Chapter 2 - The Missing Fifteen Minutes
I should have gone home.
That was what Martin told me.
It was what the paramedic told me.
It was what every rational part of my brain told me.
Instead, at 12:19 a.m., I followed Martin into the building’s security control room while Vanessa Cross walked several steps behind us.
Three walls were covered in monitors.
Most showed empty corridors.
One displayed the forty-fifth-floor elevator feed.
The timestamp read 11:31:46.
Adrian Blackwood stood alone.
Alive.
He looked exhausted but steady.
His tie was loosened.
One hand held the same paper coffee cup I had found beside him.
“Play it,” Martin said.
The guard at the console obeyed.
Adrian stepped into the elevator.
The doors began closing.
A hand stopped them.
Someone entered.
The image glitched.
Static swallowed half the screen.
For perhaps one second, we saw a dark sleeve.
A hand.
Then nothing.
11:32:03.
FEED LOST.
“That’s it?” Vanessa asked.
Martin looked at the technician.
“You said you had an identification.”
“Not from that camera.”
He opened another file.
“Lobby camera. Eleven twenty-three.”
A figure crossed near the café.
The person wore a maintenance jacket and baseball cap.
Face hidden.
Then the person turned slightly.
I leaned closer.
The image was terrible.
But the body shape looked familiar.
Vanessa laughed softly.
“This is ridiculous.”
Martin froze the frame.
“There.”
A badge was clipped to the jacket.
He enlarged it.
The photograph was blurred.
The name wasn’t.
CLAIRE BENNETT.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Vanessa looked at me.
“What exactly were you doing tonight, Ms. Bennett?”
“That isn’t me.”
“The badge says otherwise.”
“My badge is here.”
I pulled it from my purse.
Martin checked it.
Authentic.
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“Badges can be duplicated.”
“So can photographs.”
Her eyes hardened.
“Convenient.”
I stared at her.
“You think I poisoned him?”
“No one said poisoned.”
The room changed.
Martin slowly turned toward Vanessa.
Neither of us had used that word.
Vanessa realized it too late.
“I’m speaking hypothetically.”
“Sure,” I said.
She stepped closer.
“You were found alone with an unconscious man whose company employs you. Security footage places someone wearing your ID near his coffee. You should be very careful about making accusations.”
“I haven’t accused anyone.”
“Good.”
Martin interrupted.
“Enough.”
He ordered the technician to copy every available file.
Vanessa protested.
“Corporate security records belong to the company.”
“Mr. Blackwood is in the hospital after a potentially suspicious medical event. Until we know what happened, nobody deletes anything.”
“Nobody suggested deleting anything.”
Again, too fast.
Martin noticed.
So did I.
Her phone rang.
She looked at the screen and walked away to answer.
Martin lowered his voice.
“You need to leave.”
“You just told me the footage makes me look like I set this up.”
“And standing here won’t fix it.”
“What happens when the police see that?”
“They’ll ask questions.”
“And when Vanessa tells them I had access?”
“She doesn’t know what access you had.”
“Yes, she does.”
He looked at me.
I swallowed.
“I submitted a report last week.”
“What report?”
“A discrepancy in vendor payments.”
Martin’s eyebrows lifted.
“How big?”
“Four-point-eight million dollars.”
That got his attention.
I explained.
For three months, I had been reviewing logistics expenses after our department’s forecasting model flagged unusual charges from a consulting firm called Northstar Strategic Services.
The invoices were approved.
The work descriptions were vague.
The mailing address belonged to a suite that housed dozens of shell companies.
I had sent questions up the chain.
My manager told me to stop digging.
I didn’t.
Two nights ago, I forwarded the analysis directly to the executive audit mailbox.
“Who had access to it?” Martin asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did Blackwood?”
“Maybe.”
Vanessa returned.
Her expression had changed.
“Adrian is alive.”
Relief hit me so hard I had to sit down.
“He regained consciousness briefly,” she continued. “Doctors are running tests.”
“Did they say what happened?” Martin asked.
“No.”
Her gaze moved to me.
“Ms. Bennett, legal will contact you in the morning.”
“About what?”
“Your presence here.”
“My presence at my job?”
“At eleven forty-seven at night on a restricted floor.”
“I was returning financial files to Records.”
“That area closes at nine.”
“I have late-access authorization.”
Vanessa’s lips thinned.
“Who approved it?”
“My manager.”
“Daniel Mercer?”
“Yes.”
Something flickered across her face.
Recognition.
Concern.
Maybe anger.
“Go home,” she said.
I stood.
“Gladly.”
As I reached the door, she added:
“And Ms. Bennett?”
I turned.
“Do not discuss tonight with anyone.”
“Is that a request?”
“It’s advice.”
It sounded like a threat.
I left.
Martin walked me downstairs.
At the lobby entrance, snow drove sideways against the glass.
“I’ll get you a car,” he said.
“I live fifteen minutes away.”
“Tonight you get a car.”
He wasn’t asking.
While he called one, I checked my phone.
No new threats.
But there was an email.
From Adrian Blackwood.
Sent at 11:28 p.m.
Nineteen minutes before I found him.
Subject: YOUR REPORT.
My fingers went cold.
I opened it.
Claire,
I reviewed the Northstar analysis. Do not speak to your manager or anyone in Operations tomorrow morning. Come directly to my office at 8:00 a.m. Bring the original spreadsheets.
Do not forward this email.
A.B.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Adrian had wanted to meet me.
He knew what I had found.
And somebody had attacked him nineteen minutes after he sent the message.
“Martin.”
He turned.
I showed him.
His face went hard.
“You still have the spreadsheets?”
“At home.”
“Original copies?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t access them tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever did this may be watching your account.”
My stomach tightened.
The car arrived.
Martin opened the rear door.
“Go straight home. Lock everything.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“I’ll call you.”
I climbed inside.
My apartment was in Lakeview.
The drive should have taken fifteen minutes.
It took twenty-eight because of the snow.
By the time I reached my building, it was almost one.
The lobby was empty.
The elevator carried me to the sixth floor.
I unlocked my apartment.
Nothing looked wrong.
My roommate, Tessa, was staying with her boyfriend.
I turned on the lights.
Kitchen.
Living room.
Bedroom.
Everything seemed normal.
Then I saw the desk.
My laptop was open.
I had closed it before leaving for work.
The external drive containing the Northstar files was gone.
I backed away.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered without thinking.
No one spoke.
Then I heard breathing.
“Who is this?”
Silence.
“Who are you?”
A voice finally whispered:
“Check under your door.”
The call ended.
I turned slowly.
A white envelope had been pushed halfway into my apartment.
My name was written across it.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed me kneeling over Adrian Blackwood.
Taken tonight.
Taken from inside the forty-fifth-floor hallway.
On the back, someone had written:
NEXT TIME, WE WON’T MISS.
May you like
Then something moved outside my apartment door.
The handle began turning.
