P.S. You’re Intolerable: Chapter 12

I WAS LOSING MY mind.

“Gaslighting” was thrown around all too often. It wasn’t part of my vernacular, but there was no other term for what was happening—unless I actually had lost touch with reality.

In the film where the term had originated, a husband slowly drove his wife mad by adjusting the brightness of the gas lamps in their home and persistently denying her reality.

I had a stack of Catherine’s handwritten schedules in my drawer. Each one was one inch shorter than the paper Daniel put on my desk every morning.

At first, I hadn’t noticed. I’d been so thrown off by a new person sitting across from me I hadn’t paid attention to the measurements of the paper I’d been given. But from the very beginning, I’d had a feeling of wrongness I hadn’t been able to shake.

It had taken me until the second week of Catherine’s absence to figure out what it was. The fucking paper was different.

Daniel had denied it. He claimed to be using Catherine’s notebook. All evidence had proved his claims, but it was impossible.

And Catherine had been no help. She’d taken far too long to respond to simple emails, and when she finally had, it had been to back up Daniel’s story.

So, I was either going insane, or Daniel was fucking with me.

If this was some sort of corporate espionage, it was cleverly insidious. My thoughts were preoccupied with the damn paper. Even when I was out of the office, something would trigger my brain and I’d wind up thinking about it.

I stared down at the paper Daniel had just slid onto my desk with shaking hands. Next to it was the stack of schedules Catherine had given me during her tenure here.

“Do you notice a difference?” I asked calmly.

He clutched his hands in front of him, but it did nothing to alleviate his shakes. “Yes. I see the one I gave you is longer than the others.”

“Right.” I held my hand out. “Give me the notebook.”

He placed it on my palm and jumped back like I was a snake about to strike. His fear was uncalled for since I’d been nothing but civil to him since he’d started. I wasn’t some dictator who threw my weight and power around. I was too self-aware for that. I did, however, expect my employees to show their work the same level of care and precision I did. All too often, I was disappointed.

I opened the notebook, pausing at Catherine’s handwritten name on the inside cover. This was undoubtedly hers, but when I laid the schedules she’d given me inside, they did not match up.

This needed to end now. I refused to go another day without getting to the bottom of this.

I looked up at Daniel. “I need your desk. Take your laptop to the break room until I’m finished.”

He nodded vigorously and practically sprinted from my office. He’d need to toughen up if he wanted a permanent job at this level. I hadn’t even been mean to the kid this morning. Jesus.

I sat down at Catherine’s desk and opened a drawer. Everything was orderly, which I expected from her. At the back, there was an unopened box of tampons. I’d started to bypass, but something scratched at the back of my mind.

Catherine had been pregnant when she’d started working for me. She hadn’t needed tampons…so why were they in her drawer?

I grabbed the box and shook it next to my ear. Closed and sealed, nothing suspicious aside from its existence. I tossed them on the desk, frustrated by my fruitless search.

Then, an envelope that had been tucked beneath the tampons caught my eye. There was nothing remarkable about it, and it definitely wasn’t a notebook, but instinct urged me to check what was inside.

I cracked the top and peered in, confused by the contents.

Why did Catherine have strips of paper stashed away?

Turning the envelope over, I let them spill out on her desk. I chose one and read her neat handwriting.

P.S. You remind me of porridge.

Frowning, I read it again and again, but clarification didn’t dawn. What was this?

I read more, one by one.

P.S. Your cyborg is showing.

P.S. I bet you sing Barry Manilow in the shower.

P.S. You wear pleated khakis on the weekend. I just know it.

It took me until the fourth strip to realize they were all exactly one inch wide and the paper matched the notebook.

Son of a bitch.

I scooped the strips back into the envelope and carried them into my office. There, I dumped them all out again and matched one perfectly to Catherine’s previously written schedules.

My heart slammed in my chest, but my brain was five steps behind. I read more of them, still trying to comprehend what I was seeing.

P.S. Are you even human?

P.S. Do you shower in your bathing suit?

P.S. You’ve memorized the lyrics to every single Nickelback song, haven’t you?

P.S. I would rather be trapped in an invisible box with a mime before hanging out with you.

What the fuck?

Understanding slammed into me like a Mack truck. These were directed at me. They had to be. Catherine had written her scathing opinion of me on the bottom of my daily schedules, then precisely cut them off and saved them in an envelope.

There must have been over a hundred.

One for each day she’d worked for me.

Holy shit. That little…

My head fell back as laughter rolled out of me. Thick, rumbling laughter from deep in my chest traveled down my limbs through my veins.

I knew it.

All these months, I knew Catherine had been biting her tongue. It had always been there, right in front of me, but she’d cut it off. Every time she’d wanted to tell me my cyborg was showing or ask me if I was human, she’d stop herself and save it for her morning ritual.

Christ, this woman. She was something else. I should have fired her for putting me through weeks of being driven insane by paper length, but this was too funny to be angry over.

My little prim and pressed Catherine Warner was an undercover firecracker. I’d always known it, but seeing the undeniable proof was wholly gratifying.

Her insults were so creative and cutting I couldn’t stop myself from reading more.

P.S. Rocks have more emotions than you do.

P.S. I hope both sides of your pillow are always warm.

That was cruel. What could I have done that day to deserve such a terrible thing wished upon me?

P.S. I’m jealous of the people who haven’t met you.

P.S. I’d rather give birth a hundred times than be in your presence.

My laughter died down, and I wondered if she still felt the same now.

My hands twitched with the urge to pick up my phone and call her to discuss this. Calling her wasn’t something I’d ever done, but I needed to hear her try to explain these postscripts away. Email wouldn’t cut it. It would give her too much time to come up with an answer.

I stopped myself, however, and called Weston instead.

“I’ve gotten to the bottom of it.”

He chuckled. “Hello. How are you?”

I leaned back in my chair, grinning to myself. “Brilliant, actually.”

There was a pause before he spoke. “You sound…chipper. It’s alarming.”

“Chipper is a bridge too far. I’ve never been chipper a day in my life.”

“Fine. You sound pleased with yourself.”

I picked up a strip, running it between my fingers. “That I am. I’ve gotten to the bottom of the notebook mystery.”

“Why does this sound like a Nancy Drew book?”

“Nancy Drew? I recall you were always a Hardy Boys devotee.”

“You’re right,” he conceded. “But The Secret Notebook sounds more like a case for Nancy. If the Hardy boys were solving it, it would be more like The Curse of the Haunted Notebook.”

I laughed as I scrubbed my face. This was the kind of conversation I could only have with Weston since we’d been friends for nearly twenty years.

“All right. Nancy solved the notebook mystery.”

“Are you Nancy in this case?” Weston deadpanned.

“Yes. Now, do you want to hear what I discovered, or would you rather name every Hardy Boys book you’ve ever read?”

“Hit me with it,” he said.

“Here goes: since I hired Catherine, she’s been handwriting my schedules, just like all my other assistants.”

“I still don’t know why you do that,” he interjected.

“Because it works for me—and that’s not the point.”

“By all means, get to the point.”

“I discovered her stash of one-inch strips of paper.”

Another pause. Longer than before. Then, “What?”

“Yes. She’s been cutting the bottom of the paper off and stashing it.”

“Okay…why? Is it an OCD thing?”

“Not that I know of.” I found myself grinning again. “She writes scathing postscripts.”

Weston exhaled, probably fed up with me dropping only bread crumbs of information. “Care to clarify?”

“Here’s one: P.S. Being with you is like wearing wet socks all day long.”

He let out a startled laugh. “That’s directed at you, isn’t it?”

“I should be insulted you figured that out straight away.”

“But you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Read me another one,” he demanded.

So, I did. I went through at least twenty of them, only stopping because Weston was laughing too hard to hear me. He was getting more of a kick out of this than I had.

“It’s not that funny,” I muttered.

“Oh, yes it is. I can’t wait to tell Elise about this. Can you email me some of these? I won’t remember all of them. The mime one, though, that will stick with me. Golden.”

“I’m not emailing you so you can laugh at me with my sister.”

“Fine. Don’t email me. We’re going to be laughing at you either way.”

“Asshole.” There was no heat behind my curse. I liked that my sister and best friend spent time laughing together, even if it was at my expense. They both deserved it.

His laughter finally petered out. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

He sighed. “I can’t believe polite little Catherine has this kind of venom in her. I like it. The question is, how do you feel about your discovery?”

“Relieved I’m not going out of my mind.”

“That’s yet to be determined,” he countered.

“Fuck off, West.” I huffed a laugh. “I’m amused more than anything.”

The next pause was loaded. “It begs the question, how were you treating her, Elliot? It couldn’t have been too nice if those were her thoughts. Renata would never do anything like that.”

Renata was Weston’s assistant who’d been with him for a decade. She didn’t take shit from anyone, him included.

“Renata would have your head if you stepped out of line.”

“She would, and I would deserve it. Are you being a dick to your employees, Elliot?”

I eyed the pile of postscripts, each one neatly scrawled with an insult. “I’m not easy to work for, but I like to think I’m fair. If I notice myself being a dick, I rectify the situation.”

“If you notice.” He left it at that.

“Catherine hasn’t quit.”

“But she clearly doesn’t like you.”

“That’s not a requirement for the job.” But hearing him say it didn’t sit well with me. Why didn’t Catherine like me? What, in particular, had I done to be compared to wet socks?

“It isn’t, but having an assistant who likes me and will tell me to my face when I’m going too far is invaluable.”

“Yeah, I think I’m good with an assistant who does her job and doesn’t shake like a leaf when I speak to her.”

He chuffed. “Daniel’s still terrified?”

“It’s disturbing at this point.”

“Be nicer, Elliot. I’m certain you have room to be.”

“I’ll leave the charm to Luca. It’s not my forte.”

“Did I mention charm? I’d never expect that from you.”

This call was getting nowhere. Yes, Weston was successful at what he did, but there was a huge gap between my business and his. He made environmentally sound outdoor wear—not exactly known to be a cutthroat industry. In real estate, relaxing on my laurels and being nice could result in my ruination—not something I was keen on happening.

“That’s good since you won’t get it. Anyway, have a nice laugh with Elise.”

“Oh, I will,” he assured me.

Tossing my phone down, I scrubbed my face and groaned. The mystery had been solved, so why the hell did I still have this massive knot in my stomach?

A knock on my door interrupted my self-evaluation. “Excuse me, Mr. Levy.”

Daniel’s trembling voice ratcheted up my level of pissed off. “Yes, Daniel?”

“Sorry to interrupt, b-but you asked me to prepare the original schematics for Paradise Towers and I can’t seem to find them. From Catherine’s notes, I th-think she might have taken them home with her.”

My eyes flew open. “Home with her?”

He nodded so hard it was a wonder his head didn’t snap off his neck. “Y-Yes.”

“Did you ask her, or are you guessing?”

He nodded again. “I did. I asked her. She has them and told me I should call a messenger to pick them up.”

So many words wasted when he could have led with this. Weston wanted me to be nicer, but sometimes people made it impossible. Taking a breath, I found some patience left deep down in my well.

“Did she? Then why are you standing in my doorway?” That was as nice as I got.

His face turned purple, and he made great efforts to swallow, wincing as he tried. “I thought I should double-check with you before I did anything.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he was wasting my time—this was exactly what he’d been hired to do—but I swallowed it down. There was no reason to hire a messenger when my next meeting had been postponed and I now had the time to do it myself.

“I’ll take care of it.”

He startled, his head jerking back. “You will?”

“I said I would.” I stood from my desk. “I’m heading out. I’ll be back in an hour.”

I pulled up in front of Catherine’s house and parked at the curb. I had never been here before. From the background check I’d had done on her, I’d known she owned a home, but I hadn’t allowed myself to look any further into her. Nor had I come up with a reason to drop by on an evening or weekend despite my repeated temptation.

Catherine lived in a two-story Craftsman. It wasn’t much from the outside. No landscaping, a crumbling porch, paint chipping off the rails and trim. The windows couldn’t have done much to regulate the temperature. They had to be at least thirty years old, and only half had screens.

This surprised me. Catherine was fastidious in all ways, but her house was a bit of a wreck.

The neighborhood was all right. At least she wasn’t in imminent danger of being shot or mugged when she stepped outside.

There were no cars in her driveway, so I wasn’t certain she was home.

I reached for the doorbell but hesitated. Probably better to knock, just in case Josephine was sleeping. As I’d been told more than once, babies did a lot of that.

It took a while. So long, I was about to give up when the door finally swung open.

“Elliot?”

Catherine stood in the open doorway, waiting for me to say something. The problem was, I’d been rendered speechless. The Catherine I knew was buttoned up to her neck, hair tied back, conservative, and almost modest in her style.

The woman in front of me was barely dressed. Her shorts stopped at the top of thick, creamy, tattooed thighs. Her tank top didn’t cover any more of her. Her breasts nearly spilled out of the low neckline, belly button peeking out from the gap above her shorts. Her bare arms were covered in colorful tattoos from wrist to shoulder.

Her hair, which was always tamed into submission, spilled around her shoulders and neck in a violent riot. It wasn’t curls like I’d always suspected, but wild, licking, wavy flames that shot out in all directions.

I met her eyes, which were wide with alarm, and finally found my voice.

“This isn’t what you look like.”