Kyle Ferrante stood behind me, his jacket folded over one arm, amusement barely touching his mouth. He had heard every word about what I imagined he looked like without his suits, and my claim that I was joking convinced neither of us. When I apologized, he asked why I was alone finishing a report that was not due until Monday.
PART 2:
Kyle Ferrante stood behind me, his jacket folded over one arm, amusement barely touching his mouth. He had heard every word about what I imagined he looked like without his suits, and my claim that I was joking convinced neither of us. When I apologized, he asked why I was alone finishing a report that was not due until Monday.
I said I had promised myself I would finish it, but Kyle told me to go home. When I resisted, he offered me a ride and sat beside my desk to wait while I completed one last page. That was when the Harland figures stopped making sense.
Operating expenses had risen twelve percent, while the supporting schedule explained only four. A consulting fee had been split across three departments, and the revision history showed Martin Hale had added it six days earlier. Kyle ordered me to send him the file, change nothing, question no one, and mention the discrepancy to nobody.
In the elevator, he asked whether I was still wondering what he looked like without his suits. During the drive, I admitted my former fiancé, Marcus, had moved out six weeks earlier after accepting a job in Singapore. Then Kyle confessed he had spent the afternoon deciding whether to ask me to dinner.
He had wanted to ask for three months, one week, and four days. I told him dinner was impossible because he was my boss and I had just ended a five-year relationship. Before leaving the car, however, I admitted that coffee might be less impossible.
Back home, I reopened the Harland records because the discrepancy would not leave my mind. The consulting fee belonged to Aster Row Advisory, Martin had entered it at 11:48 p.m., and the approval field contained two initials: K.F. Kyle had acted surprised, so why had he approved it?
An unknown number immediately warned me to close the file because company access was monitored. Then the caller identified himself as Marcus and admitted he had never gone to Singapore. He had worked for Aster Row, lied about the logistics job, and claimed Kyle had deliberately placed the report on my desk.
When I demanded proof, Marcus told me to check a blue box hidden behind the vacuum in our hall closet. Inside were documents, a flash drive, and a seven-year-old photograph of Marcus, Martin Hale, an unfamiliar man, and Kyle standing together outside a restaurant. On the back, Marcus had written, “The night Ferrante changed the plan.”
Before I could ask what plan, the call ended and the number vanished. Seconds later, Kyle texted that we needed to talk before I came into the office the next morning. Looking from his message to his face in the photograph, I realized falling for him might never have been the real danger.
