Dennis Finch, the guy who orbited her like a satellite and brought her coffee every morning, jumped in immediately.
"Hailey Chavez, we're all coworkers here. Do you have to be so harsh?"
Dennis puffed up his neck. "She's got a real situation going on. You're free during the holiday anyway. What's the big deal about covering one shift? Show a little compassion, would you?"
I let out a cold laugh and locked eyes with him.
"Dennis, if you're so worried about your precious little bestie, why don't you cover her shifts yourself?"
"Two days over the long weekend, six hundred bucks a day in overtime. That's twelve hundred dollars, all yours. Go file the request with HR."
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"
The second he realized it meant giving up his own holiday, Dennis's face turned the color of a bruised plum. He stammered for a while, then shrank back behind his monitor.
Nobody said a word.
With no one left to fight her battle, Hope clenched her jaw and stalked back to her seat.
As she turned, something vicious flickered behind her eyes.
If she couldn't take it by force, she'd find another way.
The first three days of the long weekend passed with eerie calm.
Then, on the afternoon of the third day, just before clocking out, I deliberately took a trip to the restroom at the far end of the hallway and lingered for a good fifteen minutes.
When I pushed open the office door and walked back to my desk, a cold smile tugged at my lips.
Sitting dead center on my desk was a heavy ring of brass-colored spare keys to the company warehouse.
Tucked beneath them was a sticky note in obnoxious pink, scrawled in Hope's signature cutesy handwriting: "Thanks for agreeing to cover my shifts after all, Hailey! You're the best! I left the keys here for you. Mwah~"
I glanced over at Hope's workstation. Computer off. Desk spotless. She was long gone.
She'd dropped the key and the note, snapped a photo, and figured that was enough to fake a handover.
I didn't make a scene. I slipped the key into my coat pocket.
When you nail someone, you weld the evidence shut. One shot. One kill.
I walked to the window and looked down.
On the curb outside the building's front entrance, Hope stood in oversized sunglasses and a flowy resort dress, one hand on a pink rolling suitcase, the other tapping at her phone as she waited for her rideshare.
I headed downstairs immediately.