Page 7 of Whistleblower
It was bad enough I lost my job, my credibility. I thought I had friends but it turns out I had colleagues, and after the ordeal with Empress they disappeared so fast you would’ve thought I had leprosy.
If that wasn’t enough, all the employees who were enjoying generous salaries, retirements, and company stock had a bone to pick with me for ruining their lives. It came out in the form of menacing letters and phone calls, graffitied profanity on my house and driveway, and a witch hunt on the internet. I couldn’t defend myself and tell them that maybe I saved their lives…their children’s lives. That minor detail probably would’ve helped calm their rage.
But thanks to the gag order the FBI put on me, as far as the laid-off employees knew, Dr. Eden Abbott, self-righteous snitch-bitch, single-handedly brought down Empress—the very company I busted my ass to help build. Their futures were ruined, and I was to blame.
I’m tired… I’m wary. The burden of doing the right thing is too damn heavy, and I’m about ready to give up. My dad would want me to fight. He’d tell me to pretend I’m brave until I actually am. I can almost hear the words in my head, exactly how he’d say them, “Fuck this guy, fuck this interview, fuck this city. Hold your head high because the righteous people always prevail in the end.”
But it’s been a year and it’s only getting harder.
Either Dad was wrong or I’m not as righteous as I think.
I suck in a deep breath, then blow out all the hope I had left. I really thought Ronnie might come through for me. “Well, thanks for your time.” I begin to rise, but he grabs my hand. I freeze out of pure discomfort.
“Have dinner with me.”
“Excuse me?” I ask in a dangerously low tone. “You’re married.” I glance at his left hand still holding mine. There’s a tan line, but no ring.
“Annie and I got divorced a few months ago. Look Eden… I had the biggest crush on you in grad school. Did you know that?”
Actually, I didn’t. Ronnie’s cute and sweet. He has chocolate-colored curls and soft brown eyes. I never found him sexy, but I would’ve obliged a date had he asked. Ronnie is intelligent and we talk the same language—have the same interests, similar goals. But he had ample opportunity while we were both single, yet never made a move. He’s only brave enough to ask me now because he’s no longer intimidated by me or my career.
Narrowing my eyes, I say, “You should’ve asked me out, then.”
He raises his brows. “Oh?”
“Yes, you should’ve asked me out, back then, instead of waiting until I was at the lowest point in my life and career. Did you really think you could lure me into a date, or whatever else is going through your mind, by taking advantage of my current desperation?”
Ronnie balks in surprise at my frankness. I force myself to smile so much that oftentimes, people forget I’m fully capable of being angry.
“Eden, I—”
“No, listen to me,” I say, snatching my hand back. “I don’t deserve this. Any of it. I did the honorable thing, and I was punished for it. Everything I’ve worked for? Gone. My reputation? Brutalized. I’m not even known as a martyr—just a traitor. I have nothing left except my own self-respect and it’s cruel that you’d try to strip me of that too.”
He opens his mouth then clamps it shut, unable to formulate a worthy response. I collect my handbag and rise, then point to the funky, modern chair.
“And by the way, this is a ridiculous chair for a HR professional’s office,” I say matter-of-factly. I release the angry breath I was holding and add, “Thank you for at least meeting with me. Up until I realized you were just baiting me with this interview to go out with you, it was actually nice to see you again.” I make my way to the door but spin around when Ronnie speaks.
“I’m sorry, Eden. I really am. Hang in there, I hope…”
“Hope what?” Tucking my hair behind my ear, I wait patiently for his response. I’m in dire need of some kind of profound message from the universe, even if Ronnie is the mouthpiece.
“That you get…I don’t know…revenge.”
“I don’t want revenge.”
“What do you want?”
Peace.
Rest.
It’s been the longest year of my life, and I am so fucking tired.
I pop my shoulders as if it’s no big deal. “Nothing. I’ll be okay,” I lie, then make my way through the office door, careful not to slam it behind me. I fly down the hallway past the rows of community desks and Bosu balls in lieu of office chairs, praying no one recognizes me, or worse, attempts to start a conversation. I’ve run out of fake smiles for the day.
I’m able to keep my composure until I see my car. Feeling the tears forming and the uncomfortable prickly heat in my cheeks, I hustle the last few steps to my SUV. My hurried footsteps echo loudly off the walls of the parking garage. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I mentally call out “safe.”
Despite a year of emotional torture, I make sure that no one ever sees me cry. Tears make a person look guilty. I’m not.