Marist seemed to have taken her computer down to the AMI conference in Seattle, but they could probably get a good amount of information from her secretary’s computer.
Reece hesitated.
What would it take to get the secretary to leave?
There was, of course, a way Reece could find out.
He bit his lip. No. No, he couldn’t think about using insight on purpose. He shouldn’t think about it. It was a hard line; Grayson had said so.
You’re in Stone Solutions. The company that might have hired someone to kidnap you. That was going to hurt Jamey. That kidnapped Cora and purposefully corrupted her. They hurt your fellow empaths.
And Cedrick Stone would have hurt Evan.
Reece cut his eyes to the partially open office door that hid Grayson. The last couple times Reece had used insight, he’d puked all over himself. Grayson would notice that, and maybe they were sort of flirting and sharing a truck and a hotel room, but Grayson had made it clear that the Dead Man’s amnesty wasn’t going to extend to Reece using insight on purpose.
But then, the last couple times, using insight had been an accident, brought on by stress. If he did it on purpose, could he stay more in control? So that Grayson wouldn’t even know?
He looked back at the secretary, and before he could think on it further, his gaze went unfocused, absorbing details about her.
High heels, skirt and tights, all crisp and neat, dressed up despite the winter weather and business casual attire of the rest of the office, her posture tense as she perches on the edge of her chair—
Hair in a smooth updo and heavy eye makeup, but faded lipstick on chewed-on lips—
Pretty nails as she’s glued to her phone, her face set in anticipation every time her fingers stop moving, the occasional small and furtive smile stealing through—
She has an office crush.
Reece’s stomach swooped. He clenched his teeth hard as he took a stabilizing breath through his nose.No puking, he ordered himself, as he forced the nausea down.
He pushed himself up from the chair. “Some interns brought coffee and stuff,” he said, trying for a friendly tone. “Did you get any?”
“Hmm?” she said distractedly, not looking up from her phone. “Oh, no, I’m not hungry.”
“You must be the only one, then,” Reece said casually. “I think the whole office turned up in the break room.”
She paused, looking up at him. “Really?”
“Yeah,” said Reece. “They were all still hanging out when I walked past, making happy hour plans and stuff. Must have been, like, everybody who works here.”
“Oh.” She put her phone in her purse, then stood. “Coffees too, you said?”
A minute later, Reece was alone in the front room—and she hadn’t locked her computer when she left. He kept an eye out on the hall as he bent over the desk.
What would Jamey start with, if she was standing here? The answer came as easily as the secretary’s office crush: expense reports and time sheets, looking for a record of a trip to the post office.
He began opening programs until he found one with saved receipts. The box the gloves had been mailed in had been postmarked two weeks earlier. He scrolled backward until he could scan the entries in the system for that date.
Nothing from the post office. But there was a receipt from a Vancouver restaurant, for—Jesus, Marist had spenthow muchon dinner? Reece read over the entry, gaze lingering on the description.
Business dinner.
Other attendees: Holt Traynor (Empath Initiative); Victor Nichols (Polaris Empathic Research Facility)
All three of them had been in Vancouver the day the gloves had been mailed to the airsoft course. Reece leaned closer.
“Mr. Davies.”
Reece froze. He glanced up, trying—and almost certainly failing—to keep an innocent expression. “Evan. Hey. Find anything else?”
