He nods without looking at me.
“Thanks again for the drinks last night.”
“Glad you enjoyed them,” he says, still not looking up from the spreadsheet he’s studying.
He doesn’t elaborate, so I begin to walk through his calendar for the day. “You’re all set for your Tuesday meeting with your team. You have lunch with Mason Sullivan at noon at Quince regarding your business plan. If you don’t have any changes, I’ll get that bound and ready. Your afternoon is full, and I’ve marked you busy from two thirty to four to return phone calls.”
“Thank you, Ms. Woods.”
He still hasn’t looked up, so I turn to leave. He’s in a bad mood today—like most days. As I open the door, I hear, “Oh, I almost forgot.” I turn, and he’s pointing to a box by the door. “That was delivered to you this morning.”
“Okay, thanks.” I pick up the lightweight box and carry it out to my desk. Before I tackle it, I take a big swig of my mocha. “Ahh.”
“I saw the piece about your boyfriend,” my officemate, Heather, says. “I guess he moved on.”
“They always do,” I say.
Heather is the executive assistant to Jackson’s chief financial officer—the fourth one he’s had since I’ve been here. We get along okay and will occasionally grab lunch together. I made the mistake of telling her about Bobby, and she shared it with the entire building. Lesson learned. If you don’t want anyone to know your business, don’t mention it.
Pulling the scissors from the top drawer of my desk, I cut the seal on the box, and immediately the wretched smell hits me. Before I can even discern what’s inside, I slam the box shut. The overwhelming stench fills the office.
“What the hell is that?” Heather asks. Her face is scrunched up, and we’re both breathing through our mouths.
“I have no idea.”
I carefully pick up the box, walk it to the elevator, and ride down to the lobby. The smell is still escaping, and it’s just awful. I want to vomit.
As the doors open, I see our security guard. “Tommy, can you call maintenance? We got a package that I think is full of dog poop. Can you have them fumigate the executive level and the elevator?”
“Dog poop?” He cocks his head to the side.
“Yes, someone sent me a package. I’m going to open it outside.”
“Don’t! That could be a bomb! Put it down and back away.”
I’m already mostly outside, so I set it on the sidewalk and look at him, confused. Why would anyone send me a poop bomb?
When I walk back into the lobby, Tommy is on the phone to 9-1-1. He gives them our address, and I watch him pull the fire alarm. It’s barely eight, and people are still arriving. It’s quickly chaos.
He stands with me as we look at the box. “The police are on their way.”
He moves right into leadership mode and keeps repeating, “This is not a drill. Please leave the building.”
I look at him in panic. “This may have been a threat to Mr. Graham.”
As the crowd grows outside, I watch Mr. Graham exit the elevator with his bodyguard at his side.
People are piling out of the building. Some seem thrilled to have a free morning, while others are clearly perturbed.
Mr. Graham walks up to me. “What the hell?” he says. “First, our office smells like shit, and now this?”
“The box you gave me was filled with something disgusting. Tommy thinks it might be a bomb.”
“Sir,” Tommy interjects. “The box was filled with manure, and it can be used in bombs.”
A uniformed officer pushes us away from the doors. “Please step back.”
Mr. Graham looks at me. “Why would anyone want to send you a bomb?”
I shake my head as the police come racing up in a van that says Bomb Squad.
People give them a wide berth, and an officer approaches the three of us.
“Tell us what you know,” Mr. Graham’s bodyguard prods for the police.
I walk them through what happened. More of Mr. Graham’s security team arrives, and they usher him away. Great. At least he’ll be safe. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine in the superhero costume hiding under my clothes.
The bomb team pushes us farther away from the door. “Don’t leave,” one of them tells me.
I nod and shiver against the cold. I left my coat upstairs.
The news vans have arrived and are setting up. This is not the kind of publicity Mr. Graham is looking for. If I have a job after this is over, it’ll be a miracle.
I watch the bomb team examine the box from afar. They seem to agree on something, but I’m not sure what it is until I see a robot wheeling out to the sidewalk.
The crowd begins to grow. The police have cleared out the entire city block.
An officer returns to drill me with questions. “Has Mr. Graham received any threatening letters or other mail?”
The head of Mr. Graham’s security, Jim Adelson, materializes next to me. He drapes a coat over my shoulders.
“Thanks, Jim.”
“We’ve received a few small threats in recent months, but we’ve passed them along to Detective Lenning,” Jim informs the officer.
“Tell me more about how you got the package,” the officer prods.
“It was delivered to Mr. Graham’s office, addressed to me, and he pointed it out when I arrived.”
“Why didn’t you call the police immediately?” the officer presses.
“It never occurred to me that it could be anything other than a stinky box.”
“A stinky box?”
“The stench was strong, so I just shut the box and held it as tightly as I could while I took it down in the elevator.”
“How do
