My boss scheduled a mandatory video call for 7 a.m. Everyone logged in—cameras on, mics off—just like always.

But he didn’t show up.

We waited 20 minutes in confused silence until HR finally ended the call. An hour later, a company-wide email landed in our inboxes:
He’d died in his sleep the night before.

At first, I assumed it was just a glitch—maybe the meeting invite had been scheduled earlier and auto-sent. But something kept nagging at me, something small and stupid and impossible to ignore.

I double-checked the calendar.

The invite was sent at 9:12 a.m.
That same morning.
Over two hours after he was already confirmed dead.

And the subject line?

“Please be on time.”

I stared at those words for a full minute. My skin pricked. My stomach twisted. It wasn’t just the message—it was the tone. He always wrote formal, clipped subject lines. This one sounded almost… desperate.

I contacted IT immediately. They waved it off—said maybe his account was compromised or a draft finally got pushed through the queue. But I’ve worked in IT. I know our system like the back of my hand. Calendar invites do not send themselves. Dead men do not write reminders.

That message—it was written and sent after he died.

I tried to forget about it, to chalk it up to grief or stress or the thousand tiny horrors of working in a place where people push themselves past their limits. But then something even more unsettling happened.

We had recently hired a new nanny—Emily. A quiet 24-year-old woman with soft manners and an unnerving calm. My 7-year-old son bonded with her instantly. Too instantly. He was usually shy, wary of strangers, always glued to my side. But with her, it was like she’d flipped a switch inside him.

He cried when she was off. Refused to eat until she returned. Threw full meltdowns if someone else tried to tuck him in.

And she… she handled him perfectly. Like she already knew all his triggers, his fears, his little quirks. Like she’d studied him.

Yesterday, as I was tucking him into bed, he whispered something that made my heart slam against my ribs.

“Dad… did you know Mr. Harrison is still around? I saw him upstairs. He was talking to Emily.”

I froze.
Completely.

My son doesn’t lie. He barely even jokes. And he knew Mr. Harrison—he’d come to a few family barbecues years ago. My son recognized his face.

I kept my voice steady. I smiled and kissed him goodnight as if nothing was wrong. But my pulse was pounding so hard I could feel it in my jaw.

After he fell asleep, I walked to the hallway and stood there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening. The house was silent, but not the comforting kind. It felt… expectant. Like someone else was awake. Like someone else was watching.

And suddenly I remembered something:

Emily started the same week my boss died.

She’d said in her interview that she “needed a fresh start.”
No references.
No online footprint.
Nothing.

And this morning, when she arrived, she didn’t ring the bell.

She used the back door.
A door she should not have known existed.

I haven’t slept since.

And I keep thinking about that email.
That warning.

“Please be on time.”

What if it wasn’t meant for the team?
What if it wasn’t meant for work at all?

What if it was meant for me?