Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Scissors.
I heard you the first time.
Scissors.
This isn’t a haircut appointment. I can’t just put them on the desk for emergency use!
Can.
Can’t.
Can.
Zuriel’s voice quivers as he questions, “Is something wrong?”
Yes.
Hush.
“Wrong things are what I’m here to find and fix, Mr. Frankford.” I silently study his shuffling feet. The continued tugging of his tie. His inability to maintain eye contact. “Please, come in and shut the door behind you.”
There’s a reluctant nod that precedes his following of my instructions.
Add that particular action to the other non-verbal anxiety inducing indicators and the unsettling feeling presented by my inner orc and the idea to have a weapon within immediate reach goes from a good precaution to an unquestionable decision.
I nonchalantly open the top drawer immediately spotting the scissors I thought were an odd tool to have just lounging beside the paperclips. Zuriel’s crossing the room movements unexpectedly slow down prompting me to appear as though I’m searching for something as opposed to preparing for an attack.
Pulling the black fountainpen out of the drawer is done at the same time I sigh, “Do you know how many of these I misplace in a day?”
The joke paired to the tone seem to instill a sense of ease.
“Either that or someone is stealing them,” the light, cordial conversation continues on a lean back in my seat, drawer left conveniently open, “but stealing pens from HR seems silly, doesn’t it? Why not just request the type of pens I use?”
Zuriel grunts a small laugh upon the lowering of himself into the chair. “That would be the smarter decision, Miss Pennington.”
“Not everyone thinks these things through I guess.” Pulling the nearby notepad over, I place the pen I don’t actually plan to use on top, doing my best to further create the façade that I am. “Let’s start from the beginning, Mr. Frankford. How long have you been with the company?”
“Um…,” his hands fold themselves in his lap, “just a few months.”
“How many exactly?”
Zuriel’s washed out beige shaded face scrunches. “I uh…I’m not sure.”
And the communication strikes continue.
Lack of eye contact.
Time buying techniques.
Inability to answer a simple question.
Not good.
Not good at all.
“You have my file,” he combatively begins, trying to gain control of the conversation. “Doesn’t it list my date of hire?”
“It does.”
“Then why are you asking me that?”
There goes another strike.
Going on the defensive.
The pen I grabbed for show is slyly slipped back into my grip for clutching. “Mr. Frankford, do you recall how long your training for your current position in HR was?”
Another crinkle of his forehead is showcased. “Why? Do you feel I didn’t get enough to do my job properly?”
“I feel as though you’re evading my questions.”
His thumbs begin a slow nervous tapping against one another.
“How long were you trained?”
“Was it not long enough?”
“How can I answer your question when you’ve yet to answer mine?”
The tapping increases in speed.
Intensity.
Instinct encourages me to casually spin my chair a little closer to the open drawer, giving my hand the swiftest access possible.
“Mr. Frankford, when you were hired, did you possess any previous experience in human resources?”
“Is this information missing from my file?”
“I would appreciate if you would answer my questions rather than ask your own, Mr. Frankford.”
He scoots a little closer to the edge of his seat. “I would have no problem answering them if I knew why I was being asked to begin with, Miss Pennington.”
“Because I am asking them.”
The hardness in my expression causes him to audibly swallow.
“Your record indicates that prior to joining the team here at DL & Co. you were working at a local bank in which you dealt primarily with addressing counterfeit checks. Is that correct?”
A single suck of his teeth is given alongside his nodding.
“This tells me you have experience in being able to spot a forgery.”
“Yes.”
“This also indicates that you might have experience in being able to create one as well.”
The accusation ceases all of his movements.
“However, if you did possess such a skill, one would assume you’d take a position at another financial institution—once you’d finish mastering the art on petty checks, of course—not join the human resources branch of a multibillion-dollar jewelry company where you primarily deal with minor complaints and employee critiques and arranging trainings for a small group of individuals.”
Not even a blink occurs.
“And if you did choose to work in the human resources department of such a company while possessing such skills, the question would then be why? What is it you would be looking to gain? Or…quite possibly…what is it you’re looking to destroy?”
An unfortunate hissing sound breaks free from Zuriel at the same time he lunges a hand across the desk. His swift attack is met by an even swifter counter. The pair of scissors from the open drawer are promptly planted through his hand into the wood unexpectedly pinning him in place. Pointed teeth are bared on the repeated catlike noise mere seconds before his other palm attempts the same action as his first. This time, the fountainpen I had been fiddling with cuts through his boney appendage, fastening him to the furniture in a similar fashion. More grumbles of pain pump through the room, yet my movements—guided by a connection that I now know is my orc side—shift onto the offense. Rather than wait for him to strike for a third time, I grab hold of his tie. Violently yank him downward so that his face hits the solid surface, creating an almost comical thud. Lastly, I shove a hunk of the fabric into the desk drawer and slam it shut, using my knee to keep it that way.