The silver Green Aviation logo above the doors likely doesn’t help.
When the doorman lets me into the quiet lobby, I’m not sure I could look any more out of place if I tried. Everything is shiny: the floor is marble, and the reception desk has the largest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen perched on aplinth, for Christ’s sake.
This place must go through an incredible amount of window and glass polish.
The reception desk is empty, which is strange. I would’ve thought they always have someone here. For the third time, my call to Alex goes to voicemail.
Could he be in a session with Harwood?
At the row of elevators, I hit the shiny button on the wall with a bad feeling sinking into my chest.
The elevator beside me is stuck on floor six, a little red triangle flashing beside the number. When a pair of doors slide open, I press the button for the penthouse floor, but the key card reader beside the number pad flashes red.
Great. I need an access card. Obviously I need an access card.
I glance around the hallway. Where is everyone? I thought everyone in this city was a workaholic.
I pace down the hallway of elevators, searching for … anything. An employee, a dropped access card, a janitor. I find a conference suite, whatever the fuck that means, and a coffee shop, both just as deserted as the rest of the building. It’s only when I’m turning to go and ask the doorman on the street outside for help that I spot a folded piece of paper wedged in the windowless door at the end of the hall.
Oh God. This is like a real-life horror movie. I put my foot in the door to keep it unlocked and unfold the note between shaky fingers. It’s going to be a ransom note, it’s going to be a horrible photo, it’s going to be—
It’s blank.
It’s a doorstop. That’s as underwhelming as it is relieving.
I call Alex again with no answer, peering up the stairwell; it’s not like the polished marble stairs with that ridiculous LED striplighting in the foyer. This looks like more of a maintenance stairwell, devoid of color save for the abandoned mop and bucket beside me.
I look back at the hallway of elevators, my eyes snagging on thatoneelevator, still stuck on floor six.
I feel tied to Alex in a way neither of us has ever been able to explain. All the time I’ve spent trying to snap the strings between us has only tied them tighter.
And I justknowsomething’s wrong.
My worry for Alex’s mood turns into a different kind of worry entirely. I take the first few steps quietly, but I’m running by the time I reach the sixth floor, and, sure enough, the access door is propped open just enough for it not to lock.
It’s not cold, but my teeth are chattering, fingers trembling as I dial 911 and press my phone to my ear.
Silence.
I don’t have enough service on this floor to call for help.
I glance back toward the stairwell. I had service in the foyer, but I can’t turn back. Not if Alex is up here and in danger.
Somewhere deep in my chest, I know exactly what—exactlywho—is happening here.
This is the moment I’ve imagined a thousand times over. This was always between Cain and me.
I slip through the door and into the unlit hallway, feet silent against the white flooring as I pace past an empty break room, a room full of cables and wires and glowing lights, then a cleaning supplies closet.
It’s deathly still.
I pull open a closet door, wincing at the creak of the hinges as I search the shelves for something, anything to use as a weapon.
A crowbar. I’ll never call myself unlucky again, because there’s a crowbar on the bottom shelf, sandwiched between two dustpans. It’s cool to the touch when I clutch it to my chest, heavier than I imagined.
I dial 911 over and over, but the call keeps failing as I hurry down the hallway until I skid to a halt outside the elevator.
Smashed glass. Dented metal. Alex’s phone, face down in a splatter of blood. And ironically, an odd sense of numbness washes over me. My fear for his safety melts everything else away, all the possible decisions andwhat should I dosconverge into a single plan. I’m a woman possessed.
