Page 51 of Sinful Fantasy

“And though you didn’t ask, I’ll let you know that my men turned up irrefutable evidence that Archer Malone had nothing to do with those murders. I spoke with a Detective Asa, who led me and my team through layers of investigative notes that all ended with proof of his innocence.”

My mouth hangs agape, my jaw, dropping open and snapping shut.

I’m speechless. Mindless. Clueless, when I so rarely am.

“Due to this investigation, I’ve placed Captain Bower on notice: reinstate Detectives Fletcher and Malone to their previous ranks immediately, or else.”

“O-or else?” I’m a guppy fish, my mouth opening and closing. “Or else what, Mayor?”

“Or else it might be time for him to consider retirement.”

Somehow, without seeing the man to confirm, I know he smiles and turns dread and dark doom into a sunflowery mood. Like a homicidal switch he can turn on and off. “I’m pleased to know you’re not married to a murderer, Doctor Mayet.”

“Um…” I drag my bottom lip between my teeth and wish for my shoulder to be healed, if only so I could use my left hand to crush my thumb into my eye. “M-me too.”

He chuckles. “Send over your new budget with a line item for yourself, after ensuring the numbers match appropriately. Other than that, it was a pleasure speaking with you.”

“Yep.”

Dumbfounded and a little lost, I reach out and set the phone back in the cradle, and though Aubree does an odd dance on the other side of my glass, looking almost like a toddler busting for the toilet, I remain in my seat a moment longer, pinching the bridge of my nose and breathing through whatever the hell that all was.

The mayor, a kinda sweet, kinda nice, doting father and grandfather with a new grandchild on the way… turned hunter, unapologetic and willing to stalk me to the ends of the earth… because he considers me his daughter?

“What the fuck?” Frustrated, my mind already fried for the day, I drop my hand, exhale a noisy breath, then I push up to stand and shake my head, like that’ll somehow bring sense to this nonsensical day.

Striding to the door and catching sight of the clock on the wall, I realize I’m ten minutes late to my own meeting.

“What was that?” The second I open my door and move out of my office, Aubree is on me. “Daddy Mayor said some big stuff. I can see it in your eyes.”

“We talked economics,” I growl.

I start along the hall and through the labyrinth of autopsy rooms and offices until I emerge into a great room bursting with desks and doctors impatiently awaiting my arrival.

“I’m sorry for my tardiness.” I take a file when Fifi offers it, a copy of the budget I’m supposed to change and re-send to the mayor.

Stopping at the head of the room and opening the folder, I reacquaint myself with each line, though I wrote them while a little loopy on pain medication and lack of sleep.

Knowing what I need to do, I glance up again and study each of my staff members.

Doctors Torres and Flynn, Catlin, Kirk, Raquel, and more. Aubree waits on my flank, and Fifi stands on the other side. Administration staff stare back at me: assistants, night-shift managers, drivers. I run a team of dozens, and they all watch me now like I know what I’m doing.

Like I’m any more equipped to steer this ship than they are.

It’s a farce, the whole thing. Thismanagerial superiority. It’s a bullshit show that folks put on to justify a higher salary for doing the same—and sometimes, less—work than those surrounding them.

“Um…” I bring my gaze back to the center of the gathering and stand taller. “Thank you all for taking time out of your day to meet with me. I was running on schedule, but the mayor called and insisted on speaking, so I apologize for wasting your time. This will be quick,” I promise. “A fast rundown of what we can expect over the next financial period, since it’ll be my first complete rotation as chief. If you have any questions or comments before we start, I welcome your feedback.”

I wait for a beat, to give them time to respond, but when none do, I lower my budget-holding hand and tap the file to my thigh. “Alright. With blessings from both the mayor’s office and our budgetary allowance, I intend to bring in a new technician for the tox lab.”

I look to Raquel and force a straight face when her eyes light up. “Start the interview process and find suitable candidates. It’s your lab, so you know best what you’re looking for. As such, I’ll oversee the process, but I won’t interfere.”

“Yes, Chief.” She grits her teeth to keep from grinning too large. “Working for you on a Sunday suddenly feels worth it.”

“Glad to hear it.” I move my gaze to Doctor Patten, our night-shift manager, and lift my chin. “Give each member of your staff a seven-percent pay increase.”

Whispers explode amongst my crowd. Gasps of shock, and whispers of gossip travel from one set of ears to the next.

“Seven percent,” I press, “no matter their position, seniority, length of tenure, or any other rudimentary marker you might think to apply. Starting July first, new pay runs will reflect this change.” Then I look to my day staff. “Five-percent increase, across the board. It’s not seven,” I acknowledge, “but you’re not working through the night, either. If you feel like this is not a fair difference and you’d prefer the higher amount, you’re welcome to apply to work for Doctor Patten. I understand the pay increases I’m introducing aren’t life-changing, but they’re all we can afford this year.

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