I couldn’t argue with him on that last point. But Nate was offering me the job full out, not even on an interim basis. It was highly unusual for the company to appoint someone to the executive suite without the usual “dog and pony” show of hiring a search firm, floating names, and interviewing candidates.
But then, it was highly unusual that the general counsel would commit suicide in his office.
Nate stood from the sofa, eased over to the window, and peered out for a beat. He turned back to me. “Listen, I hate the circumstances that brought us to this point. But we need to keep making the right decisions for the right reasons. And I think you’re the best person to help us do that. I know this is coming at ya pretty fast and I don’t expect an answer right now. Take a little time to think it over.”
“Um . . . okay, I will. Thanks.” I rose from the chair, finally, grateful to be leaving.
I headed for the elevators with a sense of remorse so strong it made me wince. I shouldn’t want this job. Michael died in the very office Nate was now offering me. I tried to mentally grasp the idea of working in the executive suite. As usual, I would be “the only one” on the twentieth floor, just like I’d been in the Legal Department. The lone Black person, expected to speak on behalf of Black folks everywhere, the one expected to represent the success or failure of every Black woman who worked in corporate America. Logically, I knew this wasn’t true, but it didn’t stop me from feeling that way. It was a burden I’d borne since Coventry Academy Prep.
But becoming an executive was the job I had dreamed of for years. And I had a hard time not smiling to myself whenever I pondered how I might finally be on the right track for a change. As Vera used to say, everything happens for a reason and there just might be a reason that I was tapped for this position.
Chapter 4
An hour later, I sat at my desk, the portable heater blowing a lukewarm current, hardly enough to conquer the bone-chilling air in my office. I was about ten degrees away from pulling out the blanket I kept in my bottom drawer. The surreal insanity of the morning’s events sliced through my brain: discovering and leaving Michael’s dead body and the offer to replace him as Houghton’s general counsel.
Anita tapped lightly before quietly easing her head inside my office door. “Security just called up. There’s a Detective Bradford here to see you?”
“A detective?” I sat straight up in my chair. “To see me?”
“Yeah. So what’s up?” she said, stepping inside my office, all wide-eyed and expectant, as if we were two preteens about to discuss a middle-school boy crush. “Why would the police want to talk to you?”
I rested my chin in my hand. “I’m not sure we’ll ever know the answer to that question.”
“Huh?” Anita stared back at me, perplexed.
“Maybe if you go get him, we could both find out. What do you think?”
She snickered. “Oh, right. Sorry,” she said before scurrying off. Anita was pleasant enough, but she leaned on the nosy side. Generally, I don’t care for nosy people, but she worked harder than any of the other admins on the floor and she had a good sense of humor, which made this place bearable.
I slumped back in my chair and massaged my temple. Oh God, where’s Sam and what the hell has he screwed up now? I hate the police. Maybe it was my southern upbringing or my own up-close-and-personal experience with law enforcement that made me leery of any guy with a badge and a gun. And now, Sam had dragged them right to my office door. I tried to imagine what kind of trouble he’d fallen into this time. Gambling. Burglary. Car theft.
A few minutes later, Anita returned to my office with a thirtyish honey-colored Black woman in tow. Her svelte figure, pixie haircut, and stylish good looks made her look like a J.Crew model—not someone who would go around shooting bad guys. I pegged her for a runner by her long, lean, nearly-zero-body-fat appearance. I made a mental note to find a gym to join on the weekend. Anita slipped out, closing the door behind her.
“Ms. Littlejohn. I’m Detective Shelly Bradford. I’d like to speak with you about Mr. Sayles’s death.” Her voice was smooth, professional, no southern accent. She flashed a small badge that I barely looked at as I wrestled with the nervous flutters in my stomach.
So this wasn’t about Sam.
But maybe it was worse.
I motioned the detective to one of the stiff guest chairs in front of my desk. She sat, crossed her legs, and surveyed my cramped office with an air that hovered somewhere between curiosity and disdain. She reminded me of the girls I went to school with at Coventry Academy, pretty in their own upper-crust way.