Page 230 of Faking the Goal

I head toward the women's restroom at the end of the hallway and stop when I see a yellow maintenance sign blocking the entrance.

TEMPORARILY CLOSED

"Seriously?"

I turn around and head toward the restroom on the other side of the floor.

Another maintenance sign is propped outside that one too.

"You've got to be kidding me."

I stare at the door for a second, already annoyed. "Both of them? At the same time?"

Apparently, yes.

With no other option, I head toward the elevator, only to find another sign taped across the doors saying it's still out of service. Of course it is.

I turn toward the stairwell instead, push through the door, and make my way up to the third floor.

The third floor is darker than ours.

Not dark exactly. The overhead lights are on, but only every other fixture seems to be illuminated this late, leaving long stretches of hallway washed in a dull yellow glow. Most of the glass-fronted offices are completely empty, their interiors still bare except for unopened furniture boxes and desks wrapped in plastic.

There aren't any voices up here.

No keyboards clicking.

No muffled conversations bleeding through office walls.

Nothing except the soft hum of the ventilation system and the squeak of my sneakers against the polished floor.

The first restroom I reach is blessedly open.

"Finally."

I slip inside, do what I came here to do, wash my hands, and spend another few seconds staring at myself in the mirror while the automatic faucet shuts off.

I dry my hands with a paper towel, toss it into the trash, and step out of the restroom.

Halfway into the hallway, I hear footsteps somewhere behind me.

I glance over my shoulder, assuming it's someone else coming up to use the bathroom since both of the ones downstairs are closed, but the hallway is empty. I wait another second, listening, then start toward the stairs.

A few steps later, I hear it again.

Footsteps.

This time, closer.

My stomach tightens, and I look back again.

Still no one.

I tell myself I'm being paranoid. That the sound could be coming from another hallway, another floor, anywhere in this stupidly quiet building. But as I keep walking, I can't shake the feeling that someone is behind me.

Watching me.

Following me.