Detweiler’s hand slams the desk. Hot coffee splatters from his cup, but I don’t care. What kind of scrooge does performance reviews right before the December holiday season? For twenty years I’ve schlepped over an hour in freezing weather to put up with his abuse, silently turning a blind eye to his backdoor shenanigans.
“Are you even listening to me, Tim?”
In his eyes I’m a slacker, I lack focus. Little does he know the information I’ve gathered over the years. Like that safe hidden behind the beach poster over his desk, or how much he’s embezzled. Swiss bank account numbers as well.
I try not to smile as he mops up the spilled coffee. Good thing he took a long sip when his new secretary handed it to him. I’m a patient man. The poison finally kicks in. I lean over the desk and press the intercom.
“Miss Cratchit, Mr. Detweiler doesn’t seem to be feeling well.”
Fran sashays in and places a suicide note and jar of poison next to Detweiler’s lifeless hand. She smiles as I open the safe and fill a bag with piles of cash. The ledger with all his other shady deals I leave for the police. By the time the ambulance arrives our prints are wiped clean and we are long gone.
Fran’s lips press against mine. Numbness spreads through my body and the world begins to fade.
Her parting words sink in as the poison takes me.