Transparency Charles Royce (phonics reader .TXT) 📖

“Honey, don’t sit there, you’re sweaty. That’s the most expensive piece in this office.”

“My office.” Shawn flashes his pearly whites. “You do you, babe.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it next.”

“You talking to me, or to yourself?” Shawn leans back, puts his hands behind his head. “I think you’re right about the money. Didn’t realize it was on my mind. After Micah’s case, I felt like I was on such a high, you know? Now I feel like everything I’m working on right now isn’t furthering my career.”

“Explain.” She squirts some dust spray in a towel, reaches for the top shelf.

Shawn grimaces as he watches his wife on the ladder. He closes his eyes. “Josh is pro bono, which is fine, I wanted to help, and honestly it’s not that much work. Except listening to him. And poor Jenna. Just sitting there. Waiting. Her parents can’t afford bail. They’re sending me meager contributions for her defense. I think they are struggling a bit, wiring money from some teeny tiny bank in rural France. It’s fine. I’m still getting in some hours.”

“What you just said makes me prouder of you than I already was. It’ll come back around.” She steps down a rung, starts working the next shelf. “Speaking of money, I’m thinking about transitioning a bit with the counseling.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“Maybe not so much transitioning as pivoting. Something Micah said. About spiritual—” Haylee stops, puts her rag down.

“Honey? What’s wrong?” Shawn springs up from the chair.

“There’s a wire coming from this box.” She points.

Shawn runs up to her, throws his arms around her thighs, carries her away from the box, eases her down to the floor in the hallway outside.

He rushes back to the box, turns around. Haylee is standing there watching.

“Go!” Shawn screams at her.

She runs down the hall.

Shawn steps up one rung on the ladder, gently picks up the box, a simple black walnut piece, brass hinges. The wire is coming out the back; wood shavings nestled in the crevasse behind it. He looks at the front; a small hole is drilled in the center, but he can’t make out what it’s for. He opens the top of the box—first a crack, then a little wider, then all the way.

A tiny camera rests inside, a steady red light underneath the lens.

“Low-tech motherfuckers!”

Shawn jerks the box while leaping from the ladder to the floor. The wire pulls an entire row of books, sliding them off the shelf, rat-a-tat-tatting onto the floor. He throws the box against the wall, denting the drywall. Walnut fragments fall onto the Eames ottoman.

C h a p t e r   4 5

JOSH POPS A Xanax, swallows, then places the oval key on the pad that has magically reappeared outside the secret floor. The wall opening invites him inside.

Passing by the fragments of drywall still resting on the stair stoop, Josh can still hear the shots spitting off the cement walls, the ceiling. The sounds of a small crowd of people echo from somewhere down below. He looks at his watch. 8:07 p.m.

He’s late.

“I’m at the login,” he says to the pen in his suit pocket. “Can you hear me?”

“Are you speaking into the pen?” asks Agent Pillsbury on the other end.

He can hear her through a small earpiece that he’s sure has lodged permanently in his ear canal. He swears he hears her giggle. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing, we can hear you great,” she says. “Good call on placing the booster in your storage room. Helps us get above those cement walls.”

“You were right about the lasers not picking up on the smaller items, it doesn’t say METAL DETECTED on my login.”

“You’re late.” Pillsbury sighs. “Just get on with it. My team is grabbing license plate numbers from a few cars in the parking garage. You go silent now. I don’t wanna hear from you until you’re outta there. Everything is working fine, just be calm, be cool. We can hear everything.”

“I’m freaking the fu—”

“Shh!”

“Is that Josh I hear?” West comes out of a door down the hall.

“I found you!” He walks toward West, notices a closed door to his left with a photo of George Washington etched into it.

Josh steps inside the secret floor’s conference room, sees about twelve people sitting in folding chairs around a dark table. One of them is empty.

“Holy shit!” He hears one of them say.

A few of them stare, start to whisper to each other. Josh looks at his clothes, wondering what they’re looking at.

As West closes the door, Josh notices Ronald Reagan’s face embedded in the metal.

“Reagan,” Josh says.

“It’s all making sense now, right?” West smiles, puts a hand on Josh’s shoulder, breaks into a weird presentation voice. “Friends, I’d like you to meet Josh Harrison; he’ll be joining us for this final board meeting.”

“Final? I just got here.” Josh smiles, looks around the room.

The others laugh.

He sees one or two familiar faces: Pamela from PR, Jamal from security; the rest he doesn’t know at all. Most of them are still staring a little too strongly, some even bending their head to the side, as if they’re trying to see him from a different angle. The faces are mixed, heavily diverse for sure, but he has no idea who does what, a distinction which Pillsbury has asked him to figure out. West hasn’t offered their names.

“Looking forward to meeting you guys,” Josh says.

“Yes, I was just telling the group here that all hands should now be on deck for the grand opening tomorrow night.” West takes his hand off Josh’s shoulder. “Due to some recent events, the board has decided to dismantle CAAD, stop all surveillance and other nonsense, and concentrate on getting our organization back on track. Josh Harrison will be a big part of our comeback.”

“Good to be here.” Josh addresses them with a nod, tries to study their faces. He sits in the empty chair.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Élan International’s executive creative director. We’ll be going over the grand opening as part of this