35. Case Notes: The Blizzard

Miranda’s right: what you wear matters. And today, my outfit is here to solve a mystery.

Because really—has a detective ever cracked a case without a trench coat, boots, gloves, and a scarf for dramatic effect?

Miranda’s wrong if she thinks I’m going to let this cold front slide. I might not be able to change it, but I’ll be damned if I don’t figure it out.

I snap my sunglasses shut and get to work.

*** 

Case Notes: The Blizzard

Subject: Miranda Priestly, alias “The Boss”

Investigation Day 1: Tuesday

The Boss arrived at 8:14 AM. Coffee, on time. Mood: generally good—if snappish. Expected, with the Tiny Tyrants away for the week.

However: the frost persists. And it appears to be aimed at the Detective. Specifically.

The Boss continues to avoid using the Detective’s alias. Result: a loss of approximately 2.3 seconds in note-taking time, as instructions begin without verbal acknowledgment.

Efficiency down 1.3%.

***

Sighing, I click my pen shut and slip the small black notebook into the pocket of my trench coat.

The sun is setting, and the last few Runway employees are scurrying out—trying to wrap things up, get out the door, and back to whatever lives they attempt to maintain outside these walls. The office is winding down. My brain, however, is still sprinting.

Really? She’s not going to say my name?

At least when she used to call me Emily, I had half a second to grab my tablet and start taking notes. Now? I’m scrambling just to keep up.

I thought I was past the bumbling assistant phase. But maybe not.

I stare at my inbox. Of course—when I actually want a distraction, when I need something to sink my teeth into, no one needs a thing.

Fine. The day’s not over yet.

I pull up the article I’ve been working on and start combing for typos. Miranda is still at her desk—statuesque, unmoving—and The Book is still a few hours from being ready. I might as well settle in and—

“You can go.”

My head snaps up. I stare toward her office for half a beat, then scramble out of my chair and into the doorway.

She can’t mean that.

“Miranda, did you need another coff—?”

She doesn’t look up. She’s lounging in her chair, legs crossed, elbow propped on the glass desk, chin in hand, flipping through folders like I’m not even there.

“No. Go home.” Flip. “That’s all.”

My chest tightens. I swear I feel something chip loose inside—like a rock thrown at a brick wall.

“O-okay,” I whisper.

The corners of my eyes pinch, but I force them to relax. I turn, grab my bag, and march out.

I will not cry. I will not cry.

It’s just an off day, I tell myself in the elevator, breathing deep and slow. Tomorrow, I’ll find more evidence. I’ll figure out what the hell is going on.

When I get home, I don’t join Doug on the couch. I shut myself in my room and use the extra hours Miranda gave me to brainstorm a way to crack this case open.

***

So far, Wednesday has yielded no more answers than Tuesday.

Though I am getting pretty good at typing without looking at the keyboard—or the screen.

I’ve had plenty of practice, staring into Miranda’s office like I’ll suddenly develop X-ray vision and see straight through the glass, through the walls, right to the heart of whatever the hell is going on.

She still won’t say my name.

“Emily.”

Lark, elbows-deep in a paper pile that’s growing messier by the minute, jerks her head up to stare at me, wide-eyed. She looks like she’s trying to telepath something along the lines of,

“Emily? Who’s Emily?! ANDY what do we DO?!”

I wish I had an answer for her.

Have I really been downgraded that far?

Well—detective work is about testing theories. So I push up from my chair and scurry into Miranda’s office.

“Yes, Miranda?”

She doesn’t look up. One hand on the desk, the other tapping the end of her glasses against her lips, she studies a set of proofs with surgical focus. A flare of light bounces off the lenses, catching my attention like a flame. And those lenses are so close to her mouth, I can’t help but want to—

“Have you changed your name?” she says, still rearranging photos.

“Um. No, Miranda.” I tuck a section of hair behind my ear. It isn’t even out of place.

“Then unless you and Emily have suddenly switched bodies, I believe this summons wasn’t meant for you.”

Oh.

Alright then.

I stalk back to Lark’s desk.

“She wants you,” I tell her.

Lark stares at me, panicked. “Me? Go in there? I never go in there.”

“Well, today you do.” I’m borderline snappish, but I rein it in. This isn’t her fault.

“Listen,” I say, trying to sound calm. “Just go in and type out everything she says. We’ll go over it together when you come back out. Think you can do that?”

Lark opens her mouth—

“Emily? Honestly, my dog responds faster than this.”

“Go!” I hiss.

In a tangle of limbs, Lark bolts into the lion’s den.

Less than a minute later, she emerges like she’s barely survived the colosseum.

“What did she want?” I ask gently, guiding her by the arm back to her seat. Her eyes are wide open, but unfocused—like she’s staring through me.

She doesn’t answer. Just hands me the tablet, trembling.

I scan the notes.

Oh no.

“Um, Lark?” I try. “Can you tell me what you remember?”

“A pony,” she whispers. “There was something about a pony. And polka dots.”

I shake my head, trying to decipher the chaos on the screen.

“It’s okay,” I say, though my voice is getting tight. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll—”

“Emily.”

Lark lets out a small, defeated sob and walks back into Miranda’s office.

She looks like she’s headed for the guillotine.

Well. This is a disaster.

***

Case Notes: The Blizzard

Investigation Day 2: Wednesday

The Boss continues to freeze the Detective out. She now delivers all directives via Theater Kid.

Theater Kid may not survive the week.

Efficiency has dropped another 3%. Chaos is up 23%. Morale: unstable.

***

Either Miranda doesn’t care about the chaos of using Lark as her go-between—or she’s perfectly fine with it.

Because she keeps doing it.

I’m running full-time damage control, but nothing I do is enough.

If Lark’s fast, she can speed dial me from her cell so I can listen in. That only works if I’m not on the subway—or dodging foot traffic and a chorus of honking taxis.

If I’m in the office, sometimes I creep close to the door, just out of sight, trying to catch fragments of Miranda’s hushed instructions. But inevitably, the phone rings, and I’m yanked back to my desk. Out of the loop. Again.

Every trip into Miranda’s office pushes Lark closer to the edge. She's unraveling by the hour.

Well, I think as I speed-walk toward Miranda’s office with a stack of magazines. Maybe if Lark quits, Miranda will finally have to acknowledge me again—and this whole nightmare will be over.

One can dream.

“Here you go, Miranda,” I say, handing her the stack of competitor magazines and trying not to sound like my sanity is actively crumbling.

She glances up through her lashes, and my pulse snags—like a loose thread caught on a jagged ring.

But her gaze doesn't linger. She turns back to the skyline outside the window.

“Leave it.”

She won’t even take something from me now?

Seriously?

I place the magazines carefully on her desk, making sure not to cover any photos or documents, and step back.

It’s not like she needs me for anything.

Maybe it was just a fluke, I tell myself, scraping together the last dregs of optimism.

***

Case Notes: The Blizzard

Investigation Day 3: Thursday

It wasn’t a fluke.

The Boss now expects all deliveries from the Detective to be placed on a neutral surface. Direct hand-offs are a no-go.

Itemized evidence:

• magazines

• mid-day coffee

• accessories from Dior

• sample proofs

• photographer shortlist

• gala dinner menu

Conclusion: The Blizzard is not general. It is targeted.

Upon careful observation, the Boss has not altered her behavior with anyone else. Only the Detective.

Lacking further evidence, the Detective is forced to call the case cold.

For now.

***

By Friday afternoon, I’m convinced this hell is my new reality.

And I hate it.

I hover outside Nigel’s office longer than I want to admit. We haven’t talked much since lunch on Lark’s first day. Sure, we’ve both been busy—but it’s more than that.

I don’t know much about the war that’s brewing, but battle lines have been drawn. Miranda doesn’t trust Nigel anymore. That makes me wary, too.

But who else can I go to?

I take a deep breath and step inside.

He looks up from the proofs he’s arranging and gives me a sad smirk.

“Darling, if you’ve come for Makeover Part Deux, I’m afraid I already gave you the best I had. This Fairy Godfather can turn rags into a ballgown, but those circles under your eyes? That’d take divine intervention.”

I roll my eyes, arms crossed—but a laugh escapes anyway.

“Yeah, yeah. Your magic has limits.”

I pull a rolling chair close and lean my elbows on the table, sobering.

“I don’t know what I did, Nigel.” I look up at him, forehead creased. “Things were so good. And then they just … weren’t. What happened? What do I do?”

Nigel sighs, takes off his glasses, and rubs a hand over his head.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Six,” he says, not unkindly. “When you hold an ice cube in your hand too long, it starts to burn, doesn’t it?”

He reaches out and pats my clasped hands.

“It sucks. I know. But let this be a wake-up call. If you get pulled into her orbit—make her the center of your world—you’ll just get burned. Eventually.”

He offers a sad smile and turns back to his work.

I take that as my cue to go.

A few steps down the hall, I stop. Press my back to the wall. Try to steady my breathing.

Nigel can’t be right.

Yeah, she burned him in Paris. After eighteen years, she couldn’t even give him a call to say plans had changed.

But this is different.

We’re different.

Right?