18-6-36.
It clicked open.
“Gotcha,” I whispered.
I swung open the door carefully, just in case it was like a jack-in-the-box (small traumatic childhood incident, too long to explain), but all that was in there was a large envelope. I picked it up and used the dim lights outside the office to examine its contents.
Jackpot. Dozens of passports were inside, all belonging to young women, along with a Post-it note stuck on top, reading: “TO SHRED.”
“Not anymore,” I whispered, as I put them back in their manila envelope and tucked it underneath my shirt. I shut the safe, the knockoff Kandinsky went back on the wall, and I was about to leave when a noise stopped me.
At first, I thought that my pulse was so loud I could hear it, but it wasn’t my pulse. It was the sound of footsteps in the hall. They were a man’s, heavy and assured. Women’s shoes make tap-tap-tap sounds. Men’s shoes go clunk-clunk-clunk. They got closer and my heart sped up with them, clunking along at a breakneck pace. There was only one person who would be coming toward the office this late at night, and he was the one person I didn’t want to see: the CEO.
I hit the floor, the paperwork still hidden against me as I thought fast. I hate thinking fast like this—there are too many opportunities for mistakes—but I happen to work well under pressure. Still, it’s not fun, especially when you’re trying to suppress a sneeze because the floor’s all dusty and clearly my mom hasn’t been cleaning this office and …
I had an idea.
By the time the CEO came through the door, I had slammed on the lights and was using a tissue to wipe down the Kandinsky’s frame, praying he wouldn’t notice that I was shaking a little from adrenaline. “Can I help you?” I said in Icelandic. “Are you looking for someone?” My dad had taught me those sentences, as well as “Hello” and “More coffee, please.”
The CEO looked like the most average man in the world, not someone who had conspired to make money off human trafficking. “This is my office,” he replied in perfect English, brow furrowing in concentration. (I love to watch them squirm; it’s so satisfying.) “What are you doing—?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” My mom appeared suddenly, pushing her cleaning cart and wearing her janitorial outfit. “I have a new assistant; we’re training her.”
I smiled. “There’s a lot of dust in here. Have you thought about getting an air filt—”
The CEO cut me off. “I need. My office back.” He spoke the same way my dad did whenever he was annoyed with me. Short sentences. Because the effort. Of Talking. Is just. Too much.
“No problem,” I said, balling up my tissue and skirting past my mom. “Only three hundred more offices to go, right? The night is young!”
I went out the door, the passports now scratchy and warm against my skin, and took off for the elevator bank while my mom apologized to the CEO once again. I was glad she was busy because she would freak if she knew I was taking the elevator. My parents are always like, “Take the stairs!” but to me, the stairs are usually foolish, especially if you’re on a high floor. If you’re being chased, you’ve basically trapped yourself in a spiral, and running down twenty-eight flights of stairs is way too time-consuming. The elevator is best.
Plus elevator music can be very calming. I’m just saying.
The doors were just opening when I heard a “Psst!” sound behind me. My mom poked her head around the corner, glaring at me. “Stairs,” she mouthed, and pointed at the large EXIT sign hanging over the door.
I took the stairs.
By the time I got into the empty lobby, I was breathing hard but still moving, almost on autopilot. I could feel the security guard’s eyes on me as I went toward the revolving doors. “All good?” he asked nonchalantly, sipping at coffee while flipping through the local paper.
“We’re good, Dad,” I said, keeping my eyes straight ahead. “See you in ten.”
“What have we told you about taking the elevator?” my mom screeched at me eleven minutes later as my dad pulled our car out of the parking lot, backing over all of the SIM cards from our disposable cell phones and crushing them into smithereens. Another mission accomplished.
“I know, I know!” I said, trying to put on my seatbelt. “I just don’t like stairs!”
“You took the elevator?” my dad said, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
“She tried to, but she almost got caught,” my mom said. “Seriously, Maggie.”
“Merde,” my dad muttered.
Aside from being a statistician, my dad’s also great with languages. He knows how to say “You’re grounded!” twelve different ways.
¡Estás castigado!
Tu es privée de sortie!
Tы наказана. Ты не можешь выхо∂umь uЗ ∂оMy!
“Yeah, hey, by the way, guess who cracked the safe?” I pulled the envelope out of my shirt and handed it to my mom, ready to change the subject. “Check it out, he’s so guilty!”
She flicked through the passports, then gave me a smile over her shoulder. “How many numbers in the combination?”
“Three,” I said smugly.
“Amateur,” my mom and dad said at the same time.
We zipped through the wet streets toward the airport. Our car was a late-model sedan, black exterior, tan interior, just like every third car on the road today. Someday I’m hoping we get a Maserati or something cool like that. My dad taught me how to drive when I was ten, back when we lived in Germany near the autobahn. I’m pretty good at doing 180s and I’m awesome at driving a stick shift, which makes it all the more disappointing when we end up with Toyotas. The speedometer doesn’t even go past 160 mph. Not that we’d have to drive that fast, but it’d be nice if the car had some power.