Last week I discovered a video of a young man gliding with the grace of a Russian ballet dancer down the slopes in Aspen. The video had been uploaded to his friend’s website two days after he was wheeled out of our negotiations office, with a date stamp on the video showing it was recorded after the accident. The guy is not going to enjoy the next soirée at settlement room number two. I hope he arrives in his wheelchair. Can’t wait for the miracle to unfold. With a bit of luck, I’ll be in the room. I’m often called on to bring in some water or coffee or a can of WD40.

Another, but more boring, part of my job is data entry, which is basically updating client files with the latest information that the important people receive at a rate of $350 per half-hour. That’s $700 dollars per hour, which is… well, I can’t work it out right now, but it’s a hell of a lot of money for a day’s work. Imagine earning that sort of money. I can only think of one part time job that could compete with that.

A crowd has gathered outside the door of Stephen’s office. Stephen has a door with its own office. That’s how important he is. They are all wishing the pregnant couple the best of luck. Smiles, pats on backs, giggles and hugs for the princess. She doesn’t come into the office often. In fact, I think it’s only the second time she has been here since I took up my role as assistant’s assistant.

Peeking over, I notice him looking my way. Is he nervous? Does he think I’ll say something, tell someone else about our night together? He needn’t worry about that. I have no intention of letting anyone know what I did. It’s nothing to brag about, screwing your married boss. Looking away, I stare at my computer and decide to distract myself by Googling Katie Collins. I need to find out who she is and why the cops think she sent me a note.

According to Google, there is a Katie Collins for everything, from photography to baking, keeping fit to planting flowers. If I knew what the woman was interested in, I might be able to narrow down the search a bit. Entering ‘New Orleans’, which is where the news report said she came from, doesn’t help either. I still can’t find a Katie Collins that matches my girl.

After a few more searches my phone starts flashing. Pushing a bunch of files to the side, I see the number on the screen. Shit, it’s him. Stephen Black. What to do? Should I go to his office? When I glance in his direction I see the crowd has dispersed. Stephen is standing alone now, staring out the window. Staring at me.