“You did,” Wallace said evenly. “I have the timestamp from the clerk’s office here if you’d like to see it.” He tapped his fingers against the folder sitting on his desk.
Her eyes narrowed. At least she wasn’t crying any longer. Wallace could handle anger. On his first day in law school, he was told that lawyers, while a necessity in a functioning society, were always going to be the focal point of ire. “Even if I did file it late, I’ve never done anything like that before. It was one time.”
“And you can rest easy knowing you won’t do anything like it again,” Wallace said. “Because you no longer work here.”
“But … but my husband. And my son. And my daughter!”
“Right,” Wallace said. “I’m glad you brought that up. Obviously, if your daughter was receiving any sort of scholarship from us, it’s now rescinded.” He pressed a button on his desk phone. “Shirley? Can you please make a note for HR that Mrs. Ryan’s daughter no longer has a scholarship through us? I don’t know what it entails, but I’m sure they have some form they have to fill out that I need to sign. See to it immediately.”
His assistant’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Yes, Mr. Price.”
He looked up at his former paralegal. “There. See? All taken care of. Now, before you go, I’d ask that you remember we’re professionals. There’s no need for screaming or throwing things or making threats that will undoubtedly be considered a felony. And, if you could, please make sure when you clear out your desk that you don’t take anything that belongs to the firm. Your replacement will be starting on Monday, and I’d hate to think what it would be like for her if she was missing a stapler or tape dispenser. Whatever knickknacks you have accumulated are yours, of course.” He picked up the stress ball on his desk with the firm’s logo on it. “These are wonderful, aren’t they? I seem to remember you getting one to celebrate seven years at the firm. Take it, with my blessing. I have a feeling it will come in handy.”
“You’re serious,” she whispered.
“As a heart attack,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to—”
“You … you … you monster!” she shouted. “I demand an apology!”
Of course she would. “An apology would imply I’ve done something wrong. I haven’t. If anything, you should be apologizing to me.”
Her answering screech did not contain an apology.
Wallace kept his cool as he pressed the button on his phone again. “Shirley? Has security arrived?”
“Yes, Mr. Price.”
“Good. Send them in before something gets thrown at my head.”
The last Wallace Price saw of Patricia Ryan was when a large man named Geraldo dragged her away, kicking and screaming, apparently ignoring Wallace’s warning about felonious threats. He was begrudgingly impressed with Mrs. Ryan’s dedication to wanting to stick what she referred to as a hot fire poker down his throat until it—in her words—pierced his nether regions and caused extreme agony. “You’ll land on your feet!” he called from the doorway to his office, knowing the entire floor was listening. He wanted to make sure they knew he cared. “A door closes, a window opens and all that.”
The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off her outrage.
“Ah,” Wallace said. “That’s more like it. Back to work, everyone. Just because it’s Friday doesn’t mean you get to slack off.”
Everyone began moving immediately.
Perfect. The machine ran smoothly once again.
He went back into his office, closing the door behind him.
He thought of Patricia only once more that afternoon, when he received an email from the head of Human Resources telling him that she would take care of the scholarship. That twinge in his chest returned, but it was all right. He’d stop for a bottle of Tums on his way home. He didn’t give it—or Patricia Ryan—another thought. Ever forward, he told himself as he moved the email to a folder marked EMPLOYEE GRIEVANCES.
Ever forward.
He felt better. At least it was quiet now.
Next week, his new paralegal would start, and he’d make sure she knew he wouldn’t tolerate mistakes. It was better to strike fear early rather than deal with incompetency down the road.
* * *
He never got the chance.
Instead, two days later, Wallace Price died.
CHAPTER
2
His funeral was sparsely attended. Wallace wasn’t pleased. He couldn’t even be quite sure how he’d gotten here. One moment, he’d been staring down at his body. And then he’d blinked and somehow found himself standing in front of a church, the doors open, bells ringing. It certainly hadn’t helped when he saw the prominent sign sitting out front. A CELEBRATION OF THE LIFE OF WALLACE PRICE, it read. He didn’t like that sign, if he was being honest with himself. No, he didn’t like it one bit. Perhaps someone inside could tell him what the hell was going on.
He’d taken a seat on a pew toward the rear. The church itself was everything he hated: ostentatious, with grand stained-glass windows and several versions of Jesus in various poses of pain and suffering, hands nailed to a cross that appeared to be made of stone. Wallace was dismayed at how no one seemed to mind that the prominent figure displayed throughout the church was depicted in the throes of death. He would never understand religion.
He waited for more people to filter in. The sign out front said his funeral was supposed to start promptly at nine. It was now five till according to the decorative clock on the wall （another Jesus, his arms the hands of the clock, apparently a reminder that God’s only son was a contortionist） and there were only six people in the church.
He knew five of them.
The first was his ex-wife. Their divorce had been a bitter thing, filled with baseless accusations on both sides, their lawyers barely able to keep them from screaming at each other across the table. She would’ve had to fly in, given that she’d moved to the opposite end of the country to get away from him. He didn’t blame her.
Mostly.
She wasn’t crying. He was annoyed for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. Shouldn’t she be sobbing?
The second, third, and fourth people he knew were the partners at the law firm Moore, Price, Hernandez & Worthington. He waited for others from the firm to join them, given MPH&W had been started in a garage twenty years before and had grown to be one of the most powerful firms in the state. At the very least, he expected his assistant, Shirley, to be there, her makeup streaked, a handkerchief clutched in her hands as she wailed that she didn’t know how she’d go on without him.
She wasn’t in attendance. He focused as hard as he could, willing her to pop into existence, wailing that it wasn’t fair, that she needed a boss like Wallace to keep her on the straight and narrow. He frowned when nothing happened, a curl of unease fluttering in the back of his mind.
The partners gathered at the back of the church, near Wallace’s pew, speaking in low tones. Wallace had given up trying to let them know he was still here, sitting right in front of them. They couldn’t see him. They couldn’t hear him.