by Meg Collett
“This is a service elevator for the crew. You’ll use it to go to Hazen’s office for your daily debriefs. It doesn’t record who comes and goes, so no one will notice your absence if you can get away from Hutton in the mornings.”
“That’ll be easier said than done,” Wren said. They stepped inside the elevator and the doors shut. Bode punched a button with the letters “SB” beside it. “Where are we going?”
“There are tunnels beneath the building that connect to the water treatment facility. They’re for emergencies or transferring equipment. Or,” he added with a smirk, “for lazy scientists.”
She grinned. Secret tunnels. Hidden halls. Dripping paint that revealed ominous words. She couldn’t help but feel a little excited. Mak would have been thrilled.
The elevator descended to the sub-basement level. There, like he’d promised, the elevator doors opened to a single room with concrete floors. Spare machines covered in plastic, metal lockers pocked with rust, and an abandoned yellow hardhat filled the space. But Wren’s focus was on the large circular opening in the wall that led into a stretch of chilly darkness.
“Follow me,” Bode said, hitting a power switch beside the tunnel opening. A row of soft blue lights flipped on one after the other, leading deeper into the tunnel. “You might get your feet dirty. Do you want me to find you some boots?”
She waved him off and entered the tunnel first. “No time. Come on.”
The tunnel looked longer than it was. They made it across to the water treatment facility in less than three minutes. In another room, much like the one underneath the VidaCorp building, Wren found more plastic-covered, dusty equipment. Bode punched in the elevator’s code quicker this time, but Wren caught the digits and memorized them.
As they ascended, Bode said, “The headquarters doesn’t have a flight deck, so Hazen uses this helipad for his chopper when he needs to fly out.”
Wren cared little about Hazen’s flight patterns. “How can he keep the police off a crime scene this long?”
“Technically, VidaCorp owns the building. It’s private property.”
“VidaCorp owns the city’s water? Isn’t that illegal?”
“No,” Bode rushed to say. “Hazen owns the building, not the water. He needed special equipment for the filtration and purification process.”
Wren tried to smooth out her frown. “Okay.”
“It’s legal, I promise.”
She nodded, but on the inside, she wasn’t buying it. It sounded like VidaCorp had privatized the city’s water supply. It wasn’t hard to visualize VidaCorp’s reach across the city. They owned the water treatment facility and the most popular network on television right now, thanks to the live premiere of Glass House. What else did they own that Wren didn’t know about?
If the show aired for a full season without the Whitebirds ruining it, VidaCorp would own the presidential election too come November. That was a lot of power for one pharmaceutical company to have.
The elevator drew to a stop. “This is us.”
Wren followed Bode into a narrow room with only one other door. Bode swung it open, letting in a warm blast of air that sliced through Wren’s gown.
She inhaled sharply and followed him out onto the back part of the helipad. Landing lights in red framed the deck, alternating their flashes to stand out from the countless other lights beaming into the night sky around them. The wind gusted, tangling through Wren’s hair and dress and stealing her breath. All around her, buildings poked up into the night sky. Wren easily spotted the ones within range of the helipad’s paint bomb, as their once gleaming glass windows were now splattered dark red. She craned her neck and looked up about fifteen floors to Glass House’s set. She read VidaCorp’s name written in the paint. It was even more garish out here.
In the center of the pad, around the spent firework casings, Bode’s team stood guard. They watched her walk out from the room and tracked her with their eyes as she looked around at the other buildings. Bode went straight over to them.
“Sir?” she heard one of the men question.
“She’s fine,” Bode said. “She wanted to get some air. Now show me what you’ve got.”
Wren ignored the men behind her and studied the water treatment facility’s roofline. All around her, the tubes and roofing rose in slants and slashes of modern architecture. The helipad was only one level of the roof. Standing by the elevator room, Wren was hidden behind the towering tubes of water that rushed overhead. Back here, no one could be seen from any of the surrounding buildings. They’d also be close to an elevator, the only exit from the roof.
She circled around the elevator room to where the roof sloped upward, forming a ramp to the top of the room. She picked up her skirt and walked up it, the prickly concrete digging into the flesh of her feet. At the top, she glanced back and saw the VidaCorp building perfectly; it was a straight upward shot to the front of the conservatory, where the name had been written.
If she were a Whitebird, she would have wanted to watch and probably get it on film, since VidaCorp would try to control the media’s use of the footage.
She crouched, pretending to be an anarchist. In this position, no one would see her from the other buildings. She could watch and film. Of course, to escape, she would need the elevator code. Still crouched, she twisted around and looked behind her.
A Whitebird might scale the building or use a wingsuit to fly down from the top, like she’d seen adventurists do on television. They might also repel down.
Her eyes snagged on a shiny piece of plastic in the back corner. It was caught on the ventilation shaft coming up from the room below. She tugged it free and turned it over in her hand.
“Or,” she whispered, realizing what she held, “they could just walk straight through the building.”
The VidaCorp employee lanyard contained a bar code that could be scanned to unlock security doors. Beneath the bar code were two lines that chilled her to the bone.
Alpha Clearance
Bode Bafford
20:
“Hazen, please—”
“Don’t do that. Not again. Christ, Bode. What the hell were you thinking taking her up there?” Bode opened his mouth, but Hazen threw up his hands. “I don’t actually want to know, you idiot! You’re damn lucky she found your badge instead of the cops!”
They sat in Hazen’s office back in VidaCorp’s building. The elevator rides and walk over had been tense after she’d discreetly shown Bode the lanyard. She wouldn’t forget the way his face had paled beneath the city lights or the sheen of fear in his eyes. He’d needed a moment to gather his courage before sealing the lanyard in an evidence baggie he’d produced from his pocket. He’d told her, voice wavering, that they needed to talk to Hazen.
“I’m here to help,” Wren said from her metal chair in front of Hazen’s desk. He paced behind his desk, not stopping at her words. “That’s why you brought me on the show.”
Hazen whirled to face her, and in the chair beside her, Bode tensed as if he thought he might need to throw himself in front of her. “I brought you on the show to watch the cast and crew! You should have been on set, doing just that! Not traipsing around in front of the entire security team, who, by the way,” he said, firing at Bode now, “I doubt will have any respect for the head of security who can’t even protect his badge.”
“Anyone on the show’s crew could have taken it during the live show. It was locked in my bedroom on the set. A person with my door code—”
“Can’t you take responsibility for once?” Hazen thundered.
“Both of you, stop for a second,” Wren said, drawing the brothers’ attention. “Doesn’t this reek of the Whitebirds? Not just the fireworks—of course they did that—but stealing Bode’s lanyard? It would implicate the brother of VidaCorp’s CEO.”
“Everyone knows I have the codes. I never even use that stupid badge,” Bode argued.
“But the insider needed the badge to get on the elevator because t
hey didn’t know the codes. If they were going to risk stealing a badge, why not point the finger at you?”
“Either way,” Hazen said, “I have to hold a press conference to explain how the hell an anarchist made his way onto a roof with high-clearance access codes. How do you suggest I explain that?”
Wren couldn’t help feeling bad for Bode. He seemed prone to making mistakes when it came to Sloane, but she couldn’t place too much blame on him. He was just human after all.
“What about the window cleaners?” she offered to help Bode out. “Have you looked into them? You could redirect the focus at the press conference by bringing that up.”
“The window cleaners?” Hazen asked. “Why the hell would I look into them?”
“The ones from the news feeds? I can’t remember what feed, but the reporter, Moxie, was talking about how all the buildings downtown were getting their windows cleaned for the event—to be extra shiny.”
“You think the window cleaners set off the fireworks?” Hazen sounded impatient, as if she were wasting his time with stupidity.
“I think the window cleaners prepped VidaCorp’s name on the conservatory’s glass. They could have used something to keep the paint from adhering to the glass where the letters were drawn. No one would question window cleaners. They’d just look like they were getting everything ready.”
Hazen reached across his desk for his tablet. Its glow lit his face as he started typing notes. “And the fireworks?”
The window cleaners had been easy for Wren to hypothesize, but the Whitebirds’ access to the fireworks was trickier to think through without implicating Bode or making him look careless.
“To start with, I’m assuming anyone with the fireworks company would have noticed someone tampering with the explosives on the helipad during the show’s live opening. Second, I suspect you did rigorous background checks on every employee with the company. Unless you missed something”—Hazen’s eyebrows shot up—“that can only mean someone else went up there during the red carpet and replaced the original fireworks with something more explosive and filled with paint. None of the cast could have switched out the fireworks, because they were all on the carpet being interviewed.” A thought niggled at the back of her memories as she spoke; she’d lost sight of Bode a couple times on the red carpet, but she pushed the thought aside. He’d been busy with his security team. “This only leaves the crew,” she finished shakily.
It might have been her paranoia, but she thought Bode stiffened beside her, perhaps remembering his conspicuous absences too.
“Interesting. That’s quite a conclusion.”
“You thought the Whitebirds might have infiltrated the crew. Is it that far-fetched to think it’s a crew member and not one of the cast?” Wren asked.
“Oh, we know they did. That’s the problem. They’re everywhere.” Hazen shoved his hand through his unkempt hair. Like he couldn’t breathe deeply enough, he tugged at his tie to loosen its grip around his neck. “But this is a good start. I’ll get someone on the window cleaners. Bode, go back through the file of every crew member. You must have missed something. Again.”
Hazen delivered the words like the slash of a knife, but Bode took the strike with a quick nod. “On it,” he said. “You’ll have my report this afternoon.”
With a jolt, Wren realized it probably was late enough that it was actually morning and her first official day on the set of Glass House.
“Make it before noon. I’ll be prepping for the press conference all day. By the way, Wren, your attendance will be required at the conference with Beau. Don’t worry. You won’t be saying anything. I just need you to stand in the back, looking distraught, preferably in a revealing dress.”
“Why do I need to be there? This has nothing to do with Sloane.”
“No, but Sloane Lux means viewers will watch, and I don’t need people forming their own opinions on this debacle.”
“You’ll just tell them what to think,” Wren said.
“Exactly.” He didn’t even bother hiding his intentions. He was either very tired, or he was growing comfortable around Wren. “You’ll present the perfect distraction for the reporters to keep them from asking too many questions.”
“Sure thing, Hazen.” Bode stood and helped Wren to her feet as if she needed it. “I’ll let Hutton and Maddox know to plan her day around it. Anything I need to let Beau know?”
Hazen scoffed. “Don’t say anything. It’ll just confuse him.”
“Of course.”
When they were at the door, Hazen added, “Wren, I want you watching everyone extra closely today. Question them. Give me more of these theories. I like them. Perhaps you should give Bode a few tips in the art of deduction.”
Bode dropped his head and held the door for Wren. They made the journey back up to the set in silence, except for a brief moment when Bode checked that she’d memorized the service elevator code. Other than that exchange, Bode was a whipped dog trailing after Wren as they navigated the empty black halls to her room.
At her door, Bode murmured goodnight and kept walking down the hall. Wren pressed her hand to the thumb reader and slipped silently inside.
Her eyes adjusted to the dark, and she saw a lump in her bed. Roman. She knew he was supposed to stay in her room, but her heart still sputtered with nerves. She’d never slept with a man before. Slipping off her heels, she tip-toed forward.
“Hutton was looking for you.” Roman’s face was lost in the shadows of the room, but Wren sensed he was facing away from her, on his side, by the muffled quality of his words. “I covered for you, but she’ll still be pissed.”
“Great.” Wren thought about taking a shower, but the weight of the day dropped onto her shoulders and dragged her down into the pits of exhaustion. Even walking to the bed seemed like more than she could handle.
Roman rolled over, rustling the blankets and sheets. His eyes gleamed at her, the skin of his bare chest glistening in the bit of moonlight working its way through the curtains. The ripples along his stomach tightened as he shifted. “Where have you been?”
She’d already come up with an excuse on her way back, and it flowed effortlessly from her tongue. Lying was becoming easier. “Bode wanted me to stay in his office while he made sure the building was secure.” She shrugged. “I took a nap.”
“A nap.” He didn’t believe her. “Are you sure you’re not a Whitebird?”
Wren’s heart stopped, and her mouth fell open. “Wh-what?”
Roman’s teeth shone as his lips twitched into a tired grin. “That’s who pulled the stunt with the paint, I’m assuming, and you’ve been missing for an awfully long time.”
“I, ah, I mean”—Wren coughed—“I was napping. I swear.”
“I’m teasing. Are you coming to bed or what?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.”
“I won’t bite, I promise.” He reached across the bed and pushed the covers back on her side, sending fur pillows tumbling to the floor. He patted the sheets. His hair was disheveled, his eyes hooded with sleep. He was beautiful.
She shook her head to clear her thoughts. She really needed sleep. Still in her dress, she crossed to the bed and sank down, her feet instantly feeling relieved. She laid back and pulled up the covers, not caring that her couture dress tangled around her legs, that her hair was still pinned and styled, or that makeup covered her face.
Roman rolled back over, giving her plenty of space. They laid in the dark for a long moment, and as tired as Wren felt, sleep eluded her. “Are you still awake?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you think about VidaCorp?” she whispered, even though she knew the cameras suspended in the corners of the room were fake. “Do you trust them?”
He leaned back and looked over his shoulder to meet her eyes. “Trust a mega corporation? No. But the world is changing around us. Global warming. Disease frequency. Crime rates. We have to change too, and, for what it’s worth, VidaCorp represents change.”
Change wasn’t always good. Change in the world today usually involved a widening gap between the healthy and sick, the rich and poor, the cities and suburbs. The empty vastness between cities stretched wider, city taxes went up, and the suburbs sprawled outward while the cities remained the same. That was the only change Wren knew.
Roman rolled back over. “You should sleep. It’ll be a long day once we start filming.”
“Night,” she said.
He mumbled something back that she couldn’t make out, and, a moment later, his breathing turned deep and rhythmic, punctuated by the occasional snore.
Wren stared up at the ceiling, her eyes wide, the neckline of her dress choking her.
The Whitebirds weren’t being subtle with their attacks, and she was right in the middle of their game. But tomorrow was her move.
She’d make it a good one.
21:
Wren’s first official day on the Glass House set started early—very early—and after yesterday’s events, she hadn’t slept well.
Last night had been the first night she’d slept with a man. Beside her. In the same bed. Breathing and snoring loud enough to rustle the hairs on the back of her neck. It had been … exhilarating. And terrifying. Wren had been too scared to move, even when her arm fell asleep and her hip started hurting.
He’d been gone when the alarm woke her at five a.m., but he’d left a large thermos of coffee on the bedside table, still piping hot.
Not long after she finished drinking it down, a knock sounded on the black hallway’s door to her room. Without waiting for an answer, Hutton came in, wearing high-waisted pants and a tight shirt. She was also carrying a thermos of coffee and eyed the one in Wren’s hand. “That doesn’t look like a smoothie.”
“Sorry?” Wren offered her a shrug.
“Whatever. Your outfit is laid out in the bathroom. Get changed and let’s head to Makeup. We’ll pick up your meds on the way.”
