The Clause

I didn't sit.

"You work here," I said.

"I own forty percent of it." He said it like he was telling me the time. "Since March. Quietly."

"That's not what the website says."

"The website is wrong on purpose."

I looked at the door. It was ten steps away. I counted them anyway.

"Is this a joke? Did you post that job so I'd apply?"

"I posted it six weeks ago. I didn't know you'd see it." He finally came away from the window and stopped on the far side of the desk. Close, but not too close. "I only hoped."

That didn't make it better. It made it worse.

"Mr. Cole."

"Adrian."

"Mr. Cole. Last night you stood outside my door and asked about my chest. I want to know how you knew."

"I can't tell you yet."

"Can't, or won't?"

He actually thought about it. "Both. For now."

I'd braced for a lie, something smooth. This was harder to argue with.

"Then why would I work for you?"

He pulled a folder from his desk drawer and slid it across. A contract, three pages. I read the first line and then the number, and then I read the number again.

"That's three times the posted salary."

"Yes."

"For a coordinator."

"For you."

"That's not an offer. That's a bribe."

"It's a fair price," he said. "For what I'm asking."

"Which is?"

He nodded at page three. One clause near the bottom was circled in red pen. I read it slowly. The employee reports to the Director only. No other person may assign her work, review her files, or request her reassignment.

I looked up. "You want to be my only boss."

"I want nobody else deciding what you see."

"That's controlling."

"It's protection." He paused. "It might also be controlling. I won't argue."

I almost laughed. In three years of marriage he had never once admitted a flaw.

I should have walked out. But this building held records, and this time I knew which ones to look for.

"Ninety days," I said. "A trial. I can quit whenever I want, and you pay me through the end of that month."

"Done."

"You didn't even think about it."

"I didn't need to."

I picked up the pen from his desk. It was heavy and still warm from his hand. For a second I heard another pen, scratching across divorce papers.

I signed anyway.

When I looked up he was watching me. His face was hard to read. If I'd had to guess, I'd have said he was scared. That made no sense.

"Fourteenth floor," he said. "Your desk is outside my office. Ms. Tan will give you a key card on your way out."

"What do I do first?"

"There's a folder on your desk. Open it today." He turned back to the window. "Then tell me if you recognize it."

I stood there with the pen still in my hand. My mouth had gone dry.

The last time a folder had my name on it, I died.