Chapter 3 - Forty-Three Messages
Malcolm did not open the first hidden email immediately.
Part of him resisted.
Not because he doubted what he was seeing.
Because forty-three was a number too large to absorb.
One cancellation could be panic.
Two could be fear.
Forty-three suggested architecture.
Andre sat beside him in the Bellweather lobby.
“Open them.”
Malcolm looked at his brother.
“I’ve got an interview in an hour.”
“Then maybe don’t.”
Malcolm almost laughed.
“You just told me to.”
“I changed my mind. You’ve got enough in your head.”
Malcolm stared at the folder.
The first message was from Bellweather.
The second came from Parker Lowe Logistics.
He recognized the name.
He had applied there the previous spring.
He had believed they never responded.
He tapped it.
Malcolm, we enjoyed reviewing your application and would like to schedule a first-round interview.
His chest tightened.
Below it was his reply.
Thank you for reaching out. I have decided to remain with my current employer and must respectfully decline.
Malcolm read it twice.
“I never wrote this.”
Andre leaned closer.
“Timestamp?”
“April eighteenth.”
“Where were you?”
“How would I know?”
“Calendar.”
Malcolm opened his calendar.
April eighteenth had been a Friday.
There was a photograph from that evening too—Tasha’s birthday dinner.
He remembered getting home early.
He remembered showering.
He remembered leaving his phone charging in the bedroom.
He opened another hidden thread.
Northline Infrastructure.
An interview request.
A withdrawal.
Another.
Carter Wells Consulting.
A recruiter asking whether Malcolm would be open to discussing an operations role.
His reply:
I’m no longer interested in changing companies.
Another.
Another.
Some messages had no replies.
They had simply been marked read and buried.
“Jesus,” Andre whispered.
Malcolm’s pulse was pounding.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Count the companies.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Malcolm.”
“I said I don’t want to.”
His voice was sharp enough that several people across the lobby looked over.
Andre lowered his voice.
“Okay.”
Malcolm closed the laptop.
For ten minutes, neither spoke.
At 10:15, Elena came downstairs.
“You ready?”
Malcolm stood.
No.
“Yes.”
Upstairs, Bellweather looked exactly like the kind of place he had imagined working.
Glass conference rooms.
Whiteboards covered with project diagrams.
People moving quickly with purpose.
He sat opposite Elena and two managers: Daniel Brooks from operations and Camille Foster from analytics.
The first question was predictable.
“Tell us about yourself.”
For thirty seconds, Malcolm’s mind went blank.
Then training took over.
He discussed process improvement, warehouse efficiency, vendor coordination, his certification work, and a project at his current employer that had reduced delayed orders by seventeen percent.
Camille asked technical questions.
Malcolm answered.
Daniel challenged one of his assumptions.
Malcolm defended it, then admitted where additional data might change his recommendation.
Gradually, the rage in his chest turned into focus.
For forty-three minutes, Tasha disappeared.
There was only the work.
At the end, Daniel closed his notebook.
“I’ll say something I probably shouldn’t.”
Elena glanced at him.
Daniel smiled.
“You’re stronger in person than you are on paper.”
Malcolm almost replied that someone had been trying very hard to keep him there.
Instead he said, “Thank you.”
Camille folded her hands.
“This role involves occasional travel and a demanding first six months. Is that something you’re comfortable with?”
The question struck deeper than she intended.
“Yes.”
“No concerns at home?”
Malcolm paused.
Elena noticed.
“No professional concerns,” he said.
When the interview ended, Elena walked him toward the elevator.
“You handled that well.”
“I appreciate you giving me the chance.”
She nodded.
“I still recommend changing your email password immediately.”
“Already going to.”
“And enabling multi-factor authentication.”
“I will.”
The elevator arrived.
Elena hesitated.
“One more thing.”
Malcolm waited.
“If this situation is what it appears to be, save copies of everything.”
He looked at her.
“That sounds less like recruiter advice.”
“It is.”
The elevator doors opened.
“Good luck, Malcolm.”
Andre was waiting downstairs.
“How’d it go?”
“I think okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Maybe good.”
Andre grinned for the first time that morning.
Then he saw Malcolm’s face.
“You going home?”
Malcolm nodded.
They drove in silence.
Tasha had sent fourteen messages.
The last one read:
I know you’re angry. I’ll explain everything.
Malcolm stared at the word everything.
When they reached the apartment, Andre followed him upstairs.
Malcolm stopped outside the door.
“I need to talk to her alone.”
Andre did not like it.
His expression made that obvious.
“She’s not dangerous,” Malcolm said.
“You didn’t think she was sabotaging your career either.”
Malcolm looked away.
Andre handed him the portfolio.
“I’ll be downstairs.”
Malcolm entered.
Tasha sat at the dining table.
Her eyes were swollen.
The coffee mug from that morning still sat by the sofa.
Nothing had moved.
Except the laptop.
It was closed now.
Malcolm placed his keys on the counter.
“How did the interview go?”
“Forty-three.”
Her face changed.
He watched the color leave it.
“Forty-three what?” she asked.
Malcolm set the laptop down between them.
“Messages hidden in a folder.”
Tasha stared at the computer.
“Recruiters. Interview invitations. Opportunities. Replies I never sent.”
“Malcolm—”
“How long?”
She stood.
“Please let me explain.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“It’s not what you think.”
He laughed bitterly.
“I’m looking at emails sent from my account.”
“I didn’t answer all of them.”
The sentence escaped before she could stop it.
Malcolm froze.
Tasha did too.
He spoke almost gently.
“All of them?”
She pressed a hand to her mouth.
Malcolm opened the laptop.
“Sit down.”
“I don’t want to do this like an interrogation.”
“Neither did I.”
“Malcolm.”
“Sit.”
She sat.
He opened the hidden folder.
“Parker Lowe.”
Tasha looked away.
“Did you decline them?”
“Yes.”
“Northline?”
Silence.
“Tasha.”
“Yes.”
“Carter Wells?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“Yes.”
His throat tightened.
“You watched me come home complaining that nobody wanted me.”
Tasha began crying.
“I know.”
“You watched me wonder whether I was good enough.”
“I know.”
“And you let me believe it.”
“I was scared.”
Malcolm stared at her.
Then something occurred to him.
“When did you create the filter?”
Tasha wiped her face.
“I don’t know.”
“The settings say five months ago.”
“That sounds right.”
“But Parker Lowe was six months ago.”
She went still.
Malcolm leaned forward.
“So before you made the filter, you were deleting messages manually.”
Tasha closed her eyes.
He finally understood what terrified him most.
This had not started as one impulsive act.
It had become easier over time.
Organized.
Improved.
Malcolm reached for the laptop.
Then he noticed another folder in the sidebar.
A folder he had never created.
Its name was bland enough to disappear among everything else.
Archived Documents.
It contained only seven items.
The first subject line was dated almost three years earlier.
Malcolm recognized the company immediately.
It was the first major opportunity he had ever believed he had lost.
And beside the message was a small paperclip icon.
May you like
![92 The Girl They Called Broke Was a Billionaire’s Daughter—But Her Father’s Arrival Exposed a Secret Powerful People Had Buried for Years]](https://cdn.treeiq.biz/site_590/2026/11/clone-0-0915d882-53d7-4d17-b43a-a010ca1a1068.webp)
An attachment.
An offer letter.
