Читать книгу Blindfolded Innocence - Alessandra Torre, Alessandra Torre - Страница 13

Seven

Tuesday, 10:00 a.m.

A file folder sat in the center of my desk. I walked into my office and stopped short, staring at it. I instantly knew it didn’t belong. It was red. Files on my desk were usually in the blue or green folders that were used for civil litigation or corporate filings. I picked it up hesitantly and thumbed through it. Immediately, I could tell it was a divorce file—Custody and Division of Assets were prominent tabs. I closed the file and tapped it on my desk, thinking, What to do...

I could call Ancient Dorothy, tell her that a file had been misdelivered, but that was just silly. I was less than twenty feet from the East Wing. I could just walk over there and deliver it to the first secretary I saw. It would take less than a minute, and then the file would be properly handled. It was the obvious and responsible course of action.

Except that Broward doesn’t want you going to the East Wing, my conscience nagged with a know-it-all tone. What am I, five? I countered, getting irritated at my conscience. I’m perfectly capable of returning a file without getting into any trouble.

Decision made, I grabbed the file and strode out of my office, ducking past Sheila and practically jogging past the remaining open doors. I felt as if the red folder was a giant Look at Me! sign advertising my destination. Which, of course, it kind of was. I tucked the folder under my arm and willed myself to be invisible. My concern was unnecessary. No one even looked up, everyone absorbed in the ever-present pile of work. Broward being out of town didn’t mean the presses stopped.

I took a last-minute detour into the restrooms located just to the right of the elevators and appraised myself in the mirror above the sink. The light in the bathroom was muted, but it was bright enough to show me that it was not my best day. Whether intentional or not, my knowledge that Broward would not be in this week had caused me to dress down and not put as much effort into my appearance. I was wearing khakis, a pressed white button-down shirt and one of my new pairs of sensible, low, open-toed heels. My hair was, as always, up in a bun, and I had opted for glasses instead of my normal contacts. Some people think of glasses as sexy. Those people haven’t seen my glasses. Coke bottles would be a more apt description.

I had neglected to put on makeup, which meant I had pale, untouched skin and dark circles under my eyes. I knelt and opened up the sink cabinet and fished around behind a tampon box, reaching into the dark depths and feeling blindly until my hand bumped against what I was looking for: my small cloth makeup bag.

My first day I had packed an emergency makeup kit, one that included mascara, lip gloss and concealer. I had stored it there in case I ever needed to freshen up before a big meeting, or hadn’t had time to do my face before work. I sent a silent thank-you up to God for blessing me with such incredible foresight, and hauled myself back up to a standing position.

Three minutes later I looked reasonably presentable. I still had my thick glasses, but I had long, plump lashes behind them and my lips had some color. The dark shadows were still present, but minimized by the concealer.

I grabbed the red file folder, opened the door and scolded my nervous butterflies. Then I straightened my shoulders, pulled open the heavy bathroom door and headed for the East Wing.