Broken Seal

Another day, another massive load of boring emails. Every day is the same. Today, clouds reign the skies; my mood reflects the flat grey of the thunderheads. The wind blows just hard enough to bite, making my face sting and my hands, situated in my pockets, hovering around numbness. My walk to work is uneventful, though cold and much too long. I missed the 8:07 bus and my old Honda Civic took a turn for the worst last week during the cold snap. So, walking to work is my only option. I can't afford a cab by any means, not with what Henderson & Co. pays me.

My job is a simple one: I sit in your typical, boring-as-all-hell cubicle, staring at a desktop that makes my head hurt after about 15 minutes, responding to emails from clients. All day, every day. Henderson is a brokerage firm, but I'm pretty low in the company, which means I mainly redirect emails and calls to the right people based on their needs. Occasionally, I'm allowed to aid the brokering process, but depending on the agent I'm working in conjunction with, that's a rare opportunity. It started out as an internship, wherein I was promised that I could make bank by working my way up, but a year and a half later, I am still doing the exact same things I was doing as an itty-bitty intern. But hey, it pays the bills. Barely.

I sit down at my bare desk after stripping off my scarf, hat, and coat and spreading them over the fold-up chair in the corner. I assess the damage for this morning. 74 unread emails and three voicemails. Wait, now it's 76. Awesome. The walk this morning has woken my body up, but I'm not emotionally ready to take this on yet. I nearly chug my defibrillator-strength coffee. Since I left my apartment early to walk, I treated myself to a large custom coffee at the shop down the street; a concoction complete with extra shots of espresso, some chocolate sauce, and a dash of heavy cream. It's lovely, though expensive. I figure it'll equal out, since I didn't buy a bus ticket.

80 emails. Kill me. I really have to start knocking these babies out. I crack my knuckles and open the first one. Dear Ms. Stanger, it begins. I hope you are having a nice morning. I regret to inform you that the deal that we have been discussing will not work for me... Well, Mrs. Erika Muller, I am no longer having a nice morning, thanks so much. I truly do my best in this job, as brokering can be a lucrative business, causing anxiety and suspicion from the clients. I can't afford to lose this job, even though it sucks. I turn on autopilot mode and answer the emails, one by one. There are one or two refreshing emails that were double-sent by accident and a few that were spam that I am happy to move to the junk folder. I check my clock every once in awhile. 8:14. Twelve answered emails, four new ones, no calls. 8:28. Three more answered emails, one new one, listened to all three voicemails and called back for one. 9:02. All voicemails answered, one call from Mr. Barrington, my boss, and eighteen more emails answered. Although I continue to receive emails, I am able to eliminate most of them.

I have long since removed myself emotionally from the situations of most of the clients. I've gotten pretty decent at telling whether or not they're being legitimate in their comments and complaints. Customer service is not what I was made for. Jet-skiing on the vast, bright aquamarine ocean, the salty spray stinging my eyes as I bound over the waves. Sitting on the floor in the light of an open window, hand writing my next novel, with the sound of people milling about in the street below. There, that's where I belong. Not here. But, I have no choice than to deal with it for the time being. As I grew into my late teens and early twenties, I discovered how dreams and aspirations fade and become less doable. The word "settle" was my motto for awhile as I tried different paths and arriving back where I started. Realistically, I wasn't about to make a ton of money by writing a second-rate novel. California is expensive, so no pretty ocean for me unless a miracle occurred in this miserable town of Detroit Lakes. Don't get me wrong, I do not mind Minnesota in the slightest, though the miserably long and freezing winters are a definite downside. My heart belongs someplace warm and spacious, where I can get away from people for extended periods of time.

Now, I share an apartment downtown with two other people that I knew in high school who also found themselves back here after college with no real place to go. Shirlee is a barista full-time and has a degree in catering management and Jonathan works at the local Ace Hardware while he saves to get a realtor's license. My degree is in English, a so-called "safe" major by my mom, but I honestly had no idea what I wanted to do in life except write at the time. I was a decent technical editor, so I went for that. My minor is in Linguistics, which I chose on a whim and ended up really enjoying. I haven't been able to find many editing or translating jobs as of late, which means that I'm living on less than usual and can't spend money on anything extra. Barrington refused to give me more hours or side jobs, claiming a recent economic downturn. I keep an eye on Wall Street, a habit given to me by my father, so I knew he was lying. He's my superior, though, so I can't necessarily confront him about it. Whatever.

I take my lunch break without much pomp and circumstance. Besides the calls that I received and returned, I haven't spoken to a soul since I mumbled my order to the barista this morning. I tried to spice up my sandwich with some Sriracha, but my taste buds still registered the food that I had as bland. Unfortunate, too, since I used the last of my nice ham left over from Christmas at my parents'. I try to rest for about fifteen minutes but my eyes refuse to shut, exhausted though I am. As soon as I sit down and try to refocus, I get a call.

"Ms. Stanger?" Ah. It's the boss again.

"Yes, sir?"

"Please come to my office at your earliest convenience."

This cannot be good.

___________________________________

Stephan Barrington's office is grand, for lack of a better term. It makes my humble cubicle look like a homeless man's cardboard box. It doesn't even look like it belongs in an office building. The walls are painted a solid evergreen. It's complimented by a dark wooden bureau and matching desk. A common conversation topic is the secret contents of said bureau. Barrington keeps it under lock and key and heavy scrutiny. They say it's insured for more than a year's salary. Then again, they say a lot of things, like the rumor that Cindy Mendel slept with every guy in the Statistics department. Well, at least I think it was a rumor...

Being summoned to The Office is probably the worst thing that can happen here. I shake my hands outside of the frosted-glass door, hoping for some of the undesired anxiety to loosen from my knuckles. It doesn't help much. I decide not to prolong the inevitable and finally knock. A voice from inside commanded entrance, so I winced in premature pain and pushed open the door.

"Thank you for coming, Erin. Please, sit."

I nod and sit on one of the velveteen chairs, still confused and nervous as to why I'm here.

"I understand that it must be uncomfortable, not knowing why I called you here."

Spoke my mind there, Buck-o. "What is the issue, sir?" I sound calmer than I feel.
Barrington's wizened face crumples into a frown. Uh-oh. "Unfortunately, the Missing Persons report on Jared Charleston came back today. They found his car yesterday, burning on the side of I-76 in Ohio with evidence that he has been smuggling drugs and weapons across the US for weeks. The fire completely destroyed everything, but they did find evidence of a body."
Now this, this is bad. This could potentially be damning to our company. It could shut us down, if we lose enough business. "What do we do?"

"Well, you've shown yourself to be more than competent, so I have decided to assign you to finish all of his work. Starting tomorrow, you may have his office temporarily. I'll have people in there throughout the week to clear out his personal effects. I'll have Aileen take your current projects. I'd like all of his clients dealt with in a timely manner. You have until the end of the week for all of his in-progress paperwork and a month to complete the brokerage deals."

"Um, okay," I say, stunned. Is this a promotion? Jeez, Jared's dead? This day got really interesting really fast. Super wild. It sounds like the start of a super-serious action movie, one that I would only watch with my dad.

"Here are the keys to his office," he says, handing me a keychain with several different keys hanging from it. I take it hesitantly. "His passwords are on a post-it note by his desktop. Of course," he adds, "you will be getting a pay increase for this. Thank you for your time, Ms. Stanger."

I just nod, not knowing what else to do. I see my cue to leave and do, closing the door softly behind me. I hold a dead man's keys. This is seriously psyching me out. Well, might as well check the place out. Maybe Jared had a secret affinity for snacks. I could raid a dead man’s desk for food. Priorities.

I meander down the hall of larger offices meant for much more important people than I. The nameplates on the wooden doors are polished bronze with bold black script spelling the name of its owner. I feel slightly intimidated. I find the office, sixth down on the left. J. Charleston, it reads. I fumble with the keys and unlock the door with a resounding clack. I am hit with the scent of sandalwood, peppermint, and something that I can only describe as man as I enter the office. It's a comforting smell. I almost feel at home, cozy. I'm here to investigate, though. Time for business.

Jared and I had only spoken once. I haven't been in his office, though; we met at a party before Christmas. He was young and handsome, showing interest in me, but I didn't let it get further than a few touches and one subtly suggestive dance. I had been interested in someone else at the time, but he ended up rejecting my advances. After my rejection, I thought about Jared and what could have been.

I fell for my best friend, Thomas. I thought he was the one, but when he finally figured out my interest, he pushed me away completely. I was heartbroken. The one thing that kept me from going home with Jared that night was a check in my spirit. Something was not quite right with him, I feel. I still don’t know what that thing was, but I definitely felt it in the atmosphere of his office. It was more than mystery, more than a quirk… Oh well. He’s gone now. I toss the keys on the desk, immediately regretting it once I think about the expensive wood that I probably just scratched. Nice going, Erin. Way to think ahead and not be an idiot.

The luxurious-looking leather swivel chair beckons me and I give in to it. It is probably one of the nicest surfaces my butt has ever experienced. Refusing to goof around is suddenly not in the cards for me, and I spin ‘round and ‘round with childish glee. Erin! You’re a fully-fledged adult! Start acting like one! Putting on my serious face, I turn to the desktop. The passwords are listed as Barrington had promised. The computer is fully shut down, so I decide to leave it for the time being. I grab the keys that I had thrown earlier and decide to search the drawers. As I try the different keys on the first lock, I genuinely felt like I was invading Jared’s private space. He’s dead now, Erin. He probably doesn’t care very much if you look at his stuff. Plus, what could possibly be in his office that would be of note? Money? Food? A dildo? I hope to find none of those things, perhaps save the money. I could definitely use some extra cash. I’m not trying to find anything in particular, so why does it feel like I am?

The first drawer is a collage of your run-of-the-mill, boring office supplies. Paper clips, rubber bands of three different sizes, pens and pencils of multiple varieties, and other such things are neatly organized in respective boxes. My sleuthing skills activate and I remove the boxes, one by one, looking thoroughly through each. Nothing here. I replace everything, keeping my workspace clear, and open the next drawer. It’s a file cabinet, full of papers that are mostly blacked out. They don’t look very important, just unusual. I leave them alone for now. More mundane things litter the next few drawers until I reach the fifth drawer. None of the keys fit into the lock. My intrigue is more than piqued. I abandon the drawer in a dog-like search for the missing key. I look under the desk and behind the computer, scour the shelves, and come up with nothing. Nada.

I sit on the carpet in defeat. After I get over my disappointment, I notice a bit of carpet under the desk that’s frayed and sticking up a bit. I go and check it out, though I don’t know what really drove me to do such a thing. I tug the edge up gently and, lo and behold, there’s a key! It honestly feels like a game, a logic puzzle. So far, I think I’m doing well. I try the key on the funky lock. It slides right in. I roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. Of course it’s the one that opens that particular drawer. A deadbolt shifts to rest as I turn the key with more force than I anticipate needing. This is secure, all right. What the heck is in here?

Wait for it... I'm ready for the drawer to simply explode and I'm incredibly relieved when it doesn't. I take just a peek inside the drawer. The sparse light shines on a strip of… color? My curiosity gets the best of me and I wrench open the drawer. All the air leaves my lungs when I register the contents.

Bills in several currencies: American, Canadian, Euros, and several others I don't recognize.

The dark, flat covers of passports. That's passports, plural.

Another set of keys, some of them very, very old.

And, frick.

A gun.

Now, my dad owns guns. He collects off and on. He made sure I knew a lot about them, and I even had a phase in middle school where I'd hang out with boys ceaselessly and consequently learned a lot about all kinds of weapons. I've used shotguns on clay pigeons in Wisconsin and .22 rifles at camp as a child, but never have I touched a pistol. I've nothing against them, but seeing one in a drawer like this definitely smells like trouble.

Well, trouble never deterred me. I have a bad habit of making bad decisions.

I remember from some random crime show I watched awhile ago that I should be careful what I touch. I find myself, before I even fully form a coherent thought, running to the cleaning closet at the end of the hallway. I grab a pair of nitrile gloves and a half-used roll of paper towels and sprint back, shutting and locking the door securely behind me. I pant a little as I lean back on the frosted glass. I feel guilty for snooping and searching through things that aren't mine. Erin, c'mon. Jared is dead. Maybe best that you find this stuff anyway. Imagine the scandal if Barrington found a freaking gun in Jared’s personal effects. He'd have a hernia. True, true. No time to waste! To work!

I snap on the cream-colored gloves like a surgeon prepping for his first-ever surgery. I notice my hands are shaking and my finger joints are aching with anxiety. I stretch and wiggle around, hoping to dispel the anticipation through my skin in some weird form of emotional diffusion, before crouching next to the suspicious drawer. I lay out a few squares of paper towel next to me for the articles. Evidence probably should be contained.

I pull the grey metal drawer off its track and lay it in front of me. It's heavier than I anticipated, so I almost lose grip on it but recover, thanks to inertia. I drag it across the cracked plastic floor protector until I am crouching underneath the desk. I plop on my butt and take in the sight. Seeing all of it at once freaks me out. I hesitantly touch one of the stacks of foreign currency. Is it really real? Did I fall asleep at my desk and now I'm just having a really strange dream? I poke my finger at the exposed metal on one of the drawer corners. Yep, that hurts. This is actually real. Frick.
I should probably document this. Yeah, that's a good idea! I crawl over the drawer and grab a company pen and a pad of personalized Post-Its from the desk. A flashlight wouldn't be a bad idea either, I think. I saw one earlier on the file cabinet. How convenient. Glad Jared kept up with safety procedures.

Finally, the drawer.

Yikes.

American dollars, I write. I unclip the three stacks. One of twenties, one of fifties, and the other of brand-new Benjamins. Wowee. I count quickly, not wasting any time, and ended up with a sum of an even $3,600. Not bad. I record the number.

I flip through Canadian, Euros, and currencies with Cyrillic and Polish. There is even a stack of British pounds. In larger amounts, there are faded bills from Africa and the Middle East, based on the images and language. I don't know what it's all worth, but I go through several Post-Its before I get through all of it.

The number is staggering. No time, no time.

Handgun (1, loaded)
Utility knife (1)
Tactical knife (1)
Hollow point bullets (1 case, 24 ct)

I place the recorded items in semi-neat stacks on the paper towels. I suppress a yawn. This situation is beyond crazy, but the monotonous counting and the warm room is starting to make me sleepy. No! Must focus!

The passports captivate me. They look legit, but all of them had Jared’s face with varying combinations of facial hair, glasses, piercings, and hair colors. Every name is different, though I can't read some of them. The passports seem to coincide with the currencies, though again, I can't be totally sure.
The last things in the drawer are a mixing pot of security fobs, ID badges, dust bunnies, a bottle of unlabeled pills, and a few folded bits of paper. The pieces have a fine mix of numbers, symbols, and names or words. None of them make any sense to me, but I'm sure they have some significance of Jared bothered to keep them.

I hear a door open and shut someplace in the hallway, followed by rattling keys and a muddled conversation. I glance at my Michael Kors watch (it was a gift from my grandma; I couldn't afford such a thing). The hands point at a quarter-past-five. Shoot! Time flies when you're having fun, or going through questionable stuff, I guess. I usually get to leave at 5, and often I'm more than happy to leave as soon as the hour turns. Now, though, I don't feel like leaving. Nobody would question me staying late, as now I have a rather large workload. I decided to run to the Chinese takeout place down the street, Red Moon or something of that variety, and have an evening in.

After calling to the receptionist, Karla, that I'd be back in a second, I grab my coat off the communal rack and clumsily shove it on myself, though on of the sleeves is inside-out. This causes Roger from Accounting to give me a strange look. Valid, Roger. Valid.

The bitter cold is less than ideal, but the heavy heat and strong scent of fried meat and soy sauce is a pleasant familiarity. Asian food is something of which I can never tire. First date? Chinese sounds great. Bad breakup? Let's treat ourselves to Thai. Movie night? Bring on the chopsticks.
This place is a little greasy, with sparse, faded photos of different meats and vegetable arrangements on the walls that are oddly complemented by multitudinous depictions of the Buddha. But, it's cheap and tasty. I order my favorite dish to go, chicken with red curry. I chat casually with the woman at the cash register as my food is prepared. The small dining room is full of patrons, but thankfully I don't run into anyone I know. I feel, in my excitement, I will accidentally blab about what I've found.

Nobody can know about this.