The Hallway

He almost didn't go in that night. Then he thought about Dorothea agreeing to go on record, about Naomi risking her sources, about Bethany's message still sitting unanswered on his phone, and he put on his uniform like every other night for thirty-one years, because the one thing he refused to give Thaddeus Corrigan was the sight of him running.

The fourteenth floor was quiet until 9:50, when the elevator opened and Corrigan stepped out alone, tie loosened, the way men look when they've been arguing with lawyers for six hours straight.

He stopped when he saw Roland.

"You're the one who does this floor," Corrigan said. Not a question.

"Thirty-one years." Roland kept his hands steady on the cart.

"Long time." Corrigan's eyes went to Roland's badge and stayed there a beat too long. "Security tells me there's been some unusual badge activity up here lately. Late hours. Odd patterns."

"Building's old. Badge readers glitch."

"Mm." Corrigan didn't move. "You know, I had a car doing a security sweep of the neighborhood the other night. Standard thing, after-hours precaution, given everything going on with the deal. Interesting what a good driver notices, parked across from an apartment building for an hour." He smiled, and it didn't reach anywhere near his eyes. "Small world, this company. Everybody's connected to everybody, one way or another."

Roland said nothing. There was nothing to say that wouldn't be an admission.

"You have a good night, Mr. Vasquez," Corrigan said — using his last name for the first time in eleven years, which was its own kind of answer — and walked toward the boardroom, phone already at his ear.

Roland stood in the empty hallway a long moment, the black SUV from three nights ago suddenly making a sickening kind of sense.

He didn't know what Corrigan knew.

He only knew that Friday's story couldn't come soon enough — because somebody clearly intended to make sure he didn't see it published.