Page 8 of Whistleblower
I’m not, I’m not.
But I sure as hell do a lot of crying these days. It’s to the point that I have a ritual. I fish through my purse, to find a small visual timer.
I used to teach this strategy to the leadership teams I worked with. Commanding groups of unmotivated and disgruntled entry-level customer service agents is no easy feat. It’s like trying to appease the chronically dissatisfied, but I always teach the companies I work with that good leadership is poised—quick to listen, slow to speak, and always gracious.
But let’s be honest…that shit can really wear you down.
I’d gather the entire leadership team and give everyone a visual timer and tell them to make room for their emotions. The more they bottled up, the bigger the explosion, and that’s how people end up jumping off building rooftops. So, I instructed them to always make time to feel angry, sad, frustrated, and vengeful. In private. Then when the timer goes off…
Let it go.
Getting comfortable in my driver’s seat, I turn the dial to ten minutes and it begins to tick… No, that was a really big blow. That interview was your last hope. You deserve a little more time… I twist the dial so the pointer rests on fifteen minutes.
Glancing around, I ensure there are no other cars or passersby on this side of the parking garage. I’m alone and I have exactly fifteen minutes to cry, melt, and completely fall apart. Afterward, I’ll put myself back together and trudge forward like I’ve been doing for an entire year now.
Thirteen minutes left. I picture the cold, callous courtroom and staring into the eyes of the founders at Empress while I confessed to the judge about what I had found. It was a very private hearing, but it felt like I was naked, on stage, at the Super Bowl halftime show. I forced myself to speak clearly, but I wanted to hide and disappear.
Eleven minutes left. I close my eyes and see the late payment notifications for the family home Dad left me. The home my mother wanted to come back to. This home is my history, the only remnants of my family remaining, and I’m about to lose it to the bank.
Eight minutes left. I shiver at the memory of a brick being thrown through my living room window. The note attached read: Die tattletale bitch. They set my garden on fire too. Luckily, my sprinklers are on the evening cycle or the little flames might’ve set my entire house on fire before the bank could snatch it back.
Six minutes—
The sound of a knuckle tapping against my driver-side window nearly sends me into cardiac arrest. I’m caught—blotchy-faced, huffing…pathetic. I glance at the man standing outside my window. He’s wearing dark-washed blue jeans with a neat black belt. His dress shirt is tucked in, covered by a black suit jacket.
He peers through the window and squints, reminding me how darkly tinted all my car windows are. Actually, they are well past the legal allowance for vehicle window tints. It was a small security measure I had to take. A brick through my living room window scared the shit out of me. A properly timed brick through the driver’s side window of my car could kill me.
Every fiber in my being is telling me not to engage with this stranger, who is wearing dark sunglasses in a parking lot enclosure. My hand creeps towards my car’s start button and I have every intention of peeling out of this spot, Tokyo Drift style, until he knocks again. This time, he subtly moves his suit jacket to the side, flashing me his shiny gold badge.
Dammit. I know that badge. I’ve had enough encounters with the FBI over the past year to recognize it.
“Dr. Abbott,” he calls out, then points his finger down repeatedly. Hesitantly, I roll down my window.
“Yes?”
His features are unremarkable. Not in an unattractive way, it’s just that the combination of his slim face, tan complexion, and neatly combed, dark hair makes him…quite forgettable. He blends. I don’t think I could pick him out of a crowd. It’s a perfect look for a secret agent.
“You saw my badge?”
“Yes.” Even if I didn’t, the fact that he called me Doctor Abbott is an easy tip-off that he’s an agent. They like titles. But Doctor sounds better for M.D.s. I prefer Eden.
“Can you unlock the door?” He points to the passenger side while examining my perplexed expression. “Let’s chat.” Circling the car, he makes his way to the passenger side. The very second he tugs on the door latch, my timer rings, screeching at the top of its lungs.
Ring, ring! It’s time, Eden!
It’s time to be okay.
TWO
LINC
“This is a fucking terrible idea. Look at the foot traffic,” I snarl under my breath. It doesn’t matter how low I whisper, Vesper always hears me.
I scour the massive lobby of one of the largest luxury business buildings in the middle of Washington D.C.’s metropolitan. The entirety of its thirty-two floors is overkill. In this city, architecture is a pissing contest. The bigger your building, the bigger your cock.
“Is it? How many people have looked our way?”
Hm, fair point. Vesper and I don’t look out of place in neat suits in this crowd. Everyone is far too busy hustling to their corporate day jobs to notice that the killers in the room are armed.