Chapter 2 - THE MAN BEHIND THE NUMBER
Z
Nora woke at eight-forty-two with a headache, one sock on, and the absolute conviction that she had ruined her life.
Her phone lay beside her pillow.
She stared at it.
Memory returned in pieces.
Lincoln.
Jessica.
Wine.
Wrong number.
Adrian Cross.
“Oh, no.”
Nora sat upright so quickly the room tilted.
She opened the message thread.
It was real.
Every humiliating word.
YOU LIED TO ME FOR YEARS.
I HOPE SHE WAS WORTH IT.
IF YOU HAVE ONE OUNCE OF COURAGE LEFT—
“Oh God.”
She scrolled faster.
His messages were worse because they were calm.
Drink water.
Lock your door.
Former boyfriend.
Then the call.
Nora buried her face in her hands.
Her phone vibrated.
She looked.
Adrian Cross.
Not UNKNOWN NUMBER anymore.
Apparently, sometime around one in the morning, Drunk Nora had saved Seattle's most intimidating billionaire in her contacts.
Under the name:
WRONG MAN.
She wanted the floor to open.
His message read:
Alive?
Nora typed:
Unfortunately.
Three dots appeared.
Headache?
Yes.
Water. Coffee. Food.
Are you always this controlling?
Only when people ignore basic survival requirements.
Nora stared at the phone.
Then:
Thank you for last night.
His answer came after a pause.
You're welcome.
Another message followed.
Your ex tried returning at 3:11.
Her stomach dropped.
What?
He left when he saw security.
Nora sat very still.
You had someone watching my apartment all night?
Until morning.
That should have made her furious.
Instead, the fact that Lincoln had returned at three in the morning chilled her.
Why?
Adrian replied:
Because men who pound on doors after midnight rarely improve with time.
Before she could answer, another notification appeared.
Her boss.
CALL ME. URGENT.
Nora groaned.
Forty minutes later, showered and wearing dark jeans, boots, and a black sweater, she stood in the kitchen of Ellison Architectural Preservation listening to her boss, Martin Ellison, talk too quickly.
“The Bellweather project is back.”
Nora stopped stirring her coffee.
“The Bellweather Hotel?”
Martin nodded.
The building had been closed for nearly twelve years, a landmark overlooking Elliott Bay. Built in 1912, remodeled badly in the seventies, abandoned after a fire, then trapped in permit disputes.
It was exactly the kind of impossible building Nora loved.
“New owner wants an emergency structural assessment,” Martin said.
“Who bought it?”
Martin gave her a strange look.
“Cross Meridian.”
Nora nearly inhaled coffee.
“No.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're leading the survey.”
“No.”
Martin blinked.
Nora had never said no to a project.
Especially not a building like Bellweather.
“Nora.”
“Assign Jessica.”
The name tasted poisonous.
Martin's expression tightened.
“Jessica called in sick.”
Of course she did.
Nora looked out the window.
Rain streaked the glass.
“What does Cross Meridian want?”
“Assessment of the north wing, preservation viability, original masonry, hidden fire damage. They want someone today.”
“Today?”
“The owner specifically approved you.”
Her coffee cup stopped halfway to her mouth.
“Approved me?”
Martin nodded.
Nora's pulse changed.
At nine-fifty she stood outside the Bellweather Hotel beneath an umbrella that Seattle wind treated as a personal insult.
The building rose twelve stories above Western Avenue, all limestone arches, black windows, weather-darkened stone and forgotten grandeur.
A line of black vehicles occupied the curb.
Nora walked through temporary fencing and presented her credentials.
A security man checked a tablet.
“Ms. Whitmore.”
She nodded.
He opened the door immediately.
That was unsettling.
Inside, dust hung in shafts of gray light.
The marble lobby remained beautiful beneath neglect.
Nora forgot Adrian Cross for almost thirty seconds.
Then she heard his voice.
“Ms. Whitmore.”
She turned.
He stood near the grand staircase.
Photographs had not prepared her.
Adrian Cross was tall, dark-haired, and dressed in a charcoal coat that probably cost more than Nora's first car. No tie. Black gloves tucked into one hand.
He was not movie-star handsome.
He was worse.
His face was too controlled for that.
Sharp cheekbones. Straight nose. Dark eyes that seemed to examine a room the way Nora examined old structures—looking for damage nobody else could see.
Three men stood behind him.
None looked like architects.
Nora approached.
Adrian's mouth shifted slightly.
“You type more loudly than you speak.”
Nora closed her eyes.
“Please pretend last night never happened.”
“No.”
Her eyes opened.
“Why?”
“It was entertaining.”
“You are a terrible person.”
“So I've been told.”
One of the men behind him looked carefully at the floor.
Nora suspected he was hiding a smile.
She lowered her voice.
“Did you arrange this project?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“My company acquired Bellweather eleven weeks ago. Your firm submitted your name six weeks ago.”
That stopped her.
Coincidence.
A spectacularly inconvenient coincidence.
Adrian held out a hard hat.
“I recognized your name this morning.”
Nora took it.
“So you didn't stalk me into a professional contract?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I considered canceling you.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Excuse me?”
“You were severely intoxicated.”
“I am perfectly capable of doing my job.”
“I know.”
“How?”
He nodded toward her portfolio beneath her arm.
“I read it.”
For some ridiculous reason, that affected her more than if he had called her beautiful.
They walked through the lobby.
Nora shifted into professional mode.
She examined cracks, photographed damaged plaster, noted previous repairs.
Adrian followed longer than owners usually did.
“You don't have meetings?” she finally asked.
“Yes.”
“Important billionaire things?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you're watching me stare at mortar.”
“Yes.”
She glanced at him.
“Why?”
“Because three contractors have quit this project in six weeks.”
Nora stopped.
“Why?”
“One fell through a stair landing.”
Her expression changed.
“One suffered electrical burns in a wing with disconnected power.”
Nora slowly lowered her camera.
“And the third?”
“Disappeared.”
Silence stretched through the abandoned hotel.
Nora looked toward the dark corridor ahead.
“You might have mentioned that outside.”
“You might have refused to enter.”
“I still might.”
“No, you won't.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Adrian looked toward the cracked ornamental ceiling.
“You love this building already.”
Annoyingly, he was right.
They reached the north wing.
Nora crouched beside an exposed section of floor.
Something was wrong.
She scraped dust away.
Fresh saw marks.
Not decay.
Not original damage.
Someone had cut partially through the support.
“Adrian.”
He was beside her immediately.
“This wasn't age.”
His expression hardened.
Nora moved toward the next beam.
“Somebody weakened it deliberately.”
A sound came from above.
A crack.
Adrian's head snapped upward.
“Nora.”
The ceiling moved.
He grabbed her around the waist.
The world exploded.
Plaster, timber, and dust crashed where Nora had been kneeling.
Adrian threw her against the wall and covered her body with his.
For several seconds, Nora heard nothing except debris and his heartbeat.
Then silence.
Dust filled the hallway.
His men ran toward them.
Adrian lifted his head.
“Nora.”
She coughed.
“I'm okay.”
His hand remained behind her skull.
“Look at me.”
She did.
His eyes were no longer controlled.
They were furious.
Not at her.
At the building.
At whoever had done this.
One of his men examined the collapsed ceiling.
“Boss.”
He held up a piece of cable.
Cleanly cut.
Adrian stood.
His voice became colder than Nora remembered from the phone.
“Seal the building.”
Nora pushed herself upright.
“What?”
Adrian looked down the corridor.
“No one leaves.”
Then he turned to her.
“And now, Ms. Whitmore, I need you to tell me exactly who knew you'd be here today.”
Nora's stomach tightened.
Because only four people knew.
Martin.
Nora.
Adrian.
May you like
And the person who had access to Ellison Preservation's project calendar.
Jessica Ward.
