The Dead Key by D.M. Pulley

CHAPTER 1
Saturday, August 8, 1998
Iris Latch sat up with a jolt. The clock was beeping frantically. It was
8:45 a.m., and she was supposed to be downtown in fifteen minutes. Shit.
The alarm had been sounding off for a half hour straight. It was
practically rattling the rickety walls of her apartment, but somehow she’d
managed to sleep through it. She untangled herself from the sheets and
rushed to the bathroom.
No time for a shower. Instead, she splashed cold water on her face
and scraped the taste of dirty ashtray out of her mouth with a toothbrush.
Her stringy brown hair didn’t even get brushed before being yanked
through a rubber band. She threw on a T-shirt and jeans and ran out the
door. On a good day, Iris looked fair to attractive, with her lanky, tall
frame and long hair, especially if she remembered not to slouch, but this
was not a good day.
The morning sun shined in her eyes like an interrogation light. Yes,
she’d been drinking last night, Officer. Yes, her head hurt. No, she was
not the most responsible twenty-three-year-old under the blinding sun. In
her defense, it was completely messed up to have to work on a Saturday.
No one should be out of bed at this hour on a weekend. Unfortunately,
she had volunteered for this shit.
Earlier that week, Mr. Wheeler had called her into his office. He
was the head of her department, a lead partner in the firm, and could fire
her on the spot. It was like being sent to the principal.
“Iris, how are you liking your work so far here at WRE?”
“Um, it’s okay,” she’d said, trying not to sound as ill at ease as she
felt. “I’ve been learning a lot,” she’d added in her job interview voice.
She hated her job at Wheeler Reese Elliot Architects but couldn’t
very well say that to him. All she did day after day was mark up
blueprints with a red pen. Hundreds of sheets of paper showing each
little piece of rebar in every concrete beam, and she had to check them
all. It was mind-numbing, soul-crushing work, especially since she was
qualified to do so much more. She had graduated summa cum laude from
Case Western Reserve University. She’d been promised “cutting-edge”
structural design projects, but three months into her big engineering
career, she’d been reduced to a paper-marking monkey. She’d said as
much to her assigned mentor, Brad, that Monday in a fit of desperation.
A day later she was sitting in the hot seat across from Mr. Wheeler. Brad
had ratted her out. Was she going to get fired? Hysterical butterflies
swarmed her stomach.
“Well, Brad thinks you have a good head on your shoulders.
Perhaps you’re ready for a little change of pace.” Mr. Wheeler smiled a
corporate smile.
“Uh, what do you mean?”
“We’ve just landed a very unusual project. The partners think you
might be a good fit for it. It involves fieldwork.”
Fieldwork would mean leaving her dreaded cubicle. “Really? That
sounds interesting.”
“Wonderful. Brad will bring you up to speed on the details. This
project is of a rather sensitive nature. Our client is relying on us to keep
it confidential. I really appreciate the two of you being willing to put in
the overtime. It won’t go unnoticed.”
Mr. Wheeler had clapped her on the back and shut the door to his
corner office. Her smile had dropped at the corners. There was a catch.
Brad later explained they would be working over the weekend. For free.
It was total bullshit, Iris thought, gritting her teeth as she threw
herself behind the wheel and gunned her rusted-out beige Mazda down
the street. At the stoplight she fished a half-empty bottle of Diet Coke
from the littered floorboards and lit a cigarette. But what was she
supposed to do? Say no?
As the car neared downtown, Iris realized she had no idea where the
heck she was actually going. She rifled through her purse to find the
address she had scribbled down. Cigarettes, lighter, lipstick, receipts—
she tossed the contents of her bag onto the passenger seat with one eye
on the road.
A horn blasted. She looked up just in time to swerve and avoid
hitting an oncoming garbage truck. Slamming the brakes, she squealed to
a stop.
“Shit!”

The Dead Key by D.M. Pulley