It was a nice little condo, truth be told. Comfy, homey, none of that boring minimalist shit that execs seemed to insist that their living spaces required. It was actually quite the opposite of her office with its blinding white walls and chrome furniture. This place felt like a home. Normal people would probably feel uncomfortable poking around an ex's apartment. Not Helen Basch. She'd rather not analyse why that was the case.

It was sparse in some ways however. A few trinkets and souvenirs from holidays littered the cabinet shelves. A bunch of books, most of which she could never imagine Carol actually reading. A significant collection of TV DVDs. A single birthday card, from her mother Helen noticed as she peeked inside. (Oh yeah, her birthday had been a week ago.) Some shitty magazines. An orchid, of course. And a grand total of four photographs. One looked to be a family portrait from childhood. A mother, father, two boys, one older child and a toddler, and two little girls, a taller brunette and a blonde with her hair in pigtails. How typical. The other photograph was much later in life. The boys were grown into big men with big smiles, the sister wore the same expression as Jules had in her grad portrait—forced and prim, the mother had gained a leathery complexion full of tired lines across her face, and Carol—looking a bit younger than now, but with that characteristic smile. No father. Well, that explained a bit: a middle kid with daddy issues. The other two were just her brothers again. For someone with 1,734 Facebook friends, Helen would have expected a few more photos of those people.

Maybe there were other things to poke into but Helen suddenly felt like the interloper she was. She assumed it was because even despite spending almost a month joined at the hip with Carol, she really had little idea about her as a person with a history. Sure, there was the long list of ex-lovers that were practically a matter of public record by this point. But that kid in the photo? She didn't know that girl at all. She didn't know what happened between the first photo and the second. She wandered into the kitchen, placed her hand on the fridge door then thought better of it. There'd be nothing the contents of Carol's fridge would tell her what she didn't already know. Her girlfriend had made a point of stocking hers more than once.

Then there was the dreaded bedroom. It's not like she expected Carol to actually be there but she still peered around the corner hesitantly. The room, of course, was empty, bed made and everything in its place. She tested the mattress. It was nice enough. She took the time to stare around the room, taking in the area, its vibe, its peace. On top of the dresser were a few more photos in frames. She stood up to look closer and couldn't catch herself before she scowled at the one of Carol and Beverly out on a hike. Stupid fucking lesbian haircut Beverly. Her son's voice suddenly popped into her head warning her to chill out. The other photos were just Carol with various big name celebrities at industry functions. Nothing that interesting. And then some dog, the same one Helen recognized from Carol's office and had never asked about, even after Carol's admission that her mother was allergic. It could have been Carol's, maybe it was someone else's. She wasn't aware of many people who kept framed photographs of other people's dogs in their bedroom.

And then she saw it. On the night table was an overturned photo frame. She carefully turned it face up and for the first time in a month, she felt the twinge of guilt. The scene was familiar. She remembered it exactly. Carol had taken about 300 selfies of them in the span of 5 minutes on Helen's living room couch one afternoon, cheeks pressed together to fit in the frame. This was the only one she got to really look at; all the others Carol had quickly flipped through, jabbering nonstop and giggling with her about the faces they were pulling or how terrible the photos were. When Helen looked at the faces in the frame, she almost didn't recognize herself and the—what was it?—joy? Yeah, joy. Carol of course was stunning and grinning like the happiest girl in the world. And it wasn't those stupid expressions she normally put on at work when she spent the days lying through her teeth. It was genuine, eyes alight and shining. And gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous.

This hurt.

Carol had printed off the damn photo and framed it beside her bed. There was no picture of Beverly on the night stand, nope. Beverly was somewhere over there, sitting on a dusty dresser with some celebs and a dog. Helen felt her lips do a sort of twitch as if internally she was processing some sort of regret, as if she made a mistake. (Maybe she had.)

"I'm not used to nice… I think I'm just scared." Carol's voice echoed in her head. Scared. She could see Robbie's smirk from 220 miles away, sitting in his house in Fresno, sucking on his bong between mocking looks.

Carol wasn't the only one. Maybe it would best to just admit that finally. Fear made people do stupid things and think stupid things. Helen hated fear and became an expert at replacing it with anger and vengeance and determination. That's why she was so good at her job after all.

But Carol hadn't been a job. She hadn't been a TV show that needed better ratings. She hadn't been the supplementary executive budget. She was the woman that Helen gazed at across Meeting Room #2 at the NAB Show last year when she should have been paying attention to the digital mobile television platforms presentation. She was the woman that Helen purposely took a seat beside at the bar during the B&C primetime TV luncheon 5 months ago when she should have been nursing the wounds of her failed relationship with Jennifer instead. And Carol was the same woman that made butterflies flutter nervously in her belly as she watched her field a hundred and one difficult questions about floundering ratings with intelligence and ease at a network panel. It was no accident that Helen Basch jumped at the chance to take over from that nutjob Sotto.

And then Carol was there standing too close, shoulders touching, open to Helen's advances, then in her bed, in her kitchen twittering nervously the morning after, giggling like a teenager, fucking in the office. Then every night she was back in her arms and in the morning there she was again, hair messed up and warm hands entwined with her own in the twilight of half-wakefulness.

All dreams must end, usually by the cold wind of reality whipping in. She had learnt that Carol was a diligent worker, a people-pleaser, an unflappable go-getter, a deceptive mask of naivety and perkiness that hid an incredibly sharp business mind full of insights and adaptability to circumstance. There was no way the network would be half of what it still was if, behind all those assholes like Merc and Castor Sotto, there hadn't been Carol. That's part of the reason Helen wanted—needed—Carol to stay on when she took Castor's job. It's even more the reason she wanted Carol by her side at all the meetings, round tables, and table reads.

She'd also learnt those traits that were so attractive at the job didn't evenly translate into Carol's romantic life. In fact, it seemed the opposite. It shouldn't have been such a surprise that someone who had thought she deserved to be Merc Lapidus's piece on the side for 5 years would have some deep issues with relationships and self-worth. At home she was neurotic, anxious, insecure, and so terribly afraid of any confrontation that she just held everything inside until it exploded out at the most inopportune moments and in the most confusing ways. At least that's how it had become as the relationship progressed. Helen couldn't recall if it had started off as shakily but she didn't think so. This photo didn't seem that way at all. It looked like two people who were content and, well, in love. Or at least in the initial throes of infatuation.

It was too bad.

Helen placed the photo back on the bedside table, propped up instead of face-down. For some reason, it felt like a challenge.

All successful endeavours began with a good plan. That was the excuse she gave herself for plucking Carol's home phone from the base. (It was nice that some people still felt the necessity of land lines.) It wasn't creepiness. It wasn't obsession. It was merely the first step in the formulation of an adequate plan to return Carol's Bag of Shit to her. After a few unsuccessful attempts to find the call log, she managed to press the right combination of arrows and was greeted with her last 20 calls in chronological order. There were a significant number from "Bev" as Carol had labelled the number. None of them had been answered and we logged only as missed calls. There was one from the network HR office, also had gone unanswered. The oldest ones, from almost three weeks back, were from a San Diego number. Answered and Carol had talked to the other line for a quite lengthy time. The number was labelled "Jaime".

Okay, she was pushing the limits of sanity but she put the number in her phone and did a reverse lookup. As she suspected, James A. Rance came up. With his address to boot. God bless the terrifying internet and life was about to get even more terrifying. Challenge accepted, Carol.

After placing her phone back in her purse, she snatched up the bag of lollipops sitting on the kitchen counter and made her way out of the condo.