Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
MALLORY
Midnight changed the city.
Traffic never disappeared completely, but it surrendered the battle for dominance. The constant rush dissolved into isolated sounds—a train somewhere beyond the river, tires hissing over damp pavement, the distant wail of a siren that belonged to somebody else's emergency.
Flint parked half a block from the address. Neither of us said anything.
The office building stood twelve stories high, all dark windows and unfinished ambition. Construction fencing still enclosed part of the entrance where redevelopment had stalled two years earlier. A banner advertising luxury office space flapped lazily against the chain link.
Partially vacant, at least, officially.
My hand drifted into my coat pocket until my fingers found the smooth plastic access card.
Alone.
The single word felt more menacing now than it had sitting in the newsroom or at Flint’s apartment.
Flint shut off the engine and neither of us moved. “You can still decide not to go.” The careful neutrality in his voice was enough to bolster my confidence.
He really didn’t want me doing this, but he was also not going to make it a fight to stay. He got it. He got the work. He got—me.
“I know,” I assured him. Not because he needed the words, but because I wanted to give them to him.
“You don't owe him anything.”
A smile curved my lips. “No,” I said. “I don’t.”
Silence settled between us again. The dashboard clock rolled over to 11:52.
“I've been thinking,” I admitted.
He smiled without humor. “That's usually when I get nervous.”
With a snort, I smacked the back of my left hand against his arm. It wasn’t a true blow but more a hey in physical form. ”I mean I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
“Which part?” He turned his head and looked at me.
“Where you said, I wanted you close enough to catch me.”
Understanding flickered across his face. “I shouldn't have said it like that.”
“No.” I looked down at my hands. “You absolutely should have.”
Another quiet moment stretched between us. Flint waited me out. It was this kind of patience that had helped him not only develop a rapport with the people he interviewed, but also let him take the time for a story to breathe.
“I do that,” I admitted, not altogether comfortable with making this admission. But this was Flint…
“You do what, exactly?”
“I reach for you when everything starts falling apart.” I had been—for an uncomfortable amount of time. I couldn’t even track to when I started.
He didn’t say anything, just watched me with cool, assessing eyes. The lack of emotion didn’t deter me, he was waiting to see what I said. Or at least, I hoped that was what he was doing.
The most difficult part of all was “I didn’t realize that I was doing it.” Didn’t that just suck to admit?
“I know.” That soft acknowledgement coupled with his awareness stung more than a disagreement would have.
I laughed, once. It was far more self-deprecating than humorous. “You keep saying that.”
“I’m trying not to make this harder for either of us than it already is.” A carefully worded admission that reminded me of just who he was. Beyond the newsroom, beyond the job, and beyond—well just beyond. He was my friend. Had been for longer than we’d worked together.
I shifted in the seat and faced him. “You aren’t.” He really wasn’t. He challenged me when I needed to be challenged and he’d been right there to help at every sharp turn and angle.
He turned partially, but I got his sweep of the area through the windshield and side mirror before he met my gaze once more. “You've never asked me not to worry.”
“No.” What would be the point of asking for that? We all worried. It came from understanding the darkness in the world.
“You've only asked me not to stop you.”
Because that was true, neither of us argued it. His neutral tone told me that was a difficult enough challenge for him. “I’m just not sure when I burn the last of my credit with you.”
“You’ve got a lifetime subscription,” he said as I opened the door. “That is not something you ever need to worry about.”
Cold air rushed into the car as I processed that last statement and the little thrill of hope that just bloomed into being in my chest.
Before I could step out, Flint said, “If anything feels wrong...”
“I leave,” I promised him. I would trust my gut on this. As much as I tried to demonstrate I wasn’t uneasy, I was. This wasn’t the safest thing to do. But nothing worth accomplishing was ever truly safe.
“If anything changes…”
“I leave.” That was the plan.
A beat of silence as I stood on the sidewalk and looked back inside at him.
Then he said, “If he asks you to go somewhere else—”
“I’ll leave.” I didn’t even let him finish that one.
His jaw tightened and his lips compressed into a thin white line. Then with a huff of breath, he said, “I really hate how quickly you answered those.”
He sounded so disgruntled, I almost wanted to laugh. Inappropriate? Maybe but I’d rather laugh than cry. “What can I say? I do listen.”
“I know.” There it was again, the open acceptance of who we both were and I smiled. “So have I,” he added. “I know you need to do this. I don’t have to like it, but I can support you.”
Me. Not what I was doing. The distinction was clear and I respected it. For the first time in days, something eased between us. The conflict. The stress. The need on both sides that put us both in opposition and partnership.
It didn’t erase the distance. Not yet. But it showed me that we hadn’t blown that bridge. Maybe we’d have to Indiana Jones our away across, but we could do whatever we needed in order to get the story and keep each other safe.
“I’ll be here,” he said. He’d be here to get me out if he had to and he’d come prepared. It was—impressive.
“I know.” The intrusive thought of “blow him a kiss” was wildly out of bounds so I just held his gaze then nodded before I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and settled into work mode.
With that, I closed the door and headed down the damp sidewalk in the drizzling weather.
My breath didn’t quite fog in the air as I approached the doors. The lobby lights came on a split-second before I stopped at the doors themselves.
Motion sensors? Or someone watching?
It was just as likely to be one as to be the other. Still… I palmed the access card from my pocket.
“Here goes nothing,” I murmured. I pressed it to the reader first, sometimes it was a tap but that didn’t work. So I slid it carefully along the side and there was a soft electronic chirp.
The lock disengaged immediately. I eyed the card then the building. Good to know it worked without having to fight with it. I pulled the door open and let myself in. The lobby lights might be on, but they were dim enough to give the whole area a kind of suspended feel.
Maybe the lights were aware that it was nearly midnight and if it were as a bright as day in here, it would be blinding. The lobby smelled faintly of drywall dust and fresh paint.
One elevator’s doors opened as I approached. Just an empty elevator with its doors spread like an invitation—or a gaping mouth. Take your pick.
With a half-laugh at my own melodramatic interpretation, I strode into the elevator and glanced at the panel. No buttons glowed and no floor indicator suggested where I should go.
The doors closed and the panel illuminated the number 12. I hadn’t pressed anything, but it rose without a sound.
I hummed the Twilight Zone theme. Too many crime scenes and far too little sleep. The elevator stopped at twelve and the doors slid open smoothly.
Weirdly, the twelfth hadn’t been on our list of possibilities. Good to know we still couldn’t predict everything about the Auditor, right?
The area looked nothing like the abandoned construction below. It had power, heat, and finished flooring.
The floor was also very dim, with low-lighting. One office at the end of the corridor stood open. Everything else was dark.
Subtle.
I counted cameras as I made my way down the corridor. One. Two. Four.
Too obvious and far too many for this space. I imagined they were decoys and the real problems were the cameras we couldn’t see.
At the open office door, I swept a look over the interior. It contained almost nothing beyond a desk, two chairs, a bottle of water, an unopened notebook with a pen, and a large monitor mounted on the opposite wall.
I took a couple of steps inside and unbuttoned my jacket. It wasn’t so warm I needed to remove it, but staying all bundled up wouldn’t work either. Pausing as I continued to scan the room, I found no computer or visible cables.
The silence lasted long enough for me to become aware of my own breathing. No ticking clock, no HVAC kicking in. Nothing.
Doing a slow pivot, I frowned. Then stepped back out into the hall for a moment. It was—noisier with a faint hum but when I returned to the office, not even two steps in and that sound vanished.
This wasn’t just quiet, it was—soundproofed.
Impressed, I eyed the door then glanced back to the desk, the setup, and the monitor. A tiny green light appeared beneath the monitor.
The screen awakened to black, no image, as white text flashed onto the screen.
Good evening, Ms. McBryan.
I debated sitting, but decided to remain standing for now. I wasn’t quite halfway to the desk but the open door behind me was also unnerving.
The letters just sat there—waiting.
Finally, I said, “Good evening.”
It wouldn’t surprise me to find out he had it wired for sound. Nothing the Auditor did at this point seemed too far-fetched. He was too controlled and meticulous. Even now, rolling with curveballs, he played so many steps ahead, there was no way to close the score gap.
A beat passed as I waited for a response. The welcome line vanished then another appeared.
Close the door if it will make you feel more comfortable.
I raised my eyebrows.
No one will interrupt. Your choice if the door is open or closed.
“My choice?” I let the question hang out there.
Yes.
Lips pursed, I glanced at the open door then at the monitor.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Another beat.