“That’s good to know,” he said as if it was news to him. “Regardless. You know Charleston. A small city with an extremely long memory. Of course, we value you here. And I’m sorry that Jason got this project, but there’ll be others. You’ll have a job here as long as you want it.”

“But not a career.”

“What?”

“You said I’ll have a job here, but not a career.” My voice warbled slightly as I tried to rein in my devastation. “You’ll never promote me, and I have no way to move up.” And after losing the opportunity to work on the East Bay Street project, that seemed insignificant. But damn it. My job. I really needed that promotion. I had to get a grip and focus on what was important. History was being lost. It was more important than my job in the grand scheme of things. I could appeal. As a citizen of the city—

Mr. Tate leaned forward again. “Oh, Josie,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “It’s not as bad as all that.” His finger reached out and then before I knew it his whole hand was on my knee. His hot, clammy, chubby hand.

I froze.

He squeezed gently, his face genial. Comforting, even. “I’m not saying you could never be promoted. At least to Senior Associate. Loyalty and dedication to the team is always appreciated. And rewarded.” Another squeeze. My stomach churned. “Just not … today.”

I lurched to my feet, and his hand slid off my knee. “Don’t touch me again.”

“Now, now,” said Mr. Tate, palms up. “We’ll have none of that nonsense. I was just comforting you. I know you’re disappointed about being passed over.”

My breath seesawed in and out of my chest, my heart pounded in my throat. I couldn’t stay here another second. My chest cinched up tight, and I blinked to try to mitigate the stinging in my nose and eyes that preceded tears of anger and frustration. I dug my fingernails into my palms, my balled-up fists. “I can’t stay here.”

“Sorry?”

“I quit.”

There was a long silence.

“Well, there’s no need to be hasty,” Tate said, looking surprised.

“I quit,” I repeated, though my voice shook.

“Right. Well. If you’re sure.” He held out his hand.

Numb, I reached out and without thinking, shook it.

Mr. Tate pursed his lips. “Actually, I need your badge and secure ID.”

“Oh.” I blinked and then fumbled the clip off the buttonhole of my jacket with trembling hands and handed it over. Immediately, I wished I’d thrown it in his bland, jowly face.

“You can leave your roll tubes here too. Your designs belong to us.”

I looked down to where they lay at my feet and felt a surge of tears rising up the back of my throat and nose. Not here, I told myself.