Chapter 2 - The Interview That Almost Died
Andre drove too fast.
Malcolm noticed but said nothing.
The city moved past the windows in fragments—traffic lights, office towers, commuters holding coffee, people living perfectly ordinary Tuesday mornings.
Malcolm felt as if something fundamental had cracked.
Andre finally spoke.
“How long has she had your password?”
Malcolm stared through the windshield.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“She knows the password I usually use.”
Andre cursed under his breath.
“Why?”
“We live together.”
“That don’t mean she becomes your damn IT department.”
Malcolm looked at him.
“Not today.”
Andre exhaled sharply.
“Fine.”
Bellweather occupied five floors of a glass office building downtown.
Malcolm had imagined arriving fifteen minutes early, composed and prepared.
Instead, he entered the lobby angry, disoriented and twenty-seven minutes ahead of an interview that technically no longer existed.
Andre caught his arm.
“You want me upstairs?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I need to do this myself.”
Andre released him.
“I’ll be right here.”
Malcolm approached security.
“I’m here to see Elena Brooks.”
The receptionist checked her screen.
“I don’t see an appointment.”
“I know.”
That sentence hurt.
Ten minutes later, Elena came downstairs.
She was a Black woman in her late thirties wearing a charcoal suit, composed but visibly cautious.
“Malcolm?”
“Yes.”
They shook hands.
“I’m sorry to arrive like this.”
“I admit I’m confused.”
“So am I.”
He showed her his phone.
“My cancellation was sent without my permission.”
Elena read the message.
“You’re saying your account was compromised?”
Malcolm hesitated.
The easy answer would have been yes.
But compromised suggested a faceless hacker.
The truth had a name.
“Someone with access to my laptop sent it.”
Elena studied him.
“Do you know who?”
“Yes.”
“Was it you?”
“No.”
That answer came without hesitation.
Elena looked toward the elevators.
“I can’t promise your original panel is still available.”
“I understand.”
“And I need to be transparent. From the company’s perspective, we received a legitimate message from your email.”
“I understand that too.”
“I’m also concerned about confidentiality if someone else has routine access to your accounts.”
Malcolm felt humiliation burn beneath his collar.
“You should be.”
Elena seemed surprised.
He continued.
“I should’ve protected my accounts better. But I didn’t authorize that message. I’ve spent three years trying to get into a role like this. I came here because I didn’t want somebody else’s decision to become mine.”
Elena watched him for another second.
Then she nodded.
“Wait here.”
She disappeared into the elevator.
Malcolm sat.
His phone vibrated.
Tasha: Please come home so we can talk.
Another message.
Tasha: I panicked.
Then:
Tasha: I love you. I swear I wasn’t trying to hurt you.
Malcolm typed three different replies and deleted each one.
A fourth message appeared.
Tasha: Don’t tell them everything. You’ll make us look crazy.
Malcolm stared at it.
Us.
Even now, she was worried about how the truth looked.
Not what it had done.
Andre sat beside him.
“You hear anything?”
“She’s asking me not to tell them.”
Andre read the message over his shoulder.
“Of course she is.”
“Stop.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Andre leaned back.
A minute later, Malcolm’s phone rang.
Tasha.
He declined.
She called again.
Declined.
The third call came from a number he did not recognize.
Malcolm answered.
“Hello?”
“Malcolm? This is Elena.”
He looked toward the elevators.
“I’m upstairs. Here’s what I can do. The hiring manager has a forty-five-minute opening at ten thirty. Your original panel can’t all attend, but two members can.”
Malcolm closed his eyes briefly.
“Thank you.”
“Understand something, though.”
“Yes?”
“This situation creates questions.”
“I know.”
“One of them is why someone who has access to your personal accounts would interfere with a professional interview.”
Malcolm looked at Andre.
“I’m starting to ask that too.”
Elena paused.
“There’s something else.”
His stomach tightened.
“What?”
“This morning’s cancellation wasn’t the first message we received from you.”
Malcolm straightened.
“What do you mean?”
“When I checked the thread, I saw a response from your account two weeks ago asking to move your original interview date.”
Malcolm frowned.
“My original date?”
“You were initially offered last Thursday.”
His mouth went dry.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I never saw that.”
“There was also a message saying Thursday conflicted with an unavoidable family obligation.”
Malcolm looked toward the polished lobby floor.
He had no family obligation last Thursday.
He had worked, gone to the gym, then eaten dinner with Tasha.
“Elena, what time was that message sent?”
“I’ll check.”
He could hear typing.
“Eight forty-two P.M.”
Malcolm remembered that night.
He had fallen asleep on the sofa.
Tasha had been beside him with his laptop.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
“Malcolm?”
“I’m here.”
“The ten-thirty interview is available if you want it.”
“I do.”
“Then come upstairs at ten fifteen.”
The call ended.
Andre looked at him.
“What?”
Malcolm spoke slowly.
“She changed the interview before she canceled it.”
Andre’s expression went cold.
Malcolm opened his inbox and searched Bellweather.
He found Elena’s recent messages.
But not the original invitation she said she had sent.
He searched trash.
Nothing.
Archive.
Nothing.
Then he remembered something Tasha had once shown him when cleaning his inbox.
Email filters.
Malcolm opened the settings.
There, buried among ordinary rules for newsletters and bills, was a filter created five months earlier.
Any message containing the words:
interview
recruiter
opportunity
position
was automatically marked as read.
And sent past his inbox.
Into a folder named Receipts 2025.
Malcolm tapped it.
The folder opened.
There were forty-three messages inside.
Andre leaned closer.
Malcolm stopped breathing.
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