Chapter 3: Burn Notice

At the new company, I marched straight to the general manager’s office—yellow legal pad in hand, ready to talk strategy.

He waved me off with a practiced smile. “No rush, just get a feel for the place first.” I caught a whiff of his aftershave and the faint aroma of breakroom bagels. The onboarding folder was still warm from the copier.

I tried chatting with the marketing managers, but they shut down fast. Eyes darting, glued to their screens. Not even a fake lunch invite. It was like crashing someone else’s Thanksgiving dinner.

I even brought donuts to the Monday meeting. Nobody touched them.

The tension was thick as cold gravy. I started wondering if they drew straws to see who’d have to sit next to me.

Before I could figure out what was wrong, HR called me in. “You didn’t pass probation. Your contract’s terminated. Two months’ salary as required by law.”

The HR rep barely looked up, already scrolling through her phone. The dismissal was so casual it hurt.

I hadn’t even learned where the bathroom was. Was this a joke?

I wanted to talk to the general manager, but HR cut me off:

“Honestly, this was just a courtesy for Mr. Grant. Nothing personal.”

Flat, like she was reading a parking ticket. My jaw clenched.

The pieces clicked. David Grant and his son had set me up again. Ruthless.

I signed the forms with a shaky hand, grabbed my boxed-up mug and the family photo, and left. The elevator ride down felt endless—each floor a punch to the gut.

Back home, I called old Mr. Grant: “Nice move, Mr. Grant. You think you can get rid of me so easily?”

I sat in my recliner, phone pressed tight to my ear, voice trembling with anger.

David Grant played dumb. “Don’t blame me. You wanted to leave. I have your resignation letter right here.” He sounded almost cheerful, like we were talking about the weather.

I couldn’t argue. People like him only believe what they see in the coffin. “Mr. Grant, you know I’m a law-abiding citizen. If someone’s skimming off the government and not paying taxes, I can’t just sit back.”

I let it hang—an old dog’s warning. Years of secrets between the words.

I’d been there for his quiet bonuses, creative accounting, and country club deals. I had receipts.

My threat landed. David Grant fell silent, then asked, “What do you want?”

He was off-script now. I could hear him shifting in his chair. The line buzzed with tension.

No need to guess—he was probably recording the call.

I pictured him, finger hovering over the record button, eyes narrowed.

“Nothing. I just want to be a good, law-abiding citizen.”

I made every word count, clean as courtroom testimony.

“We’re all smart people. Name your price. Let’s not waste time.”

His patience was running thin, the mask slipping. I heard real fear.

“Mr. Grant, don’t insult me with these tricks.”

I wasn’t going to make it easy. I’d learned from the best.

He paused, then said, “Fine, Bailey. I’m stepping back too. Tomorrow, talk to Ethan.”

He sounded tired—like a man fresh out of backup plans. I imagined him lighting a cigarette, Ethan at his side, plotting my fate.

Fine, I’ll meet you. I wasn’t scared of some snot-nosed kid.

I straightened my tie, anger steel in my veins. Bring it on.

We arranged to meet at a steakhouse—the kind of place where deals die quietly in the corners.