The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Thirteen

Vivian advanced on him, green eyes blazing. "Take off the hat."

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock feigned innocence in one last ditch effort to throw her off.

It didn't work.

Lips compressed, Vivian shoved her way into the tiny closet, squeezing between him and the fire alarm panel, and pulled the door shut. There was hardly enough room for one person, let alone two, and she trod on his feet until he widened his stance to make room for her. Behind him, the metal ladder dug into his back.

"Take off the hat," she repeated. Cold fury coated each word.

Sherlock pretended to consider the demand. "Hmmm...no. I don't think I will." Like he'd just let her order him about. He matched her glare with one of his own.

The air grew thick and charged between them like right before an electrical storm. Sherlock's pulse began to pound, echoing in his temples, but for once there wasn't pain. Vivian let out an angry hiss. Her arm snaked up, and she ripped the hat off, looking like she wanted to tear his head off with it.

His hair tumbled loose, and her expression grew even more livid. "You bastard. What the hell are you playing at?"

A wave of anger rolled through him at her nerve. "You're one to talk, Miranda."

Rosy color suffused Vivian's cheeks, and her eyes turned to slits. If she'd been ill earlier at lunch, there was no sign of it now. Of course, that could have been another one of her lies. He leaned forward, away from the ladder's sharp angles. The movement had him looming over her, but she didn't appear the least bit intimidated.

Her chin lifted, nose nearly knocking into his. "Why are you here?"

Did she really need him to spell it out for her? His lip curled. "John came by to drop off the scarf you left at the morgue. Imagine his surprise when he discovered there was no one here by that name. The only person who fit your description was Miranda Blythe."

"So?"

His jaw clenched. She was being deliberately obtuse. "You're lying about your identity," he said, voice low and accusing.

"Of course I am, you numpty."

Sherlock stared. He'd expected her to concoct some elaborate lie, not agree and then insult him.

"Do you honestly think I just waltz into a company and tell them the truth?" A saccharine smile twisted her mouth. "Yes, hello everyone. My name is Vivian Walker, and I'm here to assess your productivity, after which I'll decide if you'll retain your job. Don't mind me."

Understanding crashed over Sherlock like an icy wave. Miranda Blythe was an alias given to Vivian by the consulting company she worked for. It allowed her to safely gather information from her coworkers who remained blissfully unaware they were being assessed. He frowned down at her. "You're a corporate spy."

An eye roll. "I'm more like a secret shopper working from the inside."

That sounded like a corporate spy to him. Sherlock's mind flashed back to Charles Wheeler. "Does the CEO know?"

"No one knows. I was hired by Cubic's investors to assess the health of the company and to determine whether their funds are being used wisely."

"And your Facebook page?"

The scowl on her face deepened. "It's fake. Every photo. Every friend. Every post. All created by the company who handles my contracts."

That made sense. Employers nowadays scoured the internet for information on potential employees. Her social media presence would satisfy the curiosity of her fellow coworkers and add greater verisimilitude to her cover story.