I exhale. That’s the kind of help I can live with. “Do it,” I say. “Quietly.”
Harrison’s fingers move on the screen. “And Lane Strategies,” he adds.
My gaze snaps up. He already knows the name because Harrison doesn’t miss patterns either.
“Put them on a watch list for phishing attempts and social engineering,” I say. “Nothing beyond that.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies, and he leaves without another word.
I leave HR and I call Lila anyway.
No answer.
I call again. Voicemail.
I don’t leave one.
I text.
Me: HR says you resigned. One word so I know you’re okay.
I watch the screen for the three dots. Nothing.
So I do the thing she’ll hate and the thing I can’t avoid, and I go to her building.
The lobby is small and tired and it smells of cleaning spray. I keep my posture neutral and my hands visible, and I don’tflash money or authority because that isn’t the point. I ride the elevator up and I knock once.
No answer, so I knock again. Still nothing. I step back, give the door space, and stare at the peephole because it’s easier than thinking about what comes next.
A door opens across the hall. An older woman steps out, wrapped in a scarf, eyes sharp. She looks at me the way New Yorkers look at everything, like it might be a scam.
“You looking for Lila,” she says.
“Yes.”
“She moved out,” the woman replies.
My fingers curl around my phone. “Did you see her leave.”
The woman nods. “Yesterday. Walked out with a suitcase and got into a car. Though first thing this morning men came by, packed, and carried out boxes.”
“Alone,” I ask.
“Alone,” she confirms. “She didn’t look drunk. She didn’t look happy either.”
“Did she say anything,” I ask.
The woman’s mouth tightens. “She doesn’t owe the hallway a story.”
She’s right again.
I nod. “Thank you.”
I walk away before my face does something I can’t control.
In the car, my chest tightens until breathing turns into work. I keep my hands on the wheel and stare at the street as if I can force it to give me an answer.
Adam, my PI, calls. “What’s happened?”
