Page 213 of Lorenzo

I stop.

Mocha looks up at me.

“No.”

His tail gives one lazy sweep.

“If he sees me, we're trapped.”

Harold works in the office across the hall and possesses the extraordinary ability to turn a thirty-second greeting into a conversation long enough to make me reconsider every decision that led me into the hallway.

I know he's an accountant, but I have no idea what else he does.

He has explained it to me at least four times, and each explanation has been extensive enough that I should probably have earned some kind of certification by now.

I have retained absolutely none of it.

The last time he caught me outside my office, he spent fourteen minutes explaining a tax law that nearly made me cross my eyes in boredom.

Fourteen.

I know because I checked.

I lower my voice.

“Move.”

Mocha obeys.

We cross the hall quickly while I glance toward Harold’s door.

No movement.

Excellent.

I reach my office, shift the coffee against my body, and dig out my keys.

The lock turns normally.

I push the door inward several inches.

Then I stop.

Nothing obvious is visible through the opening, but something is wrong.

I cannot explain the feeling beyond experience. Too many years of walking into rooms while paying attention to details most people ignore have taught me to trust the moment when something does not fit, even before I know what that something is.

I do not think about it.

I react.

I set the coffee on the floor and place my laptop bag beside it.

My hand goes beneath my jacket and closes around my gun.

Mocha is already watching me.

“Alert,” I say quietly.