Page 37 of Resist

Childish? Sure.

But it’s my first day in my new job and despite the reason I accepted the job here and am sitting in this standard office chair, I feel lighter than I have in days.

The office is nothing special. I can’t say I expected Blackwellto be nice to his staff and give them comfortable places to work. However, would he have stayed a millionaire if he’d provided his employees with luxuries like exterior windows with nice views, and comfortable office chairs?

I’ve started a list of things I want to bring into the office, starting with an ergonomic chair. My lower back already aches a bit, and I’ve been here less than an hour. I’m sure by the end of the day, my ass is gonna hurt like fuck.

While I normally enjoy a good ass ache as much as the next guy, I don’t want it to come from something as boring as an uncomfortable chair.

And, while I’m mentally redecorating this dark and not-quite-dingy but certainly not homey office, I add plants to my list. Mom instilled a love of plants in me from an early age, and if she ever visits, she won’t believe this barren space is my office unless there’s at least a Peace Lily or a Spider Plant on the windowsill.

Call me overly feminine—wouldn’t be the first time in my life—but a little pop of color never hurt anyone either.

I haven’t quite decided what my master plan is. Applying for this job was serendipitous, fortuitous, and probably knuckle-headed as it was somewhat out of my league, but I was vaguely qualified. I graduated magna cum laude with a bachelor degree in journalism and communications and no real idea where I wanted to go next.

Crafting a successful career as an acquisitions editor requires a passion for literature—check. That’s what the application for this job said when I filled it in. I’ve read with Mom since I was a little boy, she often found me under the blankets with a flashlight and a book well after bedtime. With her working in a library, books were hard to avoid, and in damn near limitless supply.

My mind wanders back to Cecelia’s bookshelves. I’d loveto eventually add a book to her shelf and have her love it as much as she loves the ones from her parents.

You also need a sharp business acumen and strong interpersonal skills—double check. Finding that balance between being risk averse and being a shark when I need to took a little trial and error, but I like to think I’ve done okay for myself.

I followed up my master’s degree with an editing course, six months volunteering at one of the bigger publishing houses, and eighteen months as a junior acquisition editor for the same firm. I like it. It may not be my forever job, but I’m capable, and love having something to relate to Mom about. She might not get the stock market the way I do, but as soon as books come up in conversation, she has me beat.

Plus, applying for the job at Blackwell gave me an in with the company I didn’t know at the time that I needed.

I have Mom’s story, but with no hard evidence, it’s her word against a dead guy’s. I need to find more, and to do that, I need to be here.

The idea of writing a book about Blackwell and his shitty exploits crossed my mind. Maybe I’ll write an expose and print it in the tabloids or paste it all over the fucking internet, and every lamppost in Minnesota.

Or maybe I could convince his victims to sue the bastard’s estate and drain it so dry that the damn publishing house has to close forever, and his name will die with him.

My stomach lurches at the possibilities. I should have done a little more preparation before jumping head first into accepting the position in his ranks, but I couldn’t help it. The door opened to me, and I wedged my foot into it.

I’d originally considered applying for the copy editor position, but acquisitions felt more like my vibe.

There’s a stack of unread manuscripts on the computer in front of me. I have to read them and separate them into three different files. One is a ‘fuck no’, one’s a ‘maybethere could be something here’, and the third is ‘fuck yeah! Print this bitch out and read it from cover to cover!’

I have multi-colored sticky notes to annotate physical books as I go, to flag parts I particularly like or dislike, something that moves me, memorable quotes, and for shits and giggles I’ll flag anything I feel may help the marketing department.

Georgia, the woman who works the front desk of Blackwell Publishing, told me she’d stop by later today with some forms and paperwork from the HR department. She also told me not to get too comfortable with my manuscripts, because as soon as the other two new hires arrive and get settled, she’s giving us a tour of the office and introducing us to the new ‘Boss Bitch’, one Ms. Cora Blackwell. Her words, not mine.

The fruit of Satan’s loins. Only child to a single father. Her mother passed away from ovarian cancer when she was a teenager, leaving Blackwell the terribly hard job of raising a child alone.

There’s no way a father would tell his daughter about the women he raped, but she’s a smart woman, a business woman, inhisbusiness from a young age, according to numerous news stories on the net. Surely there’s no way she can’t know about his exploits... right?

From my initial investigations—searching on the internet and flirting with Georgia to give me a little history of the company—I already know that Blackwell never kept a secretary for longer than a year. Did the daughter just think they got unhappy and left? Or were using Blackwell Publishing as a stepping stone to something bigger?

There’s no way the attrition rate has evaded her attention. I’d bet there isn’t much that goes on within this publishing house that she doesn’t know about.

I’d bet my self-made, modest fortune from being a venturecapitalist that his high turnover of staff was for a nefarious reason.

Every woman who passes by the glass door and inward facing windows of my office fit a specific type. They’re all fairly tall, slim build, and brunettes. They’re all impeccably well put together, and look far too similar for it to be a coincidence.

There’s no way she didn’t know, right?

She has been handed the keys to the family castle upon his death, she’s probably met with counsel by now too. She knows the skeletons hiding in her father’s closet. And I bet she’ll pay damn near anything to keep them there, to keep her family’s name clean.

Extortion.