Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
SYLVIE
Eli was gone when I finally got out of bed in the morning.
A note sat on the table, saying he’d been called down into the office and to either come down there when I was up, or text, and he’d run out and get breakfast.
I read the note twice, rubbing at the ache in my chest with the heel of my palm.
I shouldn’t be so hurt. It was stupid. Eli never made me any promises. I’d signed an NDA, for fuck’s sake. I knew they were working on a confidential case. Was it really such a big deal that he hadn’t told me who the client was? That there wasn’t a client?
Yes, my heart shouted. Yes, it was a big fucking deal, because while I thought he was looking out for me, it was really about finding his missing mentor. While I was feeling safe for the first time since?—
I swallowed hard as I forced myself to recognize it.
For the first time since the carjacking.
Which was wild, because I was in arguably the most unsafe situation I’d been in since then.
My freaking van had been blown up. Someone was trying to kill me.
I’d been locked out of my bank, my credit cards, my socials.
My career was on the line. Everything was falling apart.
And I’d felt safe with Eli, right up until I found out that I was just the smoke screen so he could do what he really wanted: find Silas Creed.
I could take care of myself. I’d been doing that for a long time. I didn’t need Eli Bishop to keep me safe. I was fine. I still had the safe house, and Sinclair Security was on the case.
It just… It just wasn’t what I thought.
He never promised me anything, I reminded myself for the ten millionth time since Emmett had spoken Silas’s name yesterday.
I forced myself into the kitchen, made a cup of coffee, rummaged through the refrigerator, then swung the door closed without taking anything out. I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t really want the coffee.
What I wanted to do was run away to a tropical island and never come back. Go home and sleep in my childhood bed at my parents’ house, or just curl up in a ball and cry for a week or two.
I couldn’t do any of that.
It just— It fucking hurt. It shouldn’t. I barely knew Eli.
Sex wasn’t love. And none of that mattered because my heart was a fucking bleeding ache in my chest, and all I wanted to do was scream at him and sob until he promised never to hurt me again.
I needed to get it together. I’d cried myself to sleep last night, and it hadn’t done a fucking thing to make me feel better.
Eli was still playing me, and I couldn’t rewind to before, when just being with him felt better than anything ever had.
Crying wasn’t going to change anything. Throwing things at Eli couldn’t turn back time or undo his lies.
So I did the next best thing: sat at my laptop and worked on the case I thought might be my next season of Evidence this was Atlanta after all, but it wasn’t exactly spring either.
The second I was clear of the building, I put a spring in my step and moved—not fast enough to draw attention, but fast enough to cover ground.
I was glad I had a solid recall of visuals. I didn’t want to keep pulling up the map or using GPS on my phone. Instead, I turned the phone off completely. That wasn’t proof against being tracked, but it seemed like a good move.
I walked up a block, crossed the street, turned left, went another few blocks, and reached the MARTA station, disappearing down the escalator with a crowd of other people. I blended with everyone else, anonymous in my dark pants, blouse, and blazer, my hair pulled back in a bun, bundled in my coat.
The subway map made it easy enough to figure out where I was going, and less than fifteen minutes later, I was climbing the steps to the street just south of Midtown.
Pulling up the map in my memory, I walked a few blocks, made a turn, another few blocks, another turn, and found myself on Renaissance Parkway NE.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. This area of town was all over the place—parking garages, old concrete and brick office buildings, interspersed with a warehouse or a shiny new condo complex.
This wasn’t the business district, but I didn’t stick out too badly as I trudged up a slight incline, reading the numbers on the buildings.
Eighty-six was wedged in between a parking garage and a square building with flat planes of windows that looked like it had been built in the seventies.
Eighty-six was only three stories tall, clad in brick painted a grayish khaki sometime a few decades ago.
The windows were small, and there were some art deco-y details around the door, but otherwise it was a plain, slightly run-down, nondescript office building.
There wasn’t a directory outside, and if you’d told me the entire place was deserted, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I pushed the front door open to find the lights on in the lobby, a circular desk at the front, a narrow elevator I wasn’t sure I trusted, and finally, the building directory.
Six offices, two on each floor. It looked like the third floor was fully occupied. The second had a vacant office. And the first only had one name written for suite 101, a travel agency that, from a glance at the door, appeared to be closed.
The other, though, had the windows facing the lobby covered in paper, but the lights were on inside.
Now that I was here, I wasn’t entirely sure what to do next.
I didn’t have a business name, or any name at all—no one to say I was looking for.
All I knew was that the IP address of the person who had hacked into my socials had come from this building.
It could have been somebody sitting in the parking garage next door who connected to the Wi-Fi here.
I considered that. It might have been a squatter—somebody who took advantage of one of the empty office spaces, or the one right behind me.
It looked like it was being renovated, which could mean easy access for somebody looking to cause trouble.
I turned and stared at the door. I was here. I might as well ask a few questions, see if anyone had noticed anything suspicious. Maybe somebody hanging around who shouldn’t be there.
I crossed the lobby and tried the doors. One swung open, and I walked in to see a wide-open room taped off as if to be painted, plastic over the carpet, and a desk set up in the middle where I’d expect the receptionist would eventually be.
“Hello? Anybody here?” I called out.
“One second,” a male voice called from down the hall. He sounded young—not teenager young, but close to my age. I waited, and a minute later a man strode down the hall, a little taller than me, with messy dark curls and bright gray eyes.
“Hi.” He approached with his hand out, and I shook it, smiling back.
“Hi. This is kind of weird, but are you new to the building?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Opening up in a few weeks. As you can see, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Yep, I see that.” I gave him a bright, friendly smile. “I’m trying to track down some information that came from this building, and I was wondering if you’ve had any issues with break-ins? Or finding people in the building who shouldn’t be here?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s actually a very secure building. That front door is usually locked. I was bringing supplies in, so I forgot to lock it behind me. Don’t tell my neighbors,” he added, raising a finger to his lips.
I smiled back. “I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble,” I said. “Just curious.”
“What kind of information is it that you’re tracking down?” he asked.
“I wish I could tell you, but it’s a private matter.” I hoped that explanation would be enough.
“I understand,” he said. “If you want, we can go check the security logs. I’ve got a camera—I keep it turned on when I’m not here.
I haven’t looked through the footage. I never noticed anything out of place, so it didn’t occur to me anyone could have been here.
” He shrugged, held his palms up. “You never know, I guess. Do you want to see?”
“Yes,” I said. “If you don’t mind. What does the camera cover?”
“Oh, just inside the doors here and the lobby.”
“You have coverage of the lobby? How far back does it go?”
“About a week, I think,” he said, turning and leading me down the hall. “I set up a few computers in here. That’s the one I have the camera feed on. I’ll show you.”
He led me into an office with a standing lamp in the corner, somewhat dimmer than the bright open room we’d left. He waved a hand. “Makes it easier to see the screens when it’s not too bright.”
“Sure,” I said, wondering, “What kind of business are you in?”
“Oh, you know. A little bit of this and that,” he said.
The weirdly unspecific answer landed wrong in my gut.
“Here, take a seat,” he said, pulling out the desk chair. “I’ll bring up the cameras. We’ll go through the footage, and I can let you know if I spot anyone who shouldn’t be here.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, thinking as I sat.
Suddenly, without meaning to, I’d ended up alone behind two closed doors with a man I didn’t know.
No one knew where I was. I should make an excuse, leave, and come back later with backup.
I leaned forward, bracing my feet on the ground to push the seat out, deciding I didn’t need to see that camera footage after all.
A hand closed over my shoulder, holding me in the chair.
“Uh-uh, Sylvie. Too late for that.”
I heard a rustle and then a sharp, fiery burn in the side of my neck, followed immediately by an icy chill spreading beneath my skin.
I reached up, my arm sagging, heavy, falling to my side as I tilted, sliding slowly out of the chair.
Strong hands righted me, an arm sliding around my back, lifting me to my feet.
Then everything went dark.