Chapter 19 #2
That was a far more complicated question to answer. Not because of Brewster’s tone—though he was being an ass—but because Simon had given me a name. A simple name. It might be real, I rather doubted that it was. Yet, in giving me a name at my request, it had changed something between us.
The Auditor was a construct. A designation I'd created because I needed language for a pattern. Simon was a person who'd asked why I became a journalist.
A person who knew what my laugh sounded like.
A person who had invited me into a building under conditions he controlled and somehow managed to make me feel like the interviewer even while he dissected every answer I gave him.
Maybe the distinction should have made him seem less dangerous. If anything, it told me just how dangerous he was.
“Why?” I asked.
Brewster's gaze sharpened. “That's not an answer.”
“I’m aware.”
“Did he?”
I held his stare and I refused to bend. If he wanted to make this a real interrogation, I’d get my attorney. That thought sent a sliver of pain through me.
Then Foster called from inside the floor. “Brewster.” Something in his voice interrupted us.
Brewster turned.
Foster stood in the doorway. “You need to see this.”
When Brewster strode after him, I shot Flint a glance, but he already had my arm and we followed.
The corridor looked exactly as it had when I'd come down it earlier. Raw drywall. Construction dust. Exposed conduit overhead. Temporary lights throwing ugly shadows across unfinished concrete.
Except it didn't.
Something was wrong.
I slowed.
Flint nearly bumped into me. “What?”
I pointed.
The black stencil beside the stairwell door read: 12
Flint stared at it. Then looked back toward the stairs we'd just climbed. “No.”
Brewster followed his gaze.
Foster said, “That's why I called you.”
“We came from twelve,” Brewster said.
“Yes.”
“And we're on—”
“Twelve.”
No one spoke.
I looked at the number again, then I laughed. I couldn't help it. Not because anything was funny.
Because of course.
Flint looked at me as though I might have finally lost my mind. “What?”
I pointed at the number. “Specificity.”
His expression suggested that didn't improve matters. Brewster's did.
“And what does that mean?” he demanded.
“Nothing.” I waved him off. It might take me too long to explain.
“That doesn't sound like nothing.”
“It was something he said.”
“When?” Another demand. Brewster’s clipped tones were starting to grate on my nerves.
“During the conversation.”
“What exactly did he say?” The question came too quickly.
I looked at him. Then at the agents around us.
Then at the cameras clipped to tactical vests, radios, phones, microphones and whatever else I couldn't see.
Simon had built our entire encounter around the difference between facts and narrative. I suddenly had no desire to contribute another word to either. “We should get out of here.”
Brewster frowned. “A minute ago you refused to leave.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
I started toward the office.
“Mallory.”
I kept walking. Flint’s hand slid down my arm until he wrapped his hand around mine and fell into step with me.
Brewster followed.
The room looked smaller with half a dozen federal agents inside it.
The desk remained exactly where I'd left it. Chair pushed slightly away. Monitor black.
No keyboard.
I stopped.
There had been a keyboard.
“Don't touch anything,” Foster warned like I was an idiot.
“I wasn't going to.”
His expression said he didn’t believe me but whatever.
Brewster moved around the desk. “Where were you?”
I pointed at the chair.
“And the computer?”
“Right there.”
“This monitor?”
“Yes.”
“Keyboard?”
I pointed to where there was nothing.
Foster swore quietly.
Brewster crouched to look beneath the desk.
Flint studied the walls.
“What?” I asked.
“I'm looking for a camera.”
I nodded. “So am I.”
“You were here for over an hour.” Flint shot me a look, but I just shrugged it off. If he wanted to know more later, we could discuss it then.
“I had other things on my mind.”
His gaze came to mine. He understood far more than I’d intended to share at the moment. Brewster was watching me, whether he heard more than I meant for him to or he just didn’t trust me at all at the moment was up for debate.
Foster's radio crackled. He listened, then pressed the button at his shoulder. “Repeat.”
Static answered. Then, an agent said, “No one on thirteen.”
Foster looked toward Brewster.
Brewster looked at the black 12 painted beside the door. “There is no thirteen,” he said. Most buildings skipped labeling a floor 13. It was a rather quaint, if artificial, throwback to superstitions and bad horror movies.
Just calling a floor 14, didn’t make it not 13. I flicked a look at the 12. Nor did calling it floor 12 again.
“Correct,” Foster confirmed.
“Roof access?”
“Sealed from inside. Dust across the door and frame. Doesn't look disturbed.”
“Exterior?”
“Nothing.”
“Elevators?”
“Still disabled.”
Brewster straightened. For several seconds nobody said anything. He looked around the room.
Desk.
Monitor.
Chair.
Me.
His gaze returned to the monitor. “If he wasn't physically here, he didn't need an exit.”
“No,” Flint said, agreeing with him.