THE NEW GUY DAVID STOPS TYPING WHENEVER I WALK NEAR HIS DESK
I saw him flinch and quickly minimize the window when I walked past with my coffee mug. David. The new guy in accounting. He’s been here almost two weeks now, barely looks up, just hunched over his screen in that corner cube. There’s this faint, stale smell of cigarettes around his spot, even though he told everyone he quit years ago, and his hands always shake a little when he reaches for his mouse.
I tried to make conversation this morning, just a simple “How was your weekend?” He just shrugged, didn’t even turn his head. “Just busy,” he muttered, his voice flat and tight. His eyes kept scanning the office over his monitor, darting around like he was expecting someone to burst through the door any second.
Just before lunch, he knocked his soda can over, reaching frantically for something that had fallen onto the floor under his desk. A crumpled piece of paper skittered out with the spill, soaked dark brown. “Leave it!” he shouted, a sharp, desperate sound that made the whole office look over, scrambling on his hands and knees to snatch it up. His face was pale and sweaty, like he was about to throw up.
He shoved it into his pocket, breathing hard. But as he snatched it, I saw it. Shaky handwriting, wet ink blurring. A name written there, a name I recognized instantly from old news reports. It wasn’t David. My blood went cold knowing who it belonged to.
Mrs. Davison stood over David’s desk, her eyes hard, and said his *real* name.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…”Arthur,” Mrs. Davison said, her voice low but carrying across the sudden silence. “It’s time we talked.”
David froze. The blood drained completely from his already pale face, leaving it a sickly white. His eyes, wide with a raw, animal panic, darted from Mrs. Davison to the surrounding office, then back to her. For a second, I thought he was going to bolt, just leap over his desk and run. His hands scrabbled on the keyboard instinctively, but there was nothing left to minimize.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered, but the lie was weak, transparent. His voice trembled, the flat tone replaced by a desperate quaver.
Mrs. Davison gave a curt, humorless smile. “Yes, you do, Arthur. We both know you do.” She leaned slightly, her gaze intense. “It’s been a long time. Longer than it should have been. Finding you wasn’t easy, but I’m very good at my job.”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The tremor in his hands was violent now. He clutched the edge of his desk as if it were the only thing anchoring him. “Why?” he whispered, the question barely audible.
“He’s getting out,” Mrs. Davison stated plainly, and the name I’d seen on the crumpled paper hung unspoken in the air between them. “Parole hearing next month. Unexpected turn, but it’s happening. And when he does, the first thing he’ll do is look for you.”
Arthur – David – finally looked down at his hands, flexing them nervously. The story clicked into place with sickening clarity. The hiding, the paranoia, the shaking hands, the smell of stress-induced cigarettes. The name I recognized from the news – a notorious figure brought down years ago, his conviction hinging on a key witness. A witness who disappeared into protective custody.
“The paper,” I blurted out, before I could stop myself. “The name… was that him?”
Arthur flinched again, looking at me with haunted eyes, then quickly away.
Mrs. Davison nodded, her gaze never leaving him. “A reminder, perhaps. Or proof he’s closer than Arthur thought. Someone sent it.”
The office was absolutely silent. My colleagues stared, their faces a mixture of shock and confusion. Our quiet new accountant, David, was someone named Arthur, a man on the run from a dangerous criminal.
“You need to come with me, Arthur,” Mrs. Davison said, her voice softening slightly, becoming less an investigator’s and more a protector’s. “The program can reinstate you, give you better security. You can’t stay here. It’s not safe anymore.”
Arthur finally looked up at her properly, his face a mask of defeat and terror. He knew she was right. The flimsy facade of David, the boring accountant, had shattered, revealing the hunted man beneath. He nodded slowly, a single, shaky dip of his head. “Okay,” he breathed out, the tension draining from his body, leaving him looking utterly spent. “Okay. I’ll go.”
Mrs. Davison nodded in return, a brief, professional acknowledgement. “Pack your desk,” she instructed him. “Just the essentials. We’ll be discreet.” She glanced around at the stunned faces of the office staff. “Mr. Davies is resigning, effective immediately, for personal reasons. His affairs will be handled.”
As Arthur, looking small and vulnerable, began to slowly clear the few personal items from his cube, the faint, stale smell of cigarettes seemed to dissipate, replaced by the cold, sharp scent of fear and the unsettling reality that danger could find you anywhere, even in the quiet corner of an accounting office, hiding in plain sight. The name on the crumpled paper wasn’t just a ghost from a headline; it was a threat that had just caught up.