Page 2 of The Inmate
“So? She’s running late.”
“You don’t understand.” I drop the T-shirts back into the cardboard box. “Dawn is never late.Never. Not once the whole time she’s worked here. She’s always here at 8:45.”
Kim looks down at her watch and then back up at me like I’ve lost my mind. “So she’s twenty minutes late. So what?”
It’s strange behavior for Dawn. On top of that, there’s something else I haven’t shared with Kim. Yesterday afternoon, Dawn sent me an odd email asking if I could talk to her at the end of the workday about a “matter of great importance.” But I was out on a sales call most of the afternoon, and when I got back to the office, she was already gone.
A matter of great importance.I wonder if that was about…
No. Probably not.
“I hope she’s okay.” I shake my head. “Maybe she got into a car accident.”
Kim snickers. “Or maybe she was finally committed.”
“Stop it,” I murmur. “That’s mean.”
“Come on. She’s a weirdo and you know it as well as anyone. You’re the one who has to sit next to her.”
“She’s not so bad…”
“Not so bad!” Kim bursts out. “It’s like sharing the office with a robot. And what’s with her obsession with turtles? Like, who is that intoturtles?”
Okay, I’m not going to say Dawn isn’t a little strange. Or evenverystrange. There are times when people at the company make fun of her behind her back. And yes, she does like turtles more than any fully grown adult rightfully should. But she’s a very nice person. If they got to know her a little better, they would be nicer to her.
Not that I know her very well. I always meant to ask her to dinner sometime, but I never got around to it. A couple of weeks ago as we were riding down in the elevator on Friday evening, I casually asked her if she had any plans and she looked shocked by the question.Just having dinner at home. Alone.I would have asked her to join me for dinner, but I was meeting my boyfriend, and it would have been weird if she tagged along.
I’m going to invite her out to dinner. For sure. Just as soon as the 5K is over.
“Anyway, I better get back to work.” Kim glances down at her watch. “I’m not Miss Saleswoman of the Month like somebody else here…”
My cheeks color slightly. My sales are admittedly better than anyone else at the company, but I work my butt off for it. “You got married this month. You have an excuse this time for the low sales.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Kim shrugs because she doesn’t really care that much. Her new husband is loaded. At some point in the near future, she’ll be pregnant for real, and when that happens, she’ll quit and never look back. “Anyway, good luck with the T-shirts. I’ll see you later.”
After Kim takes off, possibly in the direction of her cubicle, but more likely in the direction of the break room to get her third or fourth cup of coffee of the morning, I close the flaps of the box of T-shirts and head back to my cubicle. When I get there, I notice something on my desk that I hadn’t seen before.
It’s a turtle figurine.
It’s small—no longer than the length of my index finger. It’s green and blue in color, the geometric patterns on its shell shining in the overhead fluorescent lights. Its head is lifted, and its beady black eyes stare up at me.
A while back, Dawn excitedly presented me with a turtle figurine for my cubicle. It was so sweet of her, and I felt terrible when the turtle she bought me toppled to the linoleum floor and shattered into a dozen tiny pieces. But that turtle was never replaced. And it was different from this turtle on my desk right now.
I pick up the turtle figurine and roll it between my fingers, feeling the smooth surface. What is this turtle doing here? Who put it here?
Was it Dawn?
But it couldn’t be. When I got back to the office yesterday at the end of the day, she was already gone. And she doesn’t seem to be here yet. So how could she have put this turtle on my desk?
When I rest the turtle back on my desk, there’s a stain on my fingers. Something dark red rubbed off on my hand when I picked up the turtle. I stare down at my palm, trying to figure out what I just touched. It can’t be paint, since the turtle is green. Ketchup?
No, it couldn’t be. It’s too dark in color and not sticky with sugar. And it doesn’t have that sweet smell. It smells almost… metallic.
Whatisthis stuff?
As I’m examining the dark red material that has caked into the grooves of my fingerprints, I am vaguely aware of a phone ringing nearby. Coming from Dawn’s cubicle.
I return to Dawn’s cubicle, hovering by the entrance. It’s still empty. Is it possible she came in earlier this morning and is in the bathroom or something? She must be here, and she must’ve been the one who put this little turtle on my desk, even though her jacket isn’t hanging on the back of her chair. And her computer screen is dark—no screensaver, just black.
