I hadn't taken more than two steps beyond the washroom's threshold when raised voices met my ears.
An alcove blocked sight of the ladies' room entrance from the abutting service corridor where the stilted conversation emanated, a door left ajar as if it'd been slammed and the latch hadn't caught. I had no intention of eavesdropping, but the sudden tension in their voices, the abrupt snarl like a ripcord being pulled on someone's anger, drew me short.
"—against the law. If you think I have any intention of standing here and listening to this, you have another thing coming. I'm going to contact our legal department right now and—."
That's Mr. Eoul, I realized, though I'd hadn't heard the man speak with such vitriol before. Despite the muffled noise coming from the kitchens, his words echoed in the corridor like the pops of distant gunfire.
"Go right ahead, Gregor, and spare me your puerile posturing," spoke the second voice—a voice I'd heard for the first time not a full hour past. Ms. Amoroth didn't shout as Mr. Eoul did, and yet her words carried with cold, unflinching apathy.
"You can't swoop in at the eleventh hour and take it out from under us!"
"But that's where you're wrong. You see, I can do...well, whatever I want." Amoroth laughed and my stomach writhed. "Your party was a bit premature it seems. Poor Gregor."
"The patent was set to finalize next week! How—?!"
"If you weren't aware, next week is next week and today is today, and as of today your fancy new...innovation is no longer yours." Heels clicked on the stone floor as Eoul sputtered. "It's a funny thing, how very quickly one can pass a new design through the patent office with a little bit of pocket change."
"You can't do this!"
"And yet I have. We've come full circle in this delightful conversation and now you're simply repeating yourself. This visit was a courtesy; you either pull the Magna-Chip and cease production or IMOR will fold under the impending lawsuit."
"This will bankrupt me!"
Hinges creaked, heels again snapping to attention. "That's not my concern."
"You conniving bitch!" Something solid—a chair, I assumed—struck a wall and toppled to the floor with a clatter. In contrast to the woman's more succinct steps, the heavy slapping of Eoul's feet sounded uncoordinated and feeble. "Do you think I'll just accept this? That I'll just lay down and take this blatant—."
"Your posturing is tiresome."
Ducking my head from the alcove, I could see Ms. Amoroth silhouetted in the light escaping the small conference room, her narrow countenance only partly illuminated, the visible angles of her face taut with a kind of vicious, self-satisfied humor that chilled my blood. Beyond her shoulders' rigid line, her shadow seemed to flare like a cloak hugging the sharp delineation between light and dark, and where the dark lingered, the woman's presence swelled.
"I'll see you ruined for this," Eoul spat. He hadn't left the room, but I could see him in the doorway, his paunchy face red and his pate slick with beaded perspiration. "Ruined, you hear me?!"
"Do be careful, Gregor, or they might not find your body."
"Is that a threat?!"
The woman scoffed as she turned—and her eyes landed upon me.
My heart relocated into my throat with a painful lurch, pulse throbbing in my ears, her gaze honed like that of a predatory cat spotting a lame bird in the grass. Eoul slammed the door and threw the hall back into the dim ambiance filtering through the lobby.
A slow smirk shaped the woman's mouth.
"—Grace!" came a call from the service exit. "I haven't all night for this—!"
Klau's withered bark drew the woman's attention to the corridor's end, to the very door I'd watched earlier where the caterers smoked their cigarettes. Her strange eyes left mine and I moved without thought, bolting from the alcove into the lobby proper, hurrying toward the ballroom and the voices within.
The particulars of what I'd just heard may have escaped me, but I thought myself clever enough to recognize danger when its black stare falls upon me.
They might not find your body.
Is that a threat?!
Tara had joined Rick and Mitch at the bar, the three ensconced in casual conversation as they waited for my return. Tara jolted when I wrapped my cold hand about hers and gave her arm a sharp tug. "Hey, ouch! What are you—?"
"We should leave," I said as I squeezed her fingers. "Now would be a good time to go."
Tara stared. It spoke of our bond that she didn't question my decision; she stared, then nodded and reached behind herself to take her clutch purse off the bar. "All right, boys, let's go."
"We're going to miss the presentation," Rick said with a nod indicating the stage. The overhead chandeliers dimmed as the presenters made to begin and the crowd ebbed. The frazzled bartender heaved a relieved sigh.
Not deigning to respond, Tara scoffed and looped my arm through hers, hand returning its grip to mine. "Come along, then. Got your things?"
I did not, in fact, have my things, so we stopped by the flimsy table so I could snatch my purse out from under the wrinkled cover and rush through the lobby archway. I glanced toward the service corridor as we passed, and though no one waited there—the woman vanished and the conference room's door still shut tight—my nerves refused to settle.
Beyond Verweald Plaza Hotel, the street thrummed with energy despite the waning hour and lack of daylight, traffic congesting the avenue, the haze of exhaust fumes leaving a sour taste in my mouth. I shuffled through my purse and went to hand the attending valet my ticket, when Tara caught my arm.
"Leave it," she said. "Just come with us in my car and I'll drop you off in the morning on my way to the hospital."
"How will I get back to my house?"
Tara shrugged. "You'll stay at my apartment tonight, of course."
"Of course." I shoved the ticket deeper into the bag's depth, fingers brushing by the soft, worn edges of The Inferno. We didn't have time to negotiate. "Let's go before I'm missed."
The valet went off to retrieve Tara's car and my sister kept her grip upon me when she leaned nearer, her breath fanning my cheek as she muttered, "So what happened? You look as if you might be sick."
I shook my head and swallowed the urge to panic. "I—later. We'll talk about it later."
"Do you want to go home?"
God yes. "No. Let's—let's have dinner, as you planned." I could do that for her. I could bear the anxiety and boredom for my long-suffering sister.
"All right."
Tara straightened and our conversation subsided. My heart raced and I refused to look back, remembering too well the weight of the woman's black stare, jasmine censing the air, the fragrance maligned by ash like a summer garden set ablaze. Lovely party, Gregor.
In our youth, my papé would tell Tara and me stories, stories about nameless fears that breathed quietly upon one's neck, fears that exist not as hyperboles, but as tangible things lurking in the corner of your eye. Mother would say, "Enough, Rene, you'll give them nightmares with this foolishness," and my grandfather would respond, "Don't worry so, Eleanor; it's just a bedtime story for mes fées." Mother later blamed those evening tales for my literary avarice, and though I didn't believe what Rene told us, sometimes I recalled his eyes—the same eyes Tara and I shared with him and our father—when he'd grumble and quote, "On n'est point toujours une bête pour l'avoir été quelquefois."
Being a fool sometimes does not make one a fool all the time.
Perpetually disquieted and foolish in egregious proportions, I doubted what I'd seen, what I'd heard, and yet I bit my lip and kept my eyes forward, putting distance between myself and the furious, snarling face of mild-mannered Gregor Eoul because I'd rather work a dozen corporate launch parties before letting the man know I'd witnessed their argument.
Ruined, you hear me?!
IMOR had lost their patent, and the details on how that misfortune came about sounded dubious in the extreme; greased palms and backroom transactions, bribery and no small amount of intimidation. Did she really threaten to kill Eoul, or am I dramatizing the situation? Why did she look at me like that?
The car arrived and Tara shooed Rick from the passenger's door, all but pushing me into the front seat before claiming her spot behind the wheel. For his part, Rick shrugged and sat with Mitch, chatting once more, though I paid what they said little mind as I leaned into the leather seat's backing, eyes shut against the piercing glare of city lights.
In dragging increments, Verweald Plaza Hotel receded in the rear-view mirror. With it went the frigid, needling feelers of dread and once the night's warmth settled over me again, I felt at once relieved to be gone and silly for fleeing. Was I so starved for excitement in my tepid routine I invented conflict where none existed? Eoul had argued with that woman and, yet, perhaps I'd missed something, some nuance to their discussion explaining their supposed antipathy and threatening jibes.
"Tara," I said aloud, eyes on my sister's profile, the angles of her nose and cheekbones exaggerated in the red taillights' glow. "Do you remember those stories papé used to tell us?"
"No?" She glanced in my direction—then swore at a minivan swerving into our lane. "Or—maybe, now that you mention it. Those fairy tales about monsters who didn't look like monsters? Face-stealers and devils and whatnot?"
"Yes." I studied my hands, the thin, chipped coat of polish on my nails. "Did you ever believe any of them?"
"No. They were just ghost stories he told us to goad Mother."
The car rolled to a stop at the next light and, behind me, Mitch chuckled at something Rick said. "Yeah," I acceded, though I couldn't shake the memory from my mind, couldn't forget that woman with her unruffled business attire and the click of her heels like tumblers sliding into place, cracking open a safe to something weak, vulnerable, and now wholly exposed. Being a fool doesn't mean you're a fool all the time. "You're right; they're just stories."