I jerk awake. The monster from my nightmare vanishes, replaced by Marcie. Her face. Her silence. The sting of what I think I've just done.
Oh God. Did I—? No. I would never.
"Marcie," I whisper, scrubbing at my eyes.
But she slips away like smoke. By the time I chase her downstairs, she's almost out the door. I catch it just in time, holding onto the edge of her clothing. She doesn't speak. Doesn't even look at me.
"I'm sorry. Did I—did I . . . ?"
I can't finish. Horror chokes the words. Instead, I awkwardly hug her from behind. I'm not a man who hugs, but terror drives me to do it. Terror of what she saw, of what did—of what I revealed.
She doesn't resist, only allows me to drift her to the kitchen, moving in complete silence. She becomes like a robot as she turns away and starts searching the cabinets. She soon finds what she's looking for as she begins to fill the pot with water. I'm confused but I don't question her. When I realize she's making tea, I wait patiently until she's done preparing it and take in her careful movements as she slides the cup towards me.
"As your secretary and assistant, you have told me since the beginning to help you in times of stress," she says with no emotion in her voice, eyes lowered.
"You can stay over," I say quickly. "There's a guest room."
I didn't want her just up and leaving. It felt wrong. Her tense shoulders relaxed—slightly—and I felt like I did something good. Then my phone rings, sharp and piercing. She glances at it; waiting for me to answer. But that call means nothing to me right now. Reluctantly, I cross the room to the coffee table, see the name flashing across the screen, and silence the call.
Of all people, why him now?
"I think it's only appropriate if I head back home," she says softly from the kitchen. "For the personal space you said I lacked before."
The phone rings again. By the time I turn it all the way off, she's already gone.