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The last thing I see is the white mask going back on above me, and the grey coverall turning away like this was always going to be a fall.

The last thing I hear is Rhys.

Then even that goes.

9

Rhys Preswood

Friday, October 31st. 12:26 a.m.

I do not make it in time.

The mountain is behind me. The road is wet. Harrow Mills is still dark enough that the tape looks brighter than the glass. Preswood Tower is ringed. Cars. Lights. A man in a uniform who does not work for me holds up a hand at the entrance like I am a guest.

I give him my name. I give him the building. I tell him Ivy Chen was on the phone with me when she died. After that they stop treating me like I just arrived.

They take my phone. They take my keys. They walk me through my own lobby past people I know and people I do not, treating me like a suspect. Thirty-six is closed. The service stairs are closed. Nobody says Kit’s name out loud in front of me. Nobody has to. I already know what is on the floor.

They put me in the thirty-eighth floor conference room. Glass. Long table. The same table I have used to end companies. Two detectives. A woman, late forties, coat still on. A man younger than her who writes everything down like it might save him.

She says her name is Pell. He says his name is Ortiz. I do not offer them coffee. This is not that kind of morning.

“You were on the line with Ivy Chen?” Pell asks.

“Yes.”

“She called you?”

“Yes.”

“Not emergency?”

“She called emergency first. She said they put her on hold. Then she called me.”

Ortiz writes that down. Pell does not look at his page.

“Walk it from the start, Mr. Preswood. You were at home?”

“Yes.”

“Mountain house?”

“Yes.”

“She woke you?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She said Kit was dead. Copy room. Thirty-six. She said there was a lot of blood. Then she said someone was there.”

“Someone?”

“She said a mask. She did not give me a name.”

“And you got in the car?”