Page 23 of Prey

He jolts. Only for a second. His face smooths over like he's been practicing it in the mirror.

"Ms. Sophie."

He says my name with that quiet politeness that makes most people underestimate him. They see the soft voice, the lowered eyes. They forget the folder labeled C on his laptop, ah but most people don’t know about that folder, and the way he looks at Cain when he thinks no one‘s watching.

"Where are you headed?" I ask, as if I don’t already know the office floor plan by heart.

"Board room." He lifts the stack of papers slightly. "Quarterly projections Mr. Michaels asked for them."

Of course he did.

"Walk with me," I say. My tone makes it sound like a suggestion.

He hesitates. Then falls into step beside me, matching my pace down the corridor. His stride is measured, quiet, my heels click together, we sound wrong. Like two different songs playing over each other. We pass two assistants, a junior associate, and the glass wall of conference room B. Cain is not inside. He’s on a different floor, buried in numbers and power. For now. We reach the corner where the hallway splits, one way to the boardroom, the other to a smaller, seldom-used meeting space. I stop, turn toward the empty room.

"In here."

He glances at the board room door. At the clock on the wall. Five minutes until his meeting.

"Mr. Micheals is waiting for these," he says.

"He’s waiting for you," I correct, and watch the words land. Then I soften my mouth into a smile. "A few minutes won’t kill anyone. Come on, Grey. I just want to talk."

He doesn't believe me. Smart boy. But he still follows me into the room. The door closes. The noise of the office cuts off like someone pressed mute. It's just us, a long table, eight empty chairs, frosted glass and no cameras in here. Leo showed me the blind spots months ago.

Grey moves to the far end of the table, placing the papers down. Then he turns back to me, hands loose at his sides, expression courteous.

"You wanted to talk," he prompts.

I want to do a lot of things. I walk toward him, slowly, letting the silence stretch. He’s watching me now, not the way he watches Cain, but with an edge. I stop a few feet away. Close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes. He isn’t sleeping well.

"You’ve been busy," I final say.

His eyebrows lift. "Work has been demanding."

"Work. Interesting choice of word. That’s one way to describe breaking into your boss's apartment."

He freezes.

It’s a beautiful reaction, total stillness. Like prey caught in headlights. Then the smallest movement, a tightening around his mouth, and a flicker in his eyes.

But his voice, when it comes, is almost steady. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm bored of polite lies, Grey. You broke into Cain’s penthouse. You knew the code for the lock. You walked through his living room like you belonged there. You went into his bedroom." I take a step closer.

“You lay in his bed. You put on his jacket. You touched his things. And then you touched yourself."

His throat works, just once, swallowing something heavy.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he says softly.

I could list the evidence. The hallway camera that caught him outside the apartment door, the brief glitch when he jammed the feed, the timestamp matching the GPS data from Cain’s car, downtown at some tedious board dinner. The faint silhouette on the bedroom camera, barely there but enough for me to know. The audio file.

But that’s for later.

I tilt my head. "Do you know how many feeds and logs Cain has access to now? How many he showed me, thinking I was just being a careful board member?"

He says nothing.