Page 23 of His Wall

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."

FIVE

JULIAN

I came down to the lobby, the Halberg numbers still running through my head. Only Tom at security and the cleaner with her floor buffer remained. I lifted a hand at Tom and angled toward the side door, where my car was parked.

I glanced through the front glass on my way past.

Two figures on the sidewalk.

I knew the shape of her before I knew it was her. The low knot of dark hair. The soft set of her shoulders, different from her conference-room shoulders. She had her bag over her arm and her arms crossed.

Claire.

The man with her was tall. Dark hair. Dark jacket. Standing a foot closer than a stranger would. He had his hands in his pockets, and his face angled down at hers.

I stopped walking.

He said something. Her chin came down halfway. He took his right hand out of his pocket and set it on the side of her face. Slow. The pad of his thumb against her cheekbone.

She did not pull back. She let him.

My hand tightened on the door handle. I made myself let go, uncurl my fingers, and stand there for a count of three.