Page 57 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m sure you can. But I’d like for this to be over as soon as possible.”

She studies me, her eyes assessing. I don’t look away.

“Fine,” she says finally. “Help me move that desk. I need to check the wiring behind it.”

I move the desk like she asked. She works the detector across the wall in steady sweeps, her eyes on a small glowing readout, pausing each time the pitch of the tone shifts.

I try my best to keep my eyes on the equipment. But I can’t help but notice the way her hands move over the detector. The line of her shoulders. The strip of skin that shows every time she reaches above her head.

I swallow and force my attention back to the detector.

“How is the investigation going?” I ask. “Your impressions, now that you’ve had some time with the marketing team.”

She doesn’t look up from the circuit board she’s examining. “It’s only been a couple of days.”

“I know. But surely you’ve made some progress.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “I’ve been watching people. Getting a feel for who they are before I start looking for anything specific.”

“And?” I say, somewhat impatiently.

She sets down the circuit board and moves to the next section of wall. “Most of them are exactly what they appear to be. Loyal, invested, genuinely happy to be here.”

“Why do I have a feeling there’s a but coming.”

“But there are a few who warrant closer attention.” She glances at me over her shoulder.

“Ms. Dysart, catching the culprit is of the essence here. I’m not sure what Griffin has shared with you about the stakes, but it’s very important that we identify this mole as quickly as possible.”

“Griffin shared enough.” Her voice is flat. “I understand what’s at risk.”

“Do you?” The word comes out sharper than I meant it.

She turns to face me fully, and there’s an edge to her expression that wasn’t there a moment ago.

“With all due respect,” she says, and her tone suggests she means very little respect at all, “someone disabled your climate control for fourteen minutes. It’s serious, yes. But you’re treating this like a national security crisis.”

Because it fucking is.

But I don’t say that. I can feel the anger rising in me, and I take slow, deep breaths to keep it down.

“There are things you do not know,” I say finally, my voice quiet. “You’ll have to trust me that this is more serious than it appears.”

She just looks at me. The expression on her face tells me exactly what she thinks of being told to trust me.

She turns back to her detector and resumes the sweep, and I go back to watching her.

Forty minutes in, she stops in front of a steel cabinet against the far wall and frowns at it. She crouches down, gets her hands under one corner, and starts to lift.

I’m across the room before I think about it.

“Move.”

She doesn’t move. She looks up at me like I’ve just offered to cut up her food for her.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll lift it. Move.”