Daniel had denied it. He claimed to be using Catherine’s notebook. All evidence had proved his claims, but it was impossible.
And Catherine had been no help. She’d taken far too long to respond to simple emails, and when she finally had, it had been to back up Daniel’s story.
So, I was either going insane, or Daniel was fucking with me.
If this was some sort of corporate espionage, it was cleverly insidious. My thoughts were preoccupied with the damn paper. Even when I was out of the office, something would trigger my brain and I’d wind up thinking about it.
I stared down at the paper Daniel had just slid onto my desk with shaking hands. Next to it was the stack of schedules Catherine had given me during her tenure here.
“Do you notice a difference?” I asked calmly.
He clutched his hands in front of him, but it did nothing to alleviate his shakes. “Yes. I see the one I gave you is longer than the others.”
“Right.” I held my hand out. “Give me the notebook.”
He placed it on my palm and jumped back like I was a snake about to strike. His fear was uncalled for since I’d been nothing but civil to him since he’d started. I wasn’t some dictator who threw my weight and power around. I was too self-aware for that. I did, however, expect my employees to show their work the same level of care and precision I did. All too often, I was disappointed.
I opened the notebook, pausing at Catherine’s handwritten name on the inside cover. This was undoubtedly hers, but when I laid the schedules she’d given me inside, they did not match up.
This needed to end now. I refused to go another day without getting to the bottom of this.
I looked up at Daniel. “I need your desk. Take your laptop to the break room until I’m finished.”
He nodded vigorously and practically sprinted from my office. He’d need to toughen up if he wanted a permanent job at this level. I hadn’t even been mean to the kid this morning. Jesus.
I sat down at Catherine’s desk and opened a drawer. Everything was orderly, which I expected from her. At the back, there was an unopened box of tampons. I’d started to bypass, but something scratched at the back of my mind.
Catherine had been pregnant when she’d started working for me. She hadn’t needed tampons…so why were they in her drawer?
I grabbed the box and shook it next to my ear. Closed and sealed, nothing suspicious aside from its existence. I tossed them on the desk, frustrated by my fruitless search.
Then, an envelope that had been tucked beneath the tampons caught my eye. There was nothing remarkable about it, and it definitely wasn’t a notebook, but instinct urged me to check what was inside.
I cracked the top and peered in, confused by the contents.
Why did Catherine have strips of paper stashed away?
Turning the envelope over, I let them spill out on her desk. I chose one and read her neat handwriting.
P.S. You remind me of porridge.
Frowning, I read it again and again, but clarification didn’t dawn. What was this?
I read more, one by one.
P.S. Your cyborg is showing.
P.S. I bet you sing Barry Manilow in the shower.
P.S. You wear pleated khakis on the weekend. I just know it.
It took me until the fourth strip to realize they were all exactly one inch wide and the paper matched the notebook.
Son of a bitch.
I scooped the strips back into the envelope and carried them into my office. There, I dumped them all out again and matched one perfectly to Catherine’s previously written schedules.
My heart slammed in my chest, but my brain was five steps behind. I read more of them, still trying to comprehend what I was seeing.
P.S. Are you even human?
P.S. Do you shower in your bathing suit?
P.S. You’ve memorized the lyrics to every single Nickelback song, haven’t you?
P.S. I would rather be trapped in an invisible box with a mime before hanging out with you.
What the fuck?
Understanding slammed into me like a Mack truck. These were directed at me. They had to be. Catherine had written her scathing opinion of me on the bottom of my daily schedules, then precisely cut them off and saved them in an envelope.
There must have been over a hundred.
One for each day she’d worked for me.
Holy shit. That little…
My head fell back as laughter rolled out of me. Thick, rumbling laughter from deep in my chest traveled down my limbs through my veins.
I knew it.
All these months, I knew Catherine had been biting her tongue. It had always been there, right in front of me, but she’d cut it off. Every time she’d wanted to tell me my cyborg was showing or ask me if I was human, she’d stop herself and save it for her morning ritual.
Christ, this woman. She was something else. I should have fired her for putting me through weeks of being driven insane by paper length, but this was too funny to be angry over.
My little prim and pressed Catherine Warner was an undercover firecracker. I’d always known it, but seeing the undeniable proof was wholly gratifying.
Her insults were so creative and cutting I couldn’t stop myself from reading more.
P.S. Rocks have more emotions than you do.
P.S. I hope both sides of your pillow are always warm.
That was cruel. What could I have done that day to deserve such a terrible thing wished upon me?
P.S. I’m jealous of the people who haven’t met you.
P.S. I’d rather give birth a hundred times than be in your presence.
My laughter died down, and I wondered if she still felt the same now.
My hands twitched with the urge to pick up my phone and call her to discuss this. Calling her wasn’t something I’d ever done, but I needed to hear her try to explain these postscripts away. Email wouldn’t cut it. It would give her too much time to come up with an answer.
I stopped myself, however, and called Weston instead.
“I’ve gotten to the bottom of it.”
He chuckled. “Hello. How are you?”
I leaned back in my chair, grinning to myself. “Brilliant, actually.”
There was a pause before he spoke. “You sound…chipper. It’s alarming.”
“Chipper is a bridge too far. I’ve never been chipper a day in my life.”
“Fine. You sound pleased with yourself.”
I picked up a strip, running it between my fingers. “That I am. I’ve gotten to the bottom of the notebook mystery.”
“Why does this sound like a Nancy Drew book?”
“Nancy Drew? I recall you were always a Hardy Boys devotee.”
“You’re right,” he conceded. “But The Secret Notebook sounds more like a case for Nancy. If the Hardy boys were solving it, it would be more like The Curse of the Haunted Notebook.”
I laughed as I scrubbed my face. This was the kind of conversation I could only have with Weston since we’d been friends for nearly twenty years.
“All right. Nancy solved the notebook mystery.”
“Are you Nancy in this case?” Weston deadpanned.
“Yes. Now, do you want to hear what I discovered, or would you rather name every Hardy Boys book you’ve ever read?”