“I’m hoping you forget enough that I keep my job.”
She smiled.
“I won’t.”
He moved back.
“Good night.”
He turned.
“Wait.”
The tone changed.
Sharper.
Clearer.
He looked back.
The CEO had straightened.
Some of the executive authority returned.
She reached into a small clutch he had not noticed beneath her coat.
Pulled out a sealed corporate envelope.
His employee number was written across the front.
He stared.
“What is that?”
She extended it.
He did not take it immediately.
She pressed it lightly against his chest.
“I knew who you were the moment you stepped out of the rain.”
The Single Dad frowned.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
“I reviewed your file this afternoon.”
His confusion deepened.
“My file?”
“You were scheduled to meet with me at nine tomorrow morning.”
He laughed once.
Certain this had to be some bizarre exhaustion-induced misunderstanding.
“I don’t have a meeting with you.”
“You do now.”
She looked at the envelope.
“You should have had one weeks ago.”
His smile disappeared.
“What’s inside?”
“Copies.”
“Of what?”
“Your last three promotion evaluations.”
He stared.
She continued.
“Your overtime reports.”
“Maintenance warnings.”
“And emails you sent to regional operations that never reached the executive review system.”
The hallway suddenly felt cold.
He took the envelope.
“What are you saying?”
The CEO’s expression became entirely sober.
“I’m saying someone inside my company has spent almost two years making sure people above your district never see what you’ve been reporting.”
The Single Dad looked down at his employee number.
Then at her.
“Why?”
“That is what I was planning to ask you tomorrow.”
She touched the envelope once.
“And now I’m wondering whether tonight’s timing was coincidence.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What happened to your car?”
“Electrical shutdown.”
“Security system?”
“Also failed.”
He remembered finding her alone.
No driver.
No assistant.
No security.
The CEO’s face hardened.
“I dismissed my driver earlier.”
“That part was my decision.”
“But my phone failed in the parking structure.”
“My backup security contact did not respond.”
“And someone rerouted the vehicle pickup without my authorization.”
The Single Dad looked toward the elevator.
Then back.
“You need security.”
“I know.”
“Now.”
“I said no calls because I wanted to think.”
“Think after somebody is outside your door.”
She almost smiled.
“There he is.”
“Who?”
“The man who spent twenty minutes telling me what to do in the parking lot.”
He ignored the joke.
“Call them.”
This time she did.
The Security Chief arrived with two agents twelve minutes later.
Only when they were positioned did the Single Dad finally leave.
His son was asleep in the pickup with his cheek pressed against the cardboard model of Saturn.
The hotel attendant had placed a blanket over him.
The Single Dad thanked him.
Then climbed behind the wheel.
The sealed envelope sat on the passenger seat.
For a full minute he did not touch it.
Finally, he opened it.