A podcaster has decided to ruin my life, so I’m buying a chicken.
I make plans for this chicken as I sit in my cubicle at Walter J. Brown Investment Services, waiting to be fired. I stopped pretending to work two hours ago. Now I’m just staring at recipes on my phone, dreaming about sticking lemons up a chicken’s butt.
It’s an apology chicken, for my boyfriend.
It’s like that engagement chicken. The one women make to persuade their boyfriends to propose? Except this is a “sorry I didn’t tell you I’m the prime suspect in my friend’s murder” chicken.
Apology chicken, for short. “Lucy?”
I look up from my phone to see my boss standing at the door of his office. He adjusts his tie and clears his throat.
“Could you come in for a minute?” he asks.
Finally. They clearly decided to fire me this morning. Glass office walls are a strange choice always, but especially when you have a meeting with three other managers, and none of them can stop glancing over at your assistant, whom they are clearly discussing, for the entire conversation.
“Sure.” I slide my phone into my pocket and follow him into his immaculate office.
I’m struck by how pristine it is, even after nearly a year of working for him. There’s nothing on the beige walls. No boxes piled in a corner. The desk is completely bare except for the monitor and the keyboard.
Every evening, when Jerry Howell walks out of his office, he leaves absolutely no evidence that he was ever there. He probably missed his calling as a serial killer.
Of course, he’s only in his midforties. Plenty of time to take up a new hobby.
I sit down in the chair on the other side of his desk and try to put a pleasant expression on my face. One that doesn’t betray the fact that I was calmly thinking about him murdering people.
(A side effect of being accused of murder is that you spend a lot of time thinking about it. You get used to it.)
Jerry reaches up to touch his hair, and then quickly folds his hands on top of his desk. He does that a lot. I think he used to play with his hair, but he’s balding now, and it’s cut very close to his scalp.
“I’m sorry, Lucy, but we have to let you go,” he says, to the surprise of no one.
I nod.
“We’re downsizing, unfortunately.” He looks at a spot just past my shoulder instead of at my face. “Having assistants double up. Chelsea is going to assist both me and Raymond. I’m sorry.”
Chelsea’s really getting the short end of the stick here. Double the work, all because of a true crime podcast.
“I understand.” I get to my feet. Jerry looks relieved that I’m not going to make a scene.
Through the ill-advised glass wall of the office, I can see a security guard already standing at my desk. It’s standard procedure when someone is fired, but I can’t help but notice that all three of the assistants who sit in my cubicle pod have fled.
I guess we’re not getting “sorry you were fired for being a suspected murderer” drinks.
My desk is not as clean as Jerry’s, and I have to take a minute to gather up my mug, water bottle, purse, and several tubes of lip balm. The security guard hovers the entire time.
He marches me through the now-silent office to the elevator while everyone either watches or pretends not to see. Chelsea looks pissed.
I step into the elevator. The door slides shut.
The security guard leans closer to me with a grin. One of his front teeth overlaps the other.
“So, did you do it? Did you kill her?” I sigh. “I don’t know.”
“Seriously? That’s the truth?”
The elevator door opens again with a ding. I step out and look at him over my shoulder.
“The truth doesn’t matter.”
