by Taylor Shade
I smile up at Tim. He sort-of smiles back, as much as he can. Guess he’s a good guy, even though he looks so pissed off all the time.
“Yes,” I say as I get up from the large table in Conference Room B where Tim met me after I threw up in the ladies’ room. “Thank you, Tim.”
“No problem.”
I follow him back into the law library, looking all around me. After what I read on that yellow piece of paper, I’m suddenly frightened to death.
I get back to my table, where Tim signs off on my stacks. Everyone looks at me.
Then I remember. I stuffed the paper underneath the stack nearest to me. I lift the edge of it to pull it out with the envelope.
But it’s gone!
Oh shit! It’s gone!
“You can go home now,” says Tim. “Get some rest, feel better, and we’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
I break out in a sweat as I look around for the paper and envelope. Nothing. Nowhere.
“Don’t worry about these,” says Tim. “I’ll have someone else pick up where you left off.”
“No!” I say, a little too loud. Everyone looks up at me again. “Um... can I just pick up with this stack tomorrow? Can you just put it somewhere?”
Tim looks at me suspiciously. “Sure.”
“It’s just that... I was on a roll... and I think I may have found something that would help the case, but I need to continue following the thread.”
“Okay,” says Tim with a you’re-crazy tone. “I’ll keep this stack for you tomorrow.”
He packs up all the papers into a box and puts a cover on it.
Where did it go? Did somebody take it? Or is it still in that box somewhere?
Shit, I didn’t even read the entire thing. What I read was enough to send shivers up my spine.
Shit.
Shit shit shit. I watch the box in Tim’s arms as he disappears around the corner.
“Are you all right?” whispers Kayla to me.
“I’m fine,” I say. “It must be low blood sugar, or something. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she says.
Nervously, I walk to the elevator past the bustling associates and secretaries.
Once I’m inside, speeding toward the lobby, I realize I may not be able to ever walk back in this building again. I should just run.
Where is the paper? Did someone take it? Is it still in the stack somehow? If somebody has it, who? If they do, they know. They know I’m a spy! Or was a spy. Or was hired to be a spy. Not really a spy.
But it wouldn’t matter. The paper says I’m a spy.
I can’t come back here. I could be arrested if I do.
Hell, I could be arrested anyway. Ronson’s handwriting was clear:
I hired Sloane Kenner to steal the Meridian file from Concord Hamilton Dandrige per “Mrs. Smith’s” instructions, convincing her I work for Homeland Security.
Inside the file is something that proves Drake Concord is hiding a secret identity.
From what I gather from “Mrs. Smith,” Drake Concord is a very dangerous man. Possibly a killer.
TWENTY-FIVE
Sloane
Out on Lexington Avenue, the first snow of the season is streaming down in sheets. The thin veil of white accumulating on the sidewalks makes New York look almost clean, even though we all know better.
I put on my wool hat and wrap my scarf around my neck. I am feeling sick. I haven’t eaten, I’ve ingested too much caffeine for one day, I didn’t sleep well last night, and I’m sore from wild animal sex and a hot text masturbation session.
None of this stops me from crossing the street and walking west on 54th. Six blocks to Ronson’s office.
I call the mysterious Trish again. Straight to voicemail again. Strange that she was so adamant that I call her back, almost desperate. But now she won’t even pick up.
The snow streams harder, the wind picking it up as I reach Broadway. I find the address I Googled earlier.
It’s an old building in need of a serious upgrade. I open the ancient door and walk into the Art Deco lobby, a gold eagle in a big circle embedded into the tile floor.
A large man in a security uniform sits at a metal desk.
“Can I help you?” he says in a non-interested tone.
“Yes,” I say. “Is Mr. Ronson’s office here?”
He looks at me suspiciously, then folds his arms and leans back. “Uh, I don’t know how to say this–”
“I know,” I say. “I read the papers. I heard he passed away. But I got a phone call from Trish, who says she’s his secretary.”
He breathes a sigh of relief. “Whew,” he says. Okay. I’m sorry, but I’ve had to break the bad news to three people today and two didn’t take it well at all.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, go on up. Second floor. Two twenty-five. Trish is in there bundling up his files.”
“Thank you.”
I walk toward the narrow staircase, which is quite steep.
“Elevator’s right here,” says the guard.
I look at it. It’s one of those old noisy ones with the two metal chain doors that make you feel like you’re in a prison cell as it creaks you upward.
“No thanks,” I say. “It’s just one flight.”
I climb the stairs.
The second floor looks and smells like it hasn’t been scrubbed since 1935. Dusty wall sconces cast a dim light along the yellow-brown walls.
The doors to all the offices are wooden with panels and big squares of frosted glass with the name of each business in stencil letters.
There it is. 225. Sam Ronson - Private Investigations.
I take a deep breath and knock.
Then I wait. Nothing. No sound. There is a light on in there. I can see it glowing through the frosted glass.
I knock again, harder this time. The door opens a crack. Hm, guess it had been unlocked.
Should I just go in?
I wait another few seconds, and then ease the door open. It creaks loudly.
I walk into the office. Nobody here. Two very old metal desks with stacks of files in boxes greet me. Two empty file cabinets pulled out from the far wall.
That’s it.
Hm.
A feeling of dread washes over me, but I’m not sure why. I walk further into the office and look at the stacks of files. Some are very old, dating back to the 1970s. Lots of newspaper clippings are in bundles. Some unopened mail sits in rubber-banded coils.
The smell in here is worse than the hallway, like there’s a dead animal in the rafters or something. The sounds of Broadway push through the metal window with thin veins of chain link embedded in the glass, but all is quiet.
Maybe I should go through some of these files and try to find out more information. According to what I read on the handwritten paper, he was hired by a “Mrs. Smith” who he described as a tall woman with long brown hair, over six feet. She wanted Ronson to hire me to steal the Meridian files from Concord Hamilton Dandridge to expose the true identity of... I can’t say it... the man who fucked me senseless last night.
God, I’m so confused. Scared and getting sick, too. Where is this Trish anyway?
I consider leaving, but I really should look through these files. I may need something that’s here to help clear my name, just in case.
I’m in way deep... on so many levels. What the fuck has happened to my life? What is going on? How did I get mixed up in all this?
Yes, I’ll stay and check the files. If Trish shows up, I’ll just tell her the truth. I’m only trying to do the right thing.
The stuffiness in here is almost unbearable, not to mention the smell. I take off my hat, coat, and gloves, draping them over an ancient creaky office chair.
Then I walk toward the window to open it. It’s one of those old ones with the metal handle on the bottom that first you twist, then you push the window outward on its hinge.
I grab the handle, but it’s a tough one. Won’t budge. I
use two hands, gripping it tightly. I turn to my side for leverage.
That’s when I see her.
Dead eyes staring up at me, a giant hole in her head, lying in a pool of blood behind the filing cabinet.
I stifle a scream.
I found Trish.
* * *
Watch for Fifty Days: Book 3 available December 17, 2014!
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Also by Taylor Shade, writing as Skylar Cross:
The Cage Sessions
Controlled by His Voice
Mastered by His Touch
