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The man behind the desk checked his computer. “Which department is he in?”
I cleared my throat. “Custodial.” I spun the silver ring on my thumb.
The man looked up and his eyebrows drew closer together. “Excuse me?”
“He’s a janitor here,” I explained, and raised the brown paper bag I’d grabbed before I’d left home. “I’m his daughter. He left his lunch on the counter.”
“Hold on a second,” he said and picked up the phone.
Don’t call my father. He’ll just send me away.
But as the man waited with the phone next to his ear, I curled my hands into fists next to my sides. Finally, I breathed a sigh of relief when he hung up.
“No one’s picking up in the janitors’ lunchroom. You can leave it here with me.”
I forced a frown and puckered my lips. “It’s tuna. It’s been sitting on the counter for a while. I really should get it upstairs into a fridge.”
He tilted his head, as though wondering if I considered him stupid or something. My hands clenched at my sides, my fingernails pressing painfully into the fleshy part of my hand. I wasn’t above using fake tears to get me past the guard. But before I could summon the nerve, another call rang through and the guard picked up the phone.
“Security,” he answered. After a pause, he continued, “Luke Crawford’s baseball was stolen? Yes, I can get those names for you. Let me just…”
I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation because, from the corner of my eye, the elevator doors had just opened and I seized the opportunity. I ran toward the doors and slid through just as the guard shouted, “Hey!”
When the two other occupants in the elevator turned to look at me, I smiled. “I forgot my pen at the security desk. I’ll just grab it on my way out.”
If my laugh sounded a bit hysterical, they didn’t mention it. I faced the front of the elevator and inhaled deeply.
I wasn’t sure which floor the janitor’s lunch room was, but I figured I’d ask the receptionist on the twelfth floor since that was the one the occupants had pressed.
When the doors opened and they walked past me, I stepped toward the twelfth-floor receptionist. She wore a bright yellow dress and a warm smile.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, please. I’m looking for the janitorial lunch room.” I held up the brown paper bag again, hoping this time it would be more useful.
“One minute…” she looked down at a laminated piece of paper taped to her desk. “That’s on the seventh floor.”
“Thank you.” I smiled in relief and turned back toward the elevators.
“Oh, Mr. Crawford, hold on a second,” the receptionist called behind me.
Mr. Crawford! Oh, god. No! Please, just let me get on this elevator.
I promise I will go to church and stop cussing so much.
I pressed the elevator button repeatedly until I thought it would break, but the doors remained closed.
Footsteps approached and I racked my brain for an excuse to explain my presence here.
Meeting? No.
Lost? No.
Looking for a good real estate investment? No.
Dammit!
The rustle of fabric indicated he was only a few feet away.
