דדליין

The scream almost escaped her lips. At the last moment, she stopped herself, thinking about what everyone would say if she lost control and appeared as the woman trembling beside the body—especially after the heated argument they’d had that afternoon. It was nearly midnight. In four days, her team was due to submit a proposal for a campaign to a major, high-profile client. It was a highly demanding bid in the field of wearable technology—a hot topic that had sparked great interest worldwide and in the local business scene as well. The kind of tender that comes along once in a lifetime, and whose results could determine whether the agency’s next address would be in the luxurious office tower—with its built-in gym and adjacent massage table—on the lower floor of a crumbling building in southern Tel Aviv, or, worst of all, in one of Tel Aviv’s satellite cities. Most of the other agencies had already been eliminated in the preliminary rounds. Only two made it to the final stage: her agency—“Prototype”—and “Colga”—a major and formidable competitor. Everyone who had played a role in the campaign was still at the office, trying to polish the proposal—each from their own perspective—and Lian coordinated everyone’s work as the agency’s senior account executive, the one responsible for the relationship between the agency and the client.

She was carrying her “operations folder,” as she called the thick binder that contained everything; the research that had been conducted, focus group summaries, an overview of global trends in the field, strategic proposals from the Planning Department—the department responsible for planning advertising strategies and research—scientists’ assessments of the product’s prospects and risks, and even sketches from various stages of the work. The younger employees in the office already used paper mainly to doodle on during meetings—they did their actual work on the Mac. But Lian still clung to printed copies, “which can be handed out to everyone at meetings—it’s much more convenient,” as she repeatedly told her budget assistant.

As she walked past Alex’s office, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar, even though no one was inside. This was surprising; Alex always made sure to lock the door when he wasn’t in the room. Trust wasn’t his strong suit, and he’d become even more distrustful than usual now that he was about to take on the role of Creative Director (of the Creative Department), convinced that everyone was trying to steal his ideas and take credit for them.

Lian peeked inside from the doorway, then mustered her courage and entered the room, allowing her curiosity to be satisfied. A musty smell hung in the air—the smell of a room that hadn’t been ventilated in days—mixed with the distinctive aroma wafting from an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts on the low coffee table. Next to it lay sketches for the campaign, all marked with large red X’s. Everything had been rejected.

A messy pile of objects across from the table caught her attention. Intrigued, she walked toward it. She had managed to take only one more step when she saw him. He was sprawled on his back between the sofa and the desk. A massive wave of anxiety washed over her. Alex wasn’t moving or stirring. Her movement stopped abruptly, her mouth fell open, and she gasped for air in sharp, short breaths, as if something were blocking her throat; her heart pounded violently in her chest. For a split second, she couldn’t move, only stare.

Even in her shock, Lian noticed that Alex’s face was contorted, as if he were in pain, and that his right hand was resting on his stomach, his fingers splayed in a frozen gesture. A half-empty sushi box lay next to the body. She hurried to lean over him, trying to check his condition, and recoiled immediately. His face was cold; the panic inside her intensified into a breath-taking lump. Almost against her will, she reached out again to his neck. The realization hit her all at once: no pulse.

“Lian,” came a call from the office; Yaron was looking for her, holding another sketch that had just arrived from David, the graphic designer. She snapped out of her stupor and, with great difficulty, whispered, “Yaron’s here, in Alex’s office.” Yaron entered, his eyes red from lack of sleep.