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My face falls. “What witchcraft are you talking?”
Dax shakes his head and sits down. He’s a reserved fella who loves writing words more than using them.
“Interns! Where you at?” Three local college kids stand. They overdress for this job. The rest of us are in hoodies. I wear a button-down and jeans usually, but they’re always in business formal attire, as if it’s some archaic ritual handed down from their parents.
“Collect all the copies. I don’t care whose office, gather them all. Monica will provide you with the list of printers from IT.”
Monica groans. She hates IT. She slept with one of the geeks years ago and he always brings her strange tiny sculptures made of old wire casings.
I pull her aside. “Monica, my perfect and efficient assistant, can you call IT and find out who did this? Where did the print command originate from?”
“Yes, suh.” She walks away and puts her middle finger in the air.
* * *
“Do you have answers? Who gets late night scut work?” My money’s on the vidiots. Three dudes who create our video and social media content. They think they’re hysterical—I find them mildly amusing. But depending on how many people have seen this stupid prank, it might be damaging.
IT is in my office, on my laptop when I return from the bathroom.
“Got it.”
“Who?”
Monica peers in, sees her suitor, and turns tail to Dax’s office. The IT guy swivels my laptop to me. “Not from here.”
“Are you sure? Like someone hacked our system?” Jesus. So many protocols and paperwork for a dark breech. Shit. I hate paperwork. A lot.
“No. Someone printed from your IP address. You can print to any printer in our network if you have the right password. I suggest you change yours.”
“I’m so confused. And trust me, there’s no way anyone knows my password.”
He pushes my laptop towards me and points to a location on a map. “It pinged off a laptop in this network.”
No fucking way.
“Chicago? Holy fuck. Can you tell if it’s the fucking annoying woman?” I’m irritated but impressed.
“If you mean Bette Miller, then yes.” The IT guy tucks his shirt in and stands up.
I’m fucking floored. My latest prank was external, but this was seen by the people we work with and possibly my fucking COO out of Boston. Fuck my life.
Rage fills me and I explode. “MONICA!” She runs in. “Do you know how much I fucking hate that woman?”
“I do.”
“Did you tell her my password?”
“Because she and I talk all the time. No. But IhateBette14 isn’t hard to figure out if she’s got an IT guy on her end who cribbed your password.” She puts her hands on her hips.
I punch pillows so they slam against windows. I pick up the discarded Nerf gun and fire off a twenty-dart round, spraying the window between my office and Dax’s while screaming, “SHE WILL PAY FOR WHAT SHE’S DONE.”
I cannot believe her. This is a professional woman. Someone I’m supposed to respect, and she shoves my name on an eggplant emoji. What the fuck? I’ll apologize to the building while setting the bus on fire as she rolls under it.
Bette Miller’s the worst, most irritating human on the planet. No one has ever gotten under my skin the way she does, and I’ve never even met her in real life. It’s been all phone calls and emails, so I’ve never seen this witchy woman. She always uses a stupid avatar for Zoom and somehow has avoided social media. Granted, I have lurker accounts, so you can’t find me, either, but it pisses me the hell off she’s doing it, too. There’s no way someone in this business doesn’t have socials. My reasons for hiding are personal. Why ya hiding, Bette? She’s a ghost and I’m done being haunted.
Dax opens the door and stares at me. “Are you done, Die Hard? It’s funny. I give her props.” I have one dart left and hit Dax square between the eyes.
He stands there in silence. I eventually laugh and say, “You should probably get back to work.”
