Page 3

“You love it. Keep walking.”

Thirty-eight.

Through the glass of the meeting room I see Marcus Bell, thirty-four, the man the firm hires to investigate cases. He used to do some kind of police work, but nobody knows what, and he will never write that down on any form. He is a big man, wide through the chest and shoulders, with short dirty-blond hair, a broken nose that a doctor has set back into place, and pale green eyes. Those eyes are on a spread of photographs. He looks up as if he felt me standing there, nods once, then looks back down at the pictures of the dead people he is studying.

The computer office is a dark part of the building. Dev Patel is thirty-two. He sits at three computers and wears a small silver earring in one ear. He is the one who controls the doors and security in Preswood Tower, except for the rooms Rhys keeps private. He can see where almost everyone goes in the building, but thankfully not into the file room. He is neat, careful, and always dressed in clean, expensive clothes. He looks up at me and pulls out his earphones.

“Some floors go dark early,” he says. “Don’t get stuck.”

My stomach tightens. For a second I think he knows where I am going. Then I realize he could mean any floor in the building.

“Thanks for the warning.”

I keep walking. He puts his earphones back in and looks at his computers again.

Aria Voss comes out of HR with her coat on and her mouth already on a call of her own. At thirty-three, she’s the person with the power to hire and fire, and it is usually the pretty ones. Deep brown skin. She mouths goodnight at me and does not break her stride.

Last glass before the nineteenth stairs, Shane Cole, twenty-seven, Rhys’s driver when Rhys is in the building late, is leaning on the wall like the wall asked him to. Black hair in a knot. A scar at the corner of his mouth. He looks at my phone, then at my face, and does not smile.

“Preswood is still on thirty-nine,” he says. “If you were wondering.”

I was not. I am now.

Rafe’s voice goes softer. My attention is back on the phone.

“You’re close. Tell me you’re hard.”

“I’m hard.”

“Tell me you want my mouth.”

“I want your mouth.”

“Then come and take it.”

The file room on the nineteenth floor is long, dark, and quiet. Half the lights are already off. The ones still on are dim and yellow, and the old wooden shelves are packed with files. I use my pass to open the door and step inside.

“I’m here,” I say.

Then I hear it. A small, hard tap, like something plastic hitting the phone. The Rafe voice stops, like someone has taken it off.

The dirty warmth is gone. What is left is soft and close, like a mouth against my ear. Calm. Even. It could be anyone.

“Are you alone, Noah?”

The hair on my arms stands up.

“Rafe, if you are putting on a voice, stop. Just come here. You know I don’t care for your horror games.”

“Do you want my mouth, or do you want to see what I really am?”

“Stop it,” I tell him.

“Ask me to kiss you. Do it now.”

I turn all the way around. There are rows of shelves, a table, and a dark window that looks out on the back lane behind the building. Nobody can see in from another office. There is no Rafe. There is only the smell of dust and old paper.

“This isn’t funny.”