The Woman Who Thought She Was Untouchable

I sat with it all afternoon.

Jess Reeves.

Not a common enough coincidence to dismiss.

Not a different enough name to explain away.

I turned it over in my mind through two hours of work I barely touched, through a lunch I didn't eat, through three messages from Petra asking if I needed anything.

At 4:15, I called the company directory.

There was no Jess Reeves listed.

No Jessica Reeves.

No J.

Reeves in any department.

I called the community partnership office directly.

"Hi, I'm trying to reach one of your volunteers — first name Jess, doctoral candidate from Columbia?"

A pause.

"We have a few Columbia volunteers.

Can you give me a last name?"

"Reeves," I said.

A longer pause.

"I'm sorry, I don't have anyone by that name on the volunteer list."

I thanked her and hung up.

I sat at my desk for a long moment.

Then I pulled up the building security directory and found the name of the head of lobby operations — a man named Curtis who had worked the building for nine years and knew everything that moved through the ground floor.

I called him.

"Curtis, this is Diana Marsh, asset management, fourteenth floor.

I have a question about this morning.

The cleaning crew in the main lobby — is that contracted or in-house?"

"Contracted," he said.

"Brightfield Services.

They rotate crews every few weeks."

"The young woman who was mopping near the elevator bank around eight-fifteen this morning.

Dark hair, overalls.

Do you have a name?"

A pause.

"Ms.

Marsh, I'm not sure I'm the right person to—"

"Curtis.

Please."

Another pause.

"I can check the sign-in log.

Hold on." Keys clicking.

"Brightfield had two staff in the lobby this morning.

Sign-in names are T.

Okafor and — " a pause — "C.

Reeves."

Reeves.

"Thank you, Curtis."

I hung up.

Reeves.

Claire Reeves.

Not Jess.

Claire.

Which meant the woman in the overalls and the woman in the boardroom were the same person.

There was no Jess.

There was no doctoral candidate.

There was no room 3-14 conversation that had happened by accident.

Every word of it had been the continuation of the test.

My hands were very still on my desk.

She had come down to the lobby café.

She had handed me a coffee.

She had told me about Alderton Group and the board meeting she hadn't been invited to and the eight months of rebuilding.

She had pointed me toward a room on the third floor and a young woman who had handled herself with more composure than most senior executives.

And I had gone.

I had walked up two flights of stairs and knocked on a door and said the truest thing I had said all day to a woman who had been watching me the entire time.

My phone rang.

Unknown number.

I picked up.

"Ms.

Marsh," said Claire Reeves.