4. Leah
FOUR
LEAH
The phone rang twice before Harlow picked up.
"It's too early, Calder."
"I know."
"What?"
I sat at the kitchen counter in my running clothes with a mug of cold coffee between my hands. Through the open window, the city was coming awake — a delivery truck on the corner, a dog barking three buildings over, the iron gate at the bodega across the street rolling up.
"The sweet approach didn't work. He clocked it inside ten minutes. I want to go back to surveillance. There's a window — "
"No."
"Harlow — "
"You're not going back to surveillance. You're going forward. Stop building characters for him, Calder. You're not in a play. Just be someone he'd want to have a drink with. You know how to be a person. Try it."
My throat went tight. "I'm not sure I do."
"Then figure it out. Do this right." She hung up.
I sat with the phone in my hand. I had been Claire Kent for four months and Agent Calder for six years before that.
I drank the cold coffee, went to shower, then dressed for work.
The cream blouse I had worn on Monday was at the dry cleaners.
I pulled out a soft white one that was less sharp at the collar, and I put my hair up — but lower, looser, the knot resting at the nape of my neck instead of pulled flat to the skull.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Here we go again.
I picked up my bag and went to work.
The day moved.
I took two calls before 9:00 a.m. I rerouted a vendor invoice that had come in on the wrong line.
I confirmed Julian's lunch and pushed his 2:00 p.m. meeting by fifteen minutes because the client's flight was late.
I drank the coffee Sarah brought me from the pot at reception, and she grinned and tapped my desk on her way past.
Julian came by at noon.
He stopped at the corner of my desk with one hand on it, the other in his pocket. Dove-gray shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
"What's the afternoon look like?"
"Meeting around 2:00 p.m. and 4:00 p.m. Vega's flight slipped. Otherwise, you're good."
"Did the vending machine eat my Twix again?"
"The vending machine is empty. I called facilities."
"Empty as in completely?"
"Empty as in they said someone would refill it after lunch. I'd hold off until 2:00 p.m. if you're attached to the Twix specifically."
He looked at me.
He stood there with his hand on the edge of my desk and looked at me. I did not add Mr. Cross, and I did not look away. I held it and smiled.
His mouth came up at one corner.
"You're a gift, Claire."
"So I've been told."
He laughed.
It was a small laugh. Quiet. He had laughed in the conference room a hundred times, but this one was different. It came out of him like he hadn't planned it. He shook his head once, took his coffee cup, and walked into his office.
I let out a breath I had not known I was holding.
The partners' meeting was at 4:00 p.m.
I went in five minutes early with the printed agenda, three pens, the pitcher, and a fresh tray of glasses.
Declan was at the head of the table in shirtsleeves, hair still damp at the temples from a workout.
Nolan came in two minutes later, wearing a dark blue sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and dropped a folder on the table without sitting down.
Julian came in last with his laptop under his arm and slid into the chair across from Nolan.
"Mid-market acquisitions. We've narrowed to one." Declan flipped to the second tab.
"Halberg & Vance. Boston. Hundred-eighty employees, $250,000 in revenue, books a little messy but not concerning.
They're on the market because the founder wants to retire and his daughter wants to move to Vermont and grow lavender.
We're the only firm at the table they're talking to seriously. I want a verification done by Friday."
Nolan opened the folder. "I need the revenue concentration report. I want to see what their top ten clients look like before we go any further."
"You'll have it by Wednesday."
Nolan looked at his watch.
"Going somewhere?" Declan said.
"Soleil's opening is tonight. I told her I'd be there at 6:00 p.m. I have to leave early."
"Go."
"I'm going."
Declan turned a page. "I've got Thea tonight. She's printing seating charts off the laptop, and I have been informed I am required to have opinions on font."
Nolan almost smiled. "You're useless at it."
"I am completely useless at it. I have been told this three times. I'm still required to participate."
Julian leaned back. The chair creaked. "I'll stay. I'll run the numbers tonight, and we'll have a draft for you both by tomorrow morning."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I want to look at the goodwill line anyway. You two go play husband and gallery owner."
Declan clapped him on the shoulder on his way out. Nolan nodded at Julian and me, lifted his folder, and was gone.
I gathered the glasses onto the tray. Julian was still at the table with the laptop open in front of him, scrolling.
I waited until the door clicked behind Nolan.
"Mr. Cross."
He looked up.
"I'll stay. I can pull Halberg & Vance's public filings, organize the data, and run preliminary comps while you do the deeper analysis."
"Claire."
"You're going to be here until midnight alone. I don't mind."
He looked at me for a long second before the grin came up at the corner of his mouth.
"Fine."
The floor emptied between 5:00 p.m. and 6:00 p.m.
Sarah waved at me from the elevator with a tote bag over her shoulder and a paperback in her hand.
James from compliance came by with a folder for Julian that I took and set on his desk.
The cleaning crew had started their loop at the south end of the floor, and the sun was coming through the west-facing glass at a low angle, lighting the carpet in long orange stripes.
I sat at the small round table in the corner of his office with my laptop open and a stack of printed filings beside it. He sat at his desk with his own laptop, a notepad, and a pen between his teeth.
For an hour, we worked quietly with only the fan of his computer, the small click of my trackpad, the pen tapping against the edge of his notepad when he was thinking, and the cleaning crew's vacuum far away on the other side of the floor.
He talked at the page sometimes. Not really to me. Out loud.
"Their margin held in '21. Why did their margin hold in '21?"
I looked up from my screen. He had not asked me. He was asking himself.
I answered anyway. "Note seventeen. They let two people go in November and didn't replace them until February."
He looked over at me. "That's a weak hold."
"That's a weak hold, yeah."
He wrote something down, looked at the page, and looked at me again. "How fast do you read these things, Claire?"
"Fast enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It wasn't a question."
The grin came back.
He looked at me a beat longer than he needed to. Then he put his head down and went back to the page.
I went back to mine, but my heart was in my throat.
At 7:00 p.m., I needed a printout from his desk. The Halberg & Vance executive bios. He had pulled them earlier and left them on the corner.
I got up. I crossed to him. He was bent over his keyboard with one hand braced flat on the desk and his sandy hair fell forward over his brow.
"Bios, please."
He turned his head without lifting it.
"Top of the stack."
I leaned over his shoulder to reach for them. I did not mean to lean that close. I aimed for the stack, and my hip ended up an inch from his arm, and the smell of him — clean shirt, warm under the back of his collar — was right there.
His head turned. His face was 4 in. from my forearm.
He looked up at me.
I looked down at him.
I had the printout in my hand. I did not move.
His hazel eyes had small flecks of brown in the green that I had not seen in any meeting. His mouth was a little open. His pen was in his other hand.
"Got it?" he said.
"Got it."
I straightened. I walked the four steps back to my chair. I sat down, put the bios on the table, stared at the first page, and did not read a single word for a full minute.
He cleared his throat. I heard him do it.
We worked.
The light through the west window went from orange to red to nothing. The desk lamp became the only warm thing in the room. The cleaning crew finished the floor, the vacuum stopped, and the building was quiet.
He passed me a printout. His fingers brushed mine on the handoff. He did not pull his hand back right away.
I did.
He asked me what I thought of the goodwill number on page four. I told him. He listened. He wrote it down. He looked at me when he wrote it down. At some point, I needed the comparable transaction binder.
I got up.
The binder was on the second shelf of the cabinet by the window. I crossed to the cabinet at a normal pace. My low heels made a small sound on the carpet. I bent at the waist to read the spines on the second shelf. I straightened. I pivoted on my left foot.
My right heel caught the edge of the rug. I stumbled sideways but caught myself — right hand on the shelf, left hand braced against the cabinet top. The binder I was already pulling fell flat at my feet.
"Claire — "
He was up.
He was at my elbow before I had my balance back, his hand under my arm, his other hand on my shoulder. The warmth of him at my side close enough that his scent came in over the cotton of his collar.
"I'm fine. I'm okay."
"Sit down."
"It's nothing — "
"Claire. Sit down."
He walked me to the chair I had been working from. He kept his hand on my elbow the whole way. He set me down in the chair, and I leaned forward, pulled my right shoe off, rolled the ankle, and made my face do a small wince.
He crouched in front of me. "How bad?"
"Two. Maybe two and a half."
"I'll get ice."
"Mr. Cross, really — "
"Wait here." He was up and out the door.
I counted three.
Then I was on my feet.
I crossed to his desk. The drawer was locked. Same as always. The laptop was open, and the screen was live. I pulled my phone out of my pocket. My hands were not shaking.
Three screens. The directory tree on the laptop. A spreadsheet on the second monitor. The browser tab he had opened behind it. I tilted the phone, framed each one, tapped the shutter — silent mode, no flash. I caught the file directory. I caught the spreadsheet. I caught the browser tab.
I did not read any of it.
I crossed back to my chair and sat down. I pulled my shoe halfway on. Then I bent forward, gripped my ankle in both hands, and made my face what it had been when he walked out.
His footsteps came back down the hall.
He came in with a dish towel around a bag of ice.
He crouched in front of me again. His knee touched the carpet. He took my right ankle in his left hand and lifted it gently, setting the ice pack against the outside of the joint with his right hand. Then his left hand came around the back of my heel to hold the pack in place.
His fingers were warm. His thumb rested against the bone of my ankle. I did not move.
He looked up at me from the floor.
He was close. His hand was on my foot, and his shoulders were between my knees. The desk lamp behind him put his hair in a sandy halo and lit the small flecks of brown in the green of his eyes.
"Better?"
"Yes."
Neither of us moved.
His thumb pressed lightly against my ankle. A small, slow shift. The pad of his thumb moved a quarter-inch along the bone and stopped.
The air in the room changed.
My heart kicked. It was in my throat. The pulse of it under my jaw. He was looking at me, his mouth was a little open, his hand was warm against my heel, and his thumb was very still now, holding what it had moved.
I pulled my foot back slowly.
The ice pack came with my foot. He lifted his hand off my heel, and the loss of his warmth caught in my throat.
I set my foot down on the floor. "Thank you. I should head out."
He stood. His knees made a small crack.
The grin came back. Not all the way. The edge of it.
"Of course. It's late. You should get home."
His voice was the voice he used in meetings. His eyes were not.
I bent and pulled my shoe back on. I gathered my laptop, my phone, and the printed filings and slid them into my bag. I stood. The ankle held me. I had known it would.
"Good night, Mr. Cross."
"Good night, Claire."
I walked out of his office. I did not look back.
The elevator was empty. I rode it down with my bag against my hip. The lobby was empty. The night guard nodded at me from his desk, and I lifted my hand and walked out through the glass doors into the cool night.
The street smelled like asphalt, the linden trees, and someone's cigarette from a doorway down the block. Across the avenue, a delivery cyclist clipped past with a thermal bag on his back. A yellow cab hit its horn at the light.
I let out the breath I had been holding since his knee touched the carpet.
I started running the debrief in my head before I had taken three steps.
Three screens. The directory tree, the spreadsheet, and the browser tab. Get them to Harlow tonight. The shell-company names on screen two — I had not read them, but the photo would have them. The numbers in the spreadsheet.
I caught myself.
I dropped that one.
I reached for my phone.
I looked up. There was a man on the sidewalk near the entrance. 20 ft. from the doors. Hands in the pockets of a dark jacket. Shoulders squared at me. Watching me come down the steps.
I knew him before I had taken another step.
My heart stopped.
Then it started again, faster.
"Rafael."