Page 5 of Buried in the Woods Below

Tim’s office door snaps open, jarring me from my thoughts. Red runs through his chubby face. He looks over horn-rimmed glasses, clenches his jaw, and beckons me with his stubby hand. No hello, no smile.

Not a good sign.

“Have a seat, Charlotte,” he says as he flops into his plush leather desk chair. Tim speaks more in growls than in words. His suit is rumpled, his tie loosened. His gut protrudes, the product of too many steak dinners on clients’ expense accounts. He looks like he’s had a rough day.

Another bad sign.

I slide into my chair and sit ramrod straight, trying to project as much confidence as I can. I brush a stray chunk of hair from my face and paste on the warmest smile I can muster. My knee throttles up and down like an oil derrick. I clutch it to stop the drilling.

He doesn’t acknowledge me. He just slumps in his chair, reading a document—presumably, the report of what happened. Or what people think happened. The honks and rumbles of Friday traffic seep through the double-paned glass, and I peek out the windows. The sun sinks, a reminder that fall is right around the corner. And a metaphor for my career.

A giant flip board hangs over the couch, showing the number thirty-three. That’s the number of Fortune 500 companies in Chicago that Winthrop & Co. currently serves. Thirty-three out of thirty-five. I snagged two of those companies with the work I did on artificial intelligence. Tim says he’s not retiring until he’s bagged all thirty-five. Maybe he thinks my incident set him back to thirty-two.

After what feels like an hour—but is actually thirty-two seconds (yes, I counted)—Tim rips off his glasses and tosses them on his desk. He massages his bushy eyebrows and recessed temples and looks at me with bloodshot eyes. I throw these signals into my mind’s social calculator, and it spits out a simple answer: You’re screwed.

“First off, let me apologize on behalf of myself and The Firm for any distress this situation has caused you.” I note he says, “The Firm.” That’s what everyone at Winthrop calls it, as though we’re the only one—only Winthrop. As he speaks, his hands move in mechanical gestures, like something he learned at a corporate leadership seminar. “We have zero tolerance for misconduct, and we want everyone here to feel welcome and safe. You’re one of our top consultants. I’ve had multiple clients reach out to gush about you, and no one’s matched your charitable work. I see a bright future for you here at Winthrop. Before this incident, you were on the fast track to partner.”

“Yes, I know, and thank you. I appreciate that.”

I actually don’t appreciate it. Tim’s handing me what we call in the business a “shit sandwich”: Start with something positive, slip in something negative, and close with something nice. It’s standard practice when delivering bad news. I’ve used it myself—with a few exes. “You’re an amazing guy, and anyone would be lucky to be with you. That said, we need to break up. You’ll be much happier without me. Good luck.”

Tim shifts in his seat, and I brace myself.

“Now, I don’t have to tell you that our entire business model rests on the intelligence and professionalism of our consultants.”

“Yes, I’m fully aware of that, but—”

“Let me finish, please. I’ve read the report. You claim Vivek is responsible for what occurred. That’s your position?”

I let out a snort. “It’s not my position. It’s what happened.”

“And you believe you handled the matter appropriately?” Every question he asks is leading, like a prosecutor tying up a case.

“I think it was proportional, given the situation.”

“I see.” More temple and eyebrow rubbing.

I lean forward, my voice steady. “Look, I know Vivek is the top rainmaker in the Minneapolis office—or maybe the entire U.S.—but integrity still counts for something.”

Tim’s forehead creases, and he puffs out his chest. “No one is saying that. No one receives special privileges at Winthrop.” He points to a poster with The Firm’s values that hangs on the wall behind me and reads the third bullet: Ethics in the conduct of our work cannot and will not be compromised. “We are taking this extremely seriously. But Vivek denies everything, and the fact remains that the way you handled the situation wasn’t ideal.”

My voice threatens to rise into a shrill octave that won’t help my case. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Tim exhales sharply. “Come on, Charlotte. There’s always a choice, isn’t there?”

I open my mouth, but his expression tells me nothing I say will matter. He’s made his decision.

“So, what are you saying?”

He rises and stares out the window at a tour boat puttering down the river, stuffed with gawking tourists. For a moment he looks like he’s considering whether, if he jumped right now, he’d make it to the deck.

Without turning back, he says, “I’m going to have to suspend you.”

I rise from my chair, levitated by anger. I saw this coming, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating—if anything, it makes it worse. “Me? You’re suspending me?”

He turns and crosses his arms. “The Firm is suspending both of you. I don’t know what happened in that conference room, but until we’ve done a proper investigation, I’m not comfortable with either of you serving our clients.”

I take a deep breath and start the pitch I rehearsed last night when I realized this was inevitable. “Tim, how long have I worked here?”