Page 9 of The Checklist
“Hell. I remember her mentioning that. Charlie, she is okay to come with me.” The man leveled his glasses and pushed his graying hair around his head. Dylan wasn’t sure if the gesture was meant to make his hair lie flat, but it had the exact opposite effect.
“Oh. Okay.” The poor guard looked completely deflated.
“I’m sorry for the confusion, Charlie,” Dylan said as the doors began to close again. He looked so distraught that she felt a smidgen bad about the whole thing. She turned to face her savior, who was busy staring at her shoes.
“You move very quickly in those things.”
“Thank you. I’m Dylan Delacroix.” She held out her hand and did her best to look dignified after a near brush with trespassing charges.
“Steve Hammond, COO. I’m taking care of Marta’s responsibilities until we find someone new. Her departure was rather sudden, and unfortunately I dropped the ball on this,” he said with a slight frown.
The doors opened, and he stepped out, continuing to speak as he walked. “I don’t believe Marta had a space prepared for you before she left, so we’ll stick you in her office for now. I’ll have an intern come by to help you get set up,” he said, expertly navigating the maze of cubiclesand hallways. “I have a nine a.m. meeting with Tim.” He glanced down at his watch, frowning again. Dylan was starting to marvel that the frown had not become a permanent fixture on his stubble-covered face when he stopped in front of a bland office door. “I’ll be back after my meeting to check on you and get things going.”
“Sounds good to me. When can I expect you?” Dylan said, shifting her satchel from one hand to the next.
“Whenever Tim decides we are done.” The corners of Steve’s mouth sank deeper.
“All right. I’ll get the lay of the land until then,” Dylan said, trying to keep her disappointment at bay.
“Take care.” Steve turned and marched back down the hallway.
“Right,” Dylan said to his back. Sighing, she turned to her office. Marta was clearly not a sentimental woman. Papers and trinkets still covered her desk. Pulling open a drawer, she found a series of take-out menus, pen caps, and an assortment of detritus that she decided was better boxed than analyzed. As if on cue, a timid knock drew her attention. Glancing up from the crush of papers, Dylan found a pale young man slouching in her doorway, holding a brown moving box as if it were a shield.
“Hello,” Dylan said, watching the pink splotches in his cheeks creep toward his white-blond hairline.
“Are you Ms.Delacroix?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“I’m Brandt Fenner. I’m your intern.”
Dylan was concerned for the guy. Was he afraid of her? Or just painfully shy? He was practically hiding in his flannel shirt, which was strategically worn under a fleece jacket to make him look bulkier.
“Hi, Brandt. You can call me Dylan,” she said, holding out her hand. Brandt looked as though he were being asked to walk under a ladder holding a black cat. He shifted the box to one arm and took herhand with a surprisingly firm grip for someone who seemed like he might be sick.
Brandt’s skinny jeans were baggy on his tall frame, and he had the standard Nordic features some longtime northwesterners had. If Dylan had one guess, she would probably say he had about ten generations of distinctly blond relatives living fifteen minutes from here.
“So should I start clearing out Marta’s stuff for you?”
“I’ll take care of it. How about you come by in an hour to cart the box off to wherever former-employee paperwork goes?”
“Will it count against me if I don’t help?” Brandt practically shuddered as he asked this.
“Count against you how?”
“You know ... since you’re”—he looked at the corner of her office as if it would help him find the right words to complete his sentence—“picking who to fire.”
If he hadn’t looked so terrified, Dylan would have laughed. She wasn’t going to suggest anyone be let go. But if she did, it would be an expensive middle manager, certainly not a minimum wage graduate student intern. Dylan gestured at the door. “Does everyone here think I’m going to fire them?”
“Maybe? That’s what the last consultant did.”
“If anything, I’m more likely to suggest you be rearranged. In truth, I can’t fire anyone. That is all up to Tim, Steve, and the rest of the brass. I’m here to observe and make suggestions.”
“Oh,” Brandt said, uncoiling. “Well, I have a few things to wrap up from my last assignment. Would it be okay if I come back in an hour?”
Dylan decided he was simply one of those people who appeared to be afraid all the time. “Of course. When you come back, maybe you can give me the grand tour. I haven’t even found the restroom yet, let alone the coffee maker.”
“Bathroom is down the second set of cubicles to the left, past the green emergency-exit door. The coffee stand is on the top floor as closeto Tim’s office as our clearance badges will get us,” Brandt answered in a factual manner.
