I took the quiet archivist position at Harland Capital in Denver hoping my past would never find me.
The hum of the fluorescent lights in the basement archive was the only welcome I received. After Evelyn Cross revoked my keycard, I’d been assigned this windowless storage unit. Now, the heavy steel door clanged shut behind me.
I pulled the spare chair up to the rickety metal desk. On it sat a dusty old desktop computer.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I typed in my usual login.
An error message flashed: “Access Denied. Account Locked.”
My chest tightened. I tried again, slower, checking my password.
The same red text appeared.
I picked up the phone, a rotary dial relic, and tried to call IT. No dial tone. The line was dead.
A cold dread seeped into my bones. This wasn’t just a restricted keycard. This was an outright lockout.
I remembered the Harland Capital staff directory, an internal web page. I usually navigated it by typing a colleague’s name.
I pulled out my phone, using my personal data to access the company website. I found the public-facing staff directory for the archives department.
I scrolled down, past names like “Thomas Henderson, Senior Archivist,” and “Eleanor Vance, Compliance Assistant.”
My name wasn’t there. Clara Voss, Head Archivist, had vanished.
A soft scraping sound made me jump. The heavy steel door, which I thought I’d closed, was now ajar, just a sliver.
A young man, his hair slightly disheveled, peered in. It was Toby Harland, Cade’s nephew. His eyes darted around the room, then back to me.
“Clara,” he whispered, stepping inside and quickly closing the door.
He held a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. His usual easy smile was gone, replaced by a strained urgency.
“I think you need to see this,” he said, holding out the paper. His hand trembled slightly.
It was an internal memo, hastily printed. The header read: “HR Security Review – Urgent.”
My name was underlined in red. The classification beside it read: “High-Risk Personnel – Restricted Access.”
“Evelyn Cross posted it in the breakroom, then took it down really fast,” Toby explained, his voice low. “But I saw it. I made a copy.”
He glanced at the computer, then the dead phone line. His jaw tightened.
“They’re not just moving you. They’re cutting you off,” he said. He looked directly into my eyes, a surprising intensity in his young face. “No one on the executive floor is supposed to talk to you. Not really.”
He gestured vaguely upwards, towards the sunlit offices above. The message was chillingly clear. My isolation wasn’t an accident; it was a directive.
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