The One Hundred Eighth Strike
Language: en
The company’s annual spring retreat was supposed to be a team-building exercise. After a democratic vote—which I suspect was rigged by the HR department’s obsession with "mindfulness"—we ended up at St. Jude’s Mission, a sprawling, historic estate famous for its ancient chapel and a massive, decommissioned bronze bell. But ten minutes into the tour, my husband and his personal assistant were nowhere to be found. I scanned the courtyard, my heart doing that slow, nauseating crawl it always did when Preston went missing. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. Our company’s "Culture Trip" livestream was…