There’s naive, and there’s just plain gullible. Eight years at Hartley & Sons, eating lunch at my desk. Wearing cardigans in August. Nobody remembering my name at the Christmas party.
Then Ryan noticed me.
He borrowed my keycard one afternoon, leaning close as I handed it over. “Cheers, Professor.” His fingers brushed mine. I felt it for hours.
When the vault was robbed, they questioned everyone. Ryan worked in acquisitions. Charming but everyone knew he cut corners—naturally they’d suspect him. He swore he’d left at six.
“He did,” I told them. “We left together. Went for drinks.”
A lie. We’d left together, but I’d gone home. Then he’d texted at half eight: Come back to the office? Just us 😉
I’d driven back, practically hyperventilating. Used my keycard, sat at my desk refreshing my lipstick. Waiting. Twenty minutes before his next message: So sorry, mum had a fall. Hospital. Rain check? xx
I’d felt foolish then. I feel worse now.
They showed me the footage in court. Me at 9pm, alone in the building. My keycard accessing the secure corridor. Ryan wasn’t there. He’d never been there.
His barrister was even smoother than Ryan. Had me half-convinced I’d imagined the whole thing.
Ryan sent flowers to the sentencing. The card read: Sorry it worked out this way, Professor.
Sure, Ryan. You knew exactly how it would work out.
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