by Foster Trecost
It was my first day.
Awkward introductions. Handshakes held a second too long. Then parked in a cubicle. The computer insisted on my attention, but the desk drawers won that battle. I pulled open the top. Empty, except for a few paperclips. Nothing in the next. The bottom bin, larger than the first two, contained only a coiled ethernet cable. I moved to close it, but stopped. Something more. Beneath the cable, a folded note. Hard-pressed pencil. Block letters.
WATCH OUT:
THERE’S A CHEAT AND A THIEF.
AND SOMEONE WHO WATCHES.
No signature. No date. Just accusations in graphite. The marks were deliberate, carved deeper than necessary. A few words had been traced twice, and were darker than the others. I dropped the note into my shirt pocket.
The office buzzed with a morning hum. Polite laughter drifted between the rows. Professional. Pleasant. A few waved. Coffee smelled of hazelnut. A woman from two cubes over, Emily, according to the nameplate. Warm eyes. Disarming smile. She offered a muffin, already pulled apart. An easy refusal. Cheat? I didn’t think so. Unless her warmth was rehearsed.
A little later, the team lead stopped by. Starched shirt. Crooked tie. Hands hidden deep in his pockets. A nervous type, jingling keys. Thief? Not likely. But maybe.
The clock stretched morning into afternoon. I tried to focus on training modules, but every sound tugged me sideways. The man in the corner typing too fast. What was he hiding? The receptionist tapping her nails. What did she know? Someone laughed, sudden and sharp. My stomach tightened. I’d heard that laugh before. Every office had one. Too bright. Too loud. Too camouflaging.
Quitting time closed in. Some said goodbye. Most left in silence. I pulled the note from my shirt pocket and tucked it back where I found it. Maybe this was their welcome. Their warning. I closed the drawer and rolled the chair beneath the desk.
On my way out, I caught my reflection in a window. I stopped to look at it. But more than that, I studied it. It studied me back. I stood on both sides of scrutiny. Neither felt safe. I never did name the cheat or the thief. But the one who watches? I knew him already.
So went my first day. There wouldn’t be a second.
© Foster Trecost
Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.
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