Page 6 of Buried in the Woods Below

“Five years.”

“In those five years, has anyone complained about me?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Any client issues?”

“No.”

“And who do you put on your toughest projects?”

He sighs. “You.”

“So, don’t you think it’s unfair to suspend me when I’ve done nothing wrong?”

“Yes, that would be unfair. But this…this is different. We need time to investigate. We can’t return to business as usual.”

“I’m not saying go back to—”

He places a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a terrific consultant, Charlotte. Think of this as a good thing. I looked at your file—you haven’t taken PTO since you started here. This will be a great opportunity for you to get some well-deserved R & R. See some friends. Spend time with your family.”

“And what about Big Brothers Big Sisters? Can I still work with them?”

He shakes his head.

I search his eyes for an opening, but I’m met with steely resolve. I’m tempted to unleash, to explain the fifteen reasons he’s wrong, to elucidate everything they’ll miss when I’m gone—but as my mom says, “Sometimes you have to live to fight another day.”

“Okay, I understand,” I say.

He returns to his desk and places his glasses back on his face, pleased with himself. “Great, we’ll be in touch in a month.”

As I exit, I mumble under my breath, “And that is how the shit sandwich is served.”

Chapter 3

I peel out of the parking garage of my office building and onto Randolph Street, taking my anger out on the accelerator as my nails dig into the steering wheel. I always thought they might suspend me, but part of me believed they’d have the guts to stand up for me. What a bunch of cowards.

I fly onto Lake Shore Drive and zoom past the tired commuters meandering down the road. The late-afternoon sun beats on my left cheek—guaranteed sunburn—while Lake Michigan glistens to my right, big enough to be an ocean. I steal a glimpse of beachgoers soaking in the sun and playing volleyball. Nothing beats Chicago in the summer; it’s short, but the impermanence makes it easier to savor.

As I drive, my mind replays my conversation with Tim, hunting for the spot where I went wrong. What could I have said differently? Did I talk too much, or not enough? What did Vivek tell them? How could I have played that better? The questions bubble up like a boiling pot of water, steam pressing against the lid.

I hit the phone button on my car’s console and call my only release valve. My mom will know what to do—she always does.

“Hi, Mom,” I say as she answers.

“Hi, sweetheart. Happy Friday. How’d it go?” Her polished Boston accent is a melody to my ears.

“Ugh.”

“That well, huh?”

“They suspended me.”

A gasp on the other end. “They didn’t.”

“They did. Won’t even let me do my pro bono work.”

“Unbelievable. What was their rationale?”