CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

3-APR

The thing we would articulate, far too late, as it turned out, was that when a building’s burning, no one just whispers, “Fire!” No one sits quietly at their desk, diligently completing their work and checking for typos while the smoke pours in overhead. No one cries for “help” softly, under their breath, so as not to disturb their neighbors.

So why did we?

Shhh, don’t tell anyone but … Keep this quiet, please, but … We haven’t told anyone else, but … This stays between us, but …

Perhaps the people closest to us would manage to evacuate and the people closest to them and to them and to them, but whispers could only carry so far. Such was the purpose of whispering—to ensure that not everyone heard.

Hush, but the building is in flames.

Rosalita had never understood why her son couldn’t hear out of one of his ears. She often thought about it as she pushed a vacuum down the carpeted floors, trying to imagine what it must be like inside her little boy’s head. Quiet-loud, he’d once told her.

She hated vacuuming days where she had to be at work a full two hours early, even though she was only working third shift. The pay, however, was better.

The clock on her phone read: 7:01 P.M. when she finished going over the lobby. She flipped the switch and the roar of the vacuum died. She wrapped the cord around the crook of her thumb and elbow, pleased at the tight wad of muscle bulging from her biceps. She had been following exercise videos on YouTube.

She pushed the vacuum over to the next outlet, plugged it in. Crystal hadn’t showed up to work today. It was a fact that Rosalita found bothersome, mostly because Rosalita wouldn’t get paid double for doing Crystal’s half of the work. If she was supposed to worry about Crystal, young, pregnant, and expected to be at work right now, she was deliberately trying not to. She wasn’t the girl’s mother.

The halls were mostly empty, the secretaries and runners having already left for the evening. Rosalita hummed a tuneless song as she worked, not because she was feeling happy, but because she was bored and frustrated. The happy, sitcom version of her would be grateful for this job. Rosalita didn’t know how to be thankful for a job that required her to turn off her brain for eight to ten hours at a time, to be a machine. Not even a machine, because all she had to do was push one, back and forth, back and forth, until she’d lulled herself into a stupor finally broken by the sound of a man’s voice, clipped, talking into a phone.

When she heard him coming—the seal of the lobby doors slicing apart, slacks brushing together at the inseam—Rosalita had dueling urges: bend down and pretend to fiddle with the cord or don’t. The result landed somewhere in between.

She stood in the crosshairs. The voice, something faintly West Texas in the way that he pronounced his “e”s as “a”s, a quirk she recognized from her uncle’s wife, who was born in Rule, cut in and out with the rhythm of the conversation, surfacing closer each time.

Ames Garrett. She committed his full name to memory only after.

He snatched the phone from his ear, transitioned immediately to tapping at his screen. The wave of white snaked through his dark hair. There were patches of razor burn, dried pricks of blood left behind on his neck.

People on the upper floors walked with speed in direct proportion to how important they believed themselves to be. When Ames walked, loose papers fluttered on the secretarial stations as he passed.

He would go by without noticing, she hoped. But then there was a chance glance up, instinctive so as not to collide with whatever—whoever—was in his way. She sidestepped and shrank into the wall, which had the texture of cool fingerprints pressed to the backs of her arms.

Ames stopped directly in front of her. The cuffs of his suit pants broke at the ankle. “Oh, um,” he snapped. Twice. It reminded her of a thumb pressed over the spark wheel of a lighter. “Glad I caught you. You mind coming in to empty my bin now?” He made a “follow me” gesture with his whole arm. “UberEats for lunch. Tired of smelling like Korean barbecue.”

Do you mind?

It was a formality. It created the illusion of choice and decency. She had been surprised when he’d spoken to her that day in Ardie’s office. Had it only been a warmup for this, whatever this was?

She followed without comment and went straight to the corner behind the desk, where Ames’s trash bin was located. Her body listened for the click of the door shutting behind her.

But Ames had moved beyond it without bothering to close her in. He pulled a can of Coca-Cola from a coaster on his desk and popped the tab. He tipped his head back and let out a smack of satisfaction when he’d taken a large gulp. He was in a good mood.

“How long have you been cleaning here?” he asked, as though they were old friends who’d bumped into one another after a long while.

She stood, feet hip-width apart, the full pail held at her waist. The power differential loomed massive. She didn’t know enough about Korean food to know whether there was any left inside.

“Nine years, give or take.” She’d always liked that phrase, as she did most idioms she learned. Get the hang of it. Before you know it. Blow off steam.

The corners of his mouth turned down, as though he were impressed. He lifted the Coke can to his mouth again. “You may have heard that I’m poised to be promoted to CEO of the company. Chief Executive Officer,” he explained.

She was careful not to let her face move. “The walls are thick,” she said. She hadn’t heard. For all she knew, the jobs of the men and women who worked on these floors were to tap nonsense into their keyboards, yell into speakerphones, and shuffle papers. In substance, it was a black hole to Rosalita, as she assumed her world was to them.

“Desmond was a loss, no doubt.” Ames shoved a hand in his pocket. “Truly saddened me. We’d been through a lot together.” He watched Rosalita, who at once understood that there was a script to this meeting that she hadn’t been provided. She said nothing. “I don’t expect any problems from the cleaning staff. Is that right?”

She shifted the waste bin to the other hand. “I can’t imagine why there would be any more than there would be problems from management,” she said, pleased by the steadiness in her voice.

And with this, she knew she was permitted to take her leave. The dismissal was implied. He’d said what he needed to say. But she hadn’t.

She looked to his desk, where sterling frames held pictures of two small children. “Yours?” she asked, picking up one of the photographs. One of the boys looked more like Ames, but without the odd streak in his hair.

The chug of a printer spitting out paper sounded from down the hall. He lowered the can from his lips, this time without taking a sip.

“Yes.”

“Still married?”

His eyes sharpened. “Yes. I am.”

She nodded. They stood across from one another. Rosalita and Ames. He still wore the same watch—silver and gold link—the one that had once left a scratch on her arm the length of her hand.

“Good,” she said. “That’s very good.”

 

Transcript of Interview of Adriana Valdez Part I

18-APR

APPEARANCES:

Detective Malika Martin

Detective Oscar Diaz

PROCEEDINGS

DET. DIAZ:	This interview is in reference to a fatality referenced under Dallas County Police Report Number 14-83584. The person being interviewed is Adriana Valdez. Okay, um, Ms. Valdez, we spoke prior to this recording about the events of April 12th. Can you tell us in your own words what you remember?
MS. VALDEZ:	It was a normal day. I arrived at work around eight-thirty A.M. after dropping off my son at daycare.
DET. DIAZ:	Where does your son attend daycare?
MS. VALDEZ:	Children’s Courtyard of Preston Center.
DET. DIAZ:	Continue, please.
MS. VALDEZ:	I sat down at my desk and worked on some ongoing property tax protests, which took up nearly the entire morning. I picked up a salad and a croissant from the coffee shop downstairs—Al’s—and brought it back to my desk to eat.
DET. DIAZ:	And what time was that?
MS. VALDEZ:	I don’t know, probably around eleven-thirty or eleven-forty-five A.M. That’s when I normally eat.
DET. DIAZ:	And do you have the receipt for that lunch if required?
MS. VALDEZ:	I’m sure it can be obtained. I swiped my card into one of those iPad things, the ones that prompt you to tip for every little over-the-counter thing.
DET. DIAZ:	Thank you, we’ll follow up on that. Go ahead.
MS. VALDEZ:	I worked through lunch. This time of year is busy for us. Just enough time before the summer lull to really make some headway.
DET. DIAZ:	Where were you around one-thirty P.M. on that day?
MS. VALDEZ:	Around that time, I had gone to go get a payroll form signed.
DET. DIAZ:	Anyone that saw you there?
MS. VALDEZ:	The payroll officer. After that, I came back to my desk.
DET. DIAZ:	At what time?
MS. VALDEZ:	I don’t remember exactly.
DET. DIAZ:	Anyone that could verify?
MS. VALDEZ:	Grace Stanton or Sloane Glover, maybe.
DET. MARTIN:	Anyone else?
MS. VALDEZ:	I don’t know. Maybe my secretary, Anna Corlione.
DET. DIAZ:	Ms. Valdez, when was the last time you saw the victim?
MS. VALDEZ:	Detective Diaz, who exactly are you referring to as the victim here?