicle, caught her eye. The expensive fleece glared back at her, taunting her withSteve Chou. Running back around to the front of the cubicle, Dylan yelped. This was Richard Chou’s desk.
Horrified, she two-stepped her way to her office, pinning the phone between her shoulder and ear as she opened her computer.
“Tim, it’s Dylan. If you get this, call me back. It’s an emergency. There’s a problem with the gift bags. I’ll try to pick them up before the rest of the staff gets here. Okay. Bye.”
Punching the red hang-up button, she tossed her phone on a stack of papers and dropped her head into her hands. There was a slight chance she could catch a few of the bags before the 7:00 a.m. shuttle buses arrived, but there was no way she could cover four floors of office space in twenty minutes. Not even if she took off her heels and ran. Dylan reached for her coffee, wondering if there was any way she could clear the early arrivals’ desks, then come back for the other staff who came in later. Just as she started to work out the details, her desk phone rang, causing her to jump.
For a second, she hoped it was Tim calling to say he had magically solved the problem and that Steve Chou was a fluke, but her caller ID said otherwise. Dylan almost laughed. Yesterday morning, Nicolas had been high on her list of concerns. Now he would just have to keep waiting.
By the time the voice mail notification flashed, Dylan was committed to trying to grab as many bags off the desks as she could. Or at least as many bags as she could without running through the halls and raising suspicion. Dylan envisioned herself looking stealthy as she wandered past desks, casually sipping her coffee and snatching bags while waving good morning to her coworkers. That could work. She would have to hide them near Tim’s office. No way could she fit all those bags in her little room.
Springing out of her chair, she made a beeline for the door, throwing it open rather recklessly for someone about to try to steal a warehouse full of goodies. Dylan squeaked, jumping two feet out of her skin. Deep was frozen mid–knocking motion, also startled by the sudden opening of the door. Clutching the stitch in her chest, Dylan blurted, “Thank God you two are here. I need your help.”
“Of course you do. What is it you need today?” Deep said, crossing her arms and leveling an intimidating stare at her.
Dylan paused, trying to sort out exactly what was happening. One minute she had been planning to commandeer two thousand goody bags, and now one very angry friend was strolling into her office, agitation radiating off her like perfume.
“I’m sorry. That was rude.” Dylan prodded in one direction, searching Deep’s face for a hint. “I was concerned about the bags on everyone’s desk and ...”
Deep rolled her eyes, then glanced over her shoulder at Brandt, who was lurking in the doorway, looking uncomfortably between the two of them. With a short jerk of her head, Deep motioned for him to enter the room and close the door.
Dylan drew in a sharp breath as he turned back around to look at her, hurt written on his face. It was like watching a puppy get kicked. Worse, he had on his name-mismatched jacket. Guess she wouldn’t be stealing that one.
“Well?” Deep asked, drawing her back into the room.
Dylan stared back, hoping her face didn’t look as blank as her memory felt. She suddenly remembered the abrupt end to her day with Tim. “Shit. Did Tim not approve your expense check? I sent him an email, but I forgot to follow up with a conversation.”
Brandt started. “No. He didn’t do that, but it’s okay. I’m sure you were—”
“You don’t remember?” Deep burst. She hadn’t shouted, but the words carried the same level of intensity. “Lunch. Two days ago? You just disappeared.”
