Page 25

Still nothing.

The last thing he promised was the kitchen light. After that my texts just sat there. Coffee. Mouth. The photo. Nothing back. I told myself he was finishing the floor. I wanted him in person, not on a screen.

I get out. The air is cold on my legs. My heels sound too loud on the concrete. I lock the car and look up the glass. Most of the floors are dark. Thirty-six still has a square of light. That is him. That has to be him.

I take the lift with the coffee in one hand and my phone in the other. The lift smells like polish and soap. I check my mouth again in the brass door. I practice what I am going to say. You are late. Take it off. I want your mouth first. I smile at myself like an idiot.

The doors open on thirty-six.

The floor is quiet. Glass. Dark desks. The kitchen light is on at the end of the hall, just like he said it would be. I walk toward it and I do not rush, because I want him to see me coming.

“Kit.”

No answer.

The lid is on the oat milk when I enter the kitchen. His jacket is not on the chair. His phone is not on the counter and his mug is in the sink. The light is on.

I set the coffee down. I call him. It rings out. I send another text.

Me: I am in the kitchen. If this is a game I am going to kill you.

Nothing.

I walk the floor because I do not want to be the girl who panics in a kitchen. Noah’s office is dark. I stand in the doorway long enough to see the empty chair and the dark glass. I do not go in. I check the bathrooms. Empty. I check the little room with the coats. Empty. I check the copy room last because that is where he hides when he does not want to be found, and because the door is not quite shut.

I push it open.

The light is still on.

Kit is on the floor.

I make a sound that is not my voice. The coffee hits the floor. I drop to my knees in it. Kit is naked on the tile. There is too much blood. It is on his stomach. It is on his hips. It is on his hands, like he tried to hold himself together and failed. His mouth is open. His eyes are open. They do not move when I say his name. He is already gone.

“Kit. Look at me. Please. Look at me.”

He does not.

I touch his face. He is cold. A living person is not that cold. I pull my hand back.

My hands shake. I call emergency.

A voice starts talking about holding. I swear at it. I give the floor and the building and his name and the voice keeps talking like I have not just said a man is dead. I hang up and call the only other number that makes sense.

Rhys picks up on the second ring. He sounds like I woke him.

“Ivy.”

“He’s dead.” My voice comes out wrong. “Kit. Copy room. Thirty-six. There is so much blood. You have to—”

I stop.

The doorway is not empty.

Grey coverall. Hood up. White mask. Black gloves. It does not look like a person. It looks like something that learned how to stand.

“Rhys,” I whisper. “Someone is here.”

“Where are you?” He is awake now. Sharp. “Ivy. Stay on the phone. Where are you?”