Chapter 2 - FLOOR TWENTY-FOUR
Norah screamed when the elevator dropped.
Not long.
One raw sound.
Then Declan pulled her down beside him.
The car fell perhaps six feet.
Maybe ten.
Enough to convince the body it was dying.
Then metal caught metal.
The elevator slammed to a stop so hard Declan’s shoulder struck the wall.
He groaned.
Norah heard something hit the floor.
The gun.
She kicked it accidentally.
Declan whispered:
“Leave it.”
“What?”
“Don’t reach until I tell you.”
The darkness was absolute now.
Then her laptop screen illuminated the floor.
Declan’s face appeared in blue light.
He looked worse.
Much worse.
“Your shirt.”
“Later.”
“No.”
She grabbed a clean scarf from her purse.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to stop you from bleeding on me.”
“That’s sentimental.”
“Shut up.”
She pressed the folded fabric against the wound below his ribs.
Declan inhaled sharply.
“Bullet?”
“Knife.”
“Who stabbed you?”
“Someone who shouldn’t have been close enough.”
That answer mattered.
Not an enemy across a parking lot.
Someone close.
“Who?”
“Martin Keane.”
Norah froze.
Gallagher Enterprises’ chief financial officer.
The man who sent her quarterly reporting packages.
Including the spreadsheet.
“Mr. Keane attacked you?”
“Not personally.”
“Then?”
“He invited me to a meeting.”
“Where?”
“Warehouse district.”
“At midnight?”
“It started at nine.”
“What kind of CEO meeting ends with a knife?”
“The kind you don’t put on Outlook.”
Of course.
Declan lifted her hand from the wound.
“Listen carefully.”
“I’m listening.”
“If the doors open and you see anyone except Maeve Quinn, you stay behind me.”
“Who is Maeve?”
“My security chief.”
“I’ve met your security chief. His name is Leonard.”
“Leonard manages the building.”
“That distinction is terrifying.”
“Maeve manages me.”
Norah almost laughed.
Then something clicked above them.
A maintenance lock.
Declan immediately reached for the gun.
“Behind me.”
Norah moved.
The top emergency hatch shifted.
Light entered.
A male voice called:
“Mr. Gallagher?”
Declan raised the gun.
“Name.”
“Building maintenance. Carlos.”
Norah recognized the voice.
Carlos Jimenez.
She had seen him fixing the executive conference-room lights.
“It’s Carlos.”
Declan did not lower the weapon.
“Employee number.”
Silence.
Then:
“Sir?”
Declan’s expression hardened.
“Employee number.”
The hatch slammed shut.
Footsteps disappeared above.
Norah stared.
“That wasn’t Carlos.”
“No.”
“How did you know?”
“Carlos retired six weeks ago.”
She felt sick.
Then the speaker came back.
“Time’s up.”
Declan raised his voice.
“If you want the drive, come take it.”
The answer was immediate.
“We don’t need to.”
Then the elevator alarm began shrieking.
Not the normal bell.
A continuous mechanical siren.
Norah covered one ear.
“What is that?”
“Fire override.”
The doors jolted.
Opened four inches.
Concrete wall.
They were between floors.
Then stopped.
Declan moved toward the opening and looked upward.
“Twenty-four is about four feet above us.”
“So?”
“We get out.”
Norah stared.
“You’re bleeding, the elevator is broken, and you want to climb into a hallway where somebody just pretended to be maintenance?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds insane.”
“Staying inside a controlled box sounds worse.”
Fair.
Declan forced the inner doors wider.
Norah could see polished hallway tile above.
He boosted her first.
She pulled herself onto the twenty-fourth floor.
Then turned.
Declan tried once.
Failed.
His face went white.
“Give me your hand.”
“No.”
“Declan.”
“Back up.”
“You’re going to bleed out because masculinity has rules?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Give me your hand.”
She helped.
Together they got him over the threshold.
The moment his shoes cleared the elevator, the car dropped.
Norah watched the open shaft swallow it.
The crash came several seconds later.
Far below.
She stopped breathing.
Declan sat against the wall.
“If we had stayed…”
“Yes.”
“They were going to kill us.”
“Yes.”
He said it without comfort now.
Norah looked around.
Floor twenty-four was dark.
Vacant.
Gallagher Enterprises had moved legal and compliance departments upstairs months earlier.
Plastic covered furniture.
Construction lights lined the halls.
“Why this floor?”
Declan stared toward the elevator shaft.
“Because it’s empty.”
“Convenient.”
“Very.”
Then Norah heard a phone ring.
Not hers.
Not Declan’s.
Somewhere down the corridor.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
They followed the sound.
A conference-room table.
One old desk phone.
Nothing else.
Declan picked it up.
“Talk.”
The distorted voice returned.
“You should have stayed in the elevator.”
Declan looked at Norah.
“Who are you?”
The voice laughed.
“You know.”
“No.”
“But your father would.”
Something changed in Declan’s expression.
“My father is dead.”
“So everyone keeps saying.”
The line went dead.
Norah stared.
Declan put the receiver down very slowly.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
He looked toward the empty hallway.
“My father died twelve years ago.”
“How?”
“Plane crash.”
“Body?”
His eyes moved to hers.
“Why would you ask that?”
Because she had spent fourteen months entering numbers for men who believed paperwork became truth if nobody asked what existed underneath it.
“Was there a body?”
Declan said nothing.
Then Norah’s laptop chimed.
No internet.
Yet a notification appeared.
A file had opened automatically from the spreadsheet package.
One PDF.
Employee background review.
Subject:
NORAH BENNETT.
She stared.
Her own photograph.
Her mother’s nursing-home address.
Her college records.
Medical-benefit history.
And one line highlighted in red:
FATHER: THOMAS BENNETT - STATUS UNCONFIRMED.
Norah stopped breathing.
“My father died when I was twelve.”
Declan looked at the screen.
“No.”
She turned toward him.
“What?”
His voice became quiet.
May you like
“Your father disappeared when you were twelve.”
And Norah realized the man bleeding beside her knew more about her family than she did.
