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  I shake my head.

  She waves a hand. “It’s old. Anyway, he was going on and on about how the building had been used in something like fifteen movies—you could always tell because of the gargoyles hanging off the sides. He was so into it he elbowed me in the arm, and I spilled my coffee all over him.”

  “You did?” I laugh, but inside I’m crumbling, because knowing a building by the gargoyles, by the architecture, sounds exactly like Caleb—the real Caleb. The boy I know, not the con.

  “Didn’t you know I’m super smooth?” She ducks her head suddenly. “Watch out. The chicken has flown the coop. I repeat, the chicken has flown the coop.”

  I follow her gaze to find that Mark is out of the club’s meeting room and is rushing toward us, phone in hand. Everyone he passes stands or follows in curiosity, and though I brace for whatever might come, he continues right by us.

  The elevator dings as he reaches it, and Lewis charges out, surrounded by a horde of staffers. Mark pivots as they shove by, trailing after like a stray dog.

  “Meeting room!” Lewis barks. The group doesn’t wait for me to seat them today—they storm past, half of them on their phones, all of them looking rattled.

  Myra stuffs her coat inside the hostess stand. She’s already wearing her uniform.

  “Come on,” she says. “We’d better get over there before Jessica sees us.”

  We rush after the group.

  There are more people crammed into this room than ever before—I’m sure we’ve got a fire code problem on our hands—and as Myra and I rush to serve waters, even more pack in after us. In a matter of seconds, we’re trapped against the far wall, shoulder to shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper to Myra, as if she would know any better than me. I look for Ben or Emmett, but they both have ended up on the opposite side of the table.

  “Quiet down!” calls Lewis.

  “I thought he was in Washington,” whispers a middle-aged woman in a Sterling Reputation shirt to a guy in front of me.

  “That’s what I heard,” says the guy. “Maybe he snuck out so the press wouldn’t hound him about the bill.”

  The heat in the room seems to rise twenty degrees. Sweat beads on my hairline and between my shoulder blades. I don’t think they’re talking about Lewis.

  I am trapped in the back corner of this private room, unable to get out, as Jessica escorts Matthew Sterling into the room.

  He’s wearing jeans and a heavy black coat. His baseball cap has flattened his dark hair, and the way he rolls the brim in his hands makes him look anxious, and small. Not at all like the powerful senator I met in his home this summer, or the slick politician gracing the walls of this office.

  His skin is pallid. He looks sick.

  He’s covered up Susan’s death, maybe Jimmy Balder’s, too. He’s threatened and hurt his son. Maybe the pressure is finally getting to him. All I know is he’s dangerous, and he has seen me with Grayson, and if he makes that connection now, I’m positive those detectives he sent to the house will be heading my way.

  “Quiet. That’s enough!” Lewis is standing beside him, motioning for us to settle down. I sink behind the man in front of me, trying to keep out of view.

  “Hold still,” Myra whispers as I try to turn and hide my face. Her arm hooks in mine, holding me straight.

  She has no idea what’s happening here.

  “Thank you, Lewis,” says Sterling, his voice rough. “I’m sorry to take you all by surprise, but I can’t help but be moved by the way you’ve all mobilized in light of recent events.”

  The room is silent, perched on the edge of a knife.

  “I’m sure you all have questions about the recent changes, and I know you’ve probably heard the talk that I’ve sold out, or given in to the lobbyists.”

  “Well?”

  All eyes shoot to Ben, whose face is glowing red. He doesn’t back down, even when Mark hisses for him to wait his turn.

  I keep my gaze on the floor, my heart pounding. Moore told me Sterling would never be here when I was. He was keeping track of when the senator was in Washington and when he was home. Sterling has gotten past everyone to be here today.

  I need to get out of here before he sees me, but the door is on the other side of the room, and if I push through the crowd, I’ll draw attention to myself.

  Myra’s arm stays linked tightly with mine, anchoring me in place.

  “It’s all right,” says Sterling. “I deserve far worse for not preparing you. The truth is the bill was flawed, and pushing it through before it was ready would do a great deal more harm than good. Lewis will be sending an email in the next few hours detailing the pros of my new decision. But I wanted to let you know there will be more changes coming in the coming weeks.”

  More changes. Does Dr. O have something to do with that?

  Whispers have now risen to a dull roar. Lewis has to quiet everyone down again.

  “What kinds of changes?” someone asks.

  “Is this in regard to the Greener Tomorrow initiative?”

  “What are we supposed to tell people?”

  “Are you all right?” It takes a moment to register that Myra is talking to me.

  As Sterling begins answering questions, I swipe at the sweat on my temple. “Claustrophobia.”

  “It’ll be over soon,” she whispers.

  That’s what I’m afraid of.

  “Senator? Matthew?”

  Sterling’s gone quiet, and at Lewis’s worried tone, I glance back up. Sterling is staring at the table in front of him, his jaw clenched. A bitter desperation crackles through the air, leading those closest to lean away and whisper to each other.

  I didn’t hear the last question—someone could have offended him.

  He leans forward, hands flat on the table, as if the invisible load he’s carrying is suddenly too heavy to continue. What has Dr. O done to him?

  “The brief’s coming soon.” Lewis recovers quickly. “Check your emails. The senator’s obviously been working around the clock. We’ll reconvene in a few hours, but in the meantime, carry on with your instructions. Keep it positive, people. The senator has everyone’s best interests in mind.”

  In the stunned silence, Matthew Sterling is ushered from the room by Lewis and Mark, and people gradually begin returning to their stations. Even though the space clears, my breath stays thin and shallow, and I hurry toward the door with Myra chasing after me.

  “What’s going on?” she asks as I grab my bag by the phone bank. I look around for Sterling, but he must be with the crowd, gathering at the bar around Lewis.

  “I’m not feeling well,” I say. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Disappointment drops her shoulders as I pull my arm from hers. “But what about girls’ night?”

  “I … I can’t tonight.”

  Before she can ask more, I’m hurrying toward the door, past the framed photo of Grayson and his father on the hostess stand, into the hallway. My shoes squeak across the stepping stones as I make my way toward the elevator, as I watch the light move from 1, to 2, to 3. But right as the doors start to open, I hear the clatter of steps behind me.

  “Hold the door.” I turn and see a man with black hair, graying at the sides, wearing a long wool coat. A gold badge gleams from his hip.

  Detective Morales.

  For one fraction of a second, I weigh my options.

  Stay, and talk my way out. He’s got nothing on me—if he did, he would have picked me up during or after the raid.

  Run, and I definitely look guilty. But these men have come after Grayson twice before and are willing to do anything to bring him home to the senator.

  I bolt.

  “Stop!” Morales yells.

  Heels slapping against the tiles, I race around the elevator to the emergency exit. He’s close behind as I rip open the door and run down the concrete steps. Grabbing the railing, I skip the last six, leaping to the turnaround. I’m going so fast, I don’t see
the other man waiting on the landing of the eighth floor until it’s too late.

  “Ease up, there.” The other cop—Simon—grabs my arm. I struggle in his grip, but he just holds me tighter. Above us, the door squeals open.

  “What do you want?” I shout.

  “Just a minute of your time,” says Simon.

  “I told you, I don’t talk to cops.”

  “Then maybe you’ll talk to me.”

  Before us, Matthew Sterling descends the stairs, Detective Morales just behind him.

  CHAPTER 27

  There are different kinds of fear—being scared of what lurks in the dark, or being surprised by someone hiding around a corner. The wariness that quickens your pace when someone follows too close, or the gripping prison of a nightmare.

  Being trapped is its own special kind of terror.

  I’ve known it before, at home with Mom and Pete when he’s had a bad night, or lost money at his gambling tables. I’ve felt that acid streak through my blood and gather in the hinge of my jaw and my locked fists and the coiled muscles of my legs. I’ve heard the message it screams through my brain: get out, get out, get out.

  That same urgency pounds through me right now.

  Simon’s grip is tight on my right arm, and I go stone still, hoping this convinces him to loosen his hold. My exits are all blocked. Sterling and Morales stand in the way going up, Simon is between me and the lower level—he’s my best bet. If I can surprise him and break free, I can run. They haven’t pulled out their cuffs yet, which means they don’t plan on arresting me, and they won’t shoot me in an office building in Uptown.

  I don’t think.

  “Brynn, isn’t it?” says Morales.

  Sterling and I both jerk at the name. I’m not Brynn here. I wasn’t Brynn when I was in the senator’s house. I’m only Brynn at Vale Hall, where Morales asked Moore my name before he yelled it down the hall.

  Simon’s grip loosens by a fraction.

  “I know you,” says Sterling. “You’ve been to my house, haven’t you?”

  His voice is raw, as it was upstairs, but now it’s not just exhaustion I see on his face, but a wild, desperate fear.

  But that can’t be right. He’s not afraid of me.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Please,” he says. “I just need—”

  Simon’s grip falters and I break free, charging down the steps. His hands snag my bag, but I twist away.

  “No!” shouts Sterling. “Don’t hurt her!”

  I’m halfway down the stairway when I glance up and see Morales aiming a gun at my shoulder. Panic screams through me, and I’m thrown sideways, as if he’s actually fired. He hasn’t though—it’s just the shock of seeing him with the weapon that’s knocked me off course. As I rebound off the cold concrete wall, Simon’s fist twists in the back of my shirt. In a flash, he’s cranked my right arm behind my back, eliciting a yelp.

  “Enough,” Sterling bellows. His back is straight now, his eyes dark. His hands lift before him, like Lewis’s in the meeting room when he was trying to quiet everyone.

  “Put it away, Detective,” Sterling says, without looking back.

  My heart is hammering against my ribs.

  Morales puts his gun away.

  Simon pulls me back onto the landing.

  My phone is in my back pocket. I need to reach it—to call Moore. He’d come. He’d help me.

  My mind flashes to the police report Caleb mentioned—the head injuries before the accident. I fully understand now why Grayson’s afraid of his dad. Maybe Susan Griffin was, too. Maybe Matthew Sterling hurt her before Grayson ever could.

  The senator clearly has the connections in the police force to make a report like that disappear.

  “Let go of her,” Sterling tells Simon. “She’s just a kid, for God’s sake.”

  I see what’s happening. The senator’s going to play the good cop. He’ll act like he’s on my side, the only thing saving me from these bad guys. He’s probably orchestrated the whole thing so I’ll look to him for help.

  I may not have a choice.

  Simon’s hold loosens, and I jerk free. But I don’t run again. Maybe Morales is on a leash, but he’s still got a gun.

  “What’s your name? Your real name,” asks Sterling. He’s too close. This stairway is too bright with the yellow buzzing lights overhead. The walls feel like they’re edging closer with each second.

  I don’t answer.

  “Is it Sarah?” asks Sterling. “Brynn?”

  Not saying a word.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Do you work at the club?”

  My cover’s blown. Sterling doesn’t know I’m going by Jaime Hernandez, but he will soon enough—a few simple questions to Jessica will lead him there.

  “Okay,” he says when I don’t answer. “That’s all right. All I want to know is if you’ve seen my son.”

  The hair on my arms stands on end. Definitely pleading the Fifth on that one.

  “The detectives say you go to Vale Hall.” Sterling senses my recognition and takes another tentative step forward. “Why was my son at your school?”

  I pull the strap of the bag tighter across my chest.

  “One of the dads said he’d seen Grayson on campus last weekend. He recognized a picture of Grayson from a lineup of missing teenagers.” Sterling scowls. “He claimed his own child was in danger there.”

  I can only imagine what that conversation with Luke was like. I bet he told Sterling and the detectives that Grayson tried to beat him up.

  Still, I’m surprised that Grayson’s included in a police lineup. I assumed Sterling hadn’t reported his son missing to anyone other than his little detective team. He’s more desperate to find Grayson than I thought.

  “Please talk to me,” says Sterling. “I need to know if he’s all right.”

  His plea is so broken, so genuine, I nearly falter. His Adam’s apple is bobbing, his hands open before him. It reminds me of what Grayson said the night we kissed—that his father was crying when he got to the house after the accident.

  Matthew Sterling’s either a hell of an actor, or he actually misses his son.

  “He was all right last I saw him.” If I give him nothing, I will look even guiltier than I do now.

  A breath escapes through Sterling’s teeth. “When was that?”

  “A couple months ago, I guess.”

  Sterling frowns. “Do you know where he was going?”

  Grayson told me when he first came to Vale Hall that the detectives had traced him to Nashville before Belk had picked him up.

  “Tennessee, I think? He said he was visiting friends there. Then going to Florida.”

  “What’s in Florida?”

  “I don’t know, the beach? He said he just needed to get away for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he was looking for an adventure.”

  Sterling rubs his jaw. “He hasn’t been in contact with you?”

  I shake my head.

  “No texts? No emails, nothing online?”

  “No. Why? Is he in trouble?” It’s time to up my game now, and I pinch my brows together in worry.

  “I don’t know,” says Sterling. “He’s … a troubled kid. He left his medicine. He’s missed appointments with his therapist. He needs help.”

  My mind flashes with the image of a boy I don’t even know. Was Jimmy Balder troubled? Did he need the kind of help Sterling offers?

  But at the same time, what if Sterling isn’t lying? Grayson is troubled—because of the accident, and what his father did to cover it up. He could need therapy and meds, and he’s not getting either now.

  “If I hear from him, I’ll let you know,” I say.

  “This is the truth, isn’t it?” he asks weakly. “If there’s something you think I should know, you can tell me. If he’s … if he’s done something, you can tell me. You won’t be in trouble.”

  Says th
e man surrounded by two armed detectives.

  “I don’t know where he is,” I say.

  He looks toward the ceiling, as if asking for answers, and it reminds me of how Grayson did the same after he first came to Vale Hall.

  When the senator looks at me again, his gaze is steady, his shoulders square. “I’m going to give you my personal cell number. I want you to call me if you hear anything—it doesn’t matter how small you think it is. Can you do that?”

  I nod.

  We exchange numbers, and then he shakes my hand. His grip is cold and awkward, though I’m sure he does this all the time.

  “Thank you,” he says. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

  I hesitate a moment and then take a step back, away from Simon. This is it. He’s letting me go. When I reach the steps I half expect to turn and see Morales’s gun aimed at me again, but it’s not. He’s talking in a low voice to the senator while Simon watches me walk away.

  The senator’s head falls forward. He grips the bannister. It’s the last thing I see before I race down the steps, all the way to the first floor.

  When I shove outside, I gulp down the cool fall air, feeling it bite my throat as I race away from the mirrored windows of the Macintosh Building. I scramble to make sense of what just happened, but the pieces are too slippery to hold and press into place.

  The senator was here.

  He recognized me.

  His detectives know where I live.

  I sent them all to Florida after Grayson.

  I jog toward the train station—it’s not the end of my shift yet, and Moore won’t be here. I shove through the people, glancing behind me to see if Morales or Simon are following.

  My job at The Loft is blown; I can’t go back. If Mark knew more, I’m not going to get it now, and whatever secrets Myra’s holding about Caleb have slipped out of reach.

  I need to get out of here.

  But I can’t help wondering why he let me go. I just faced a man who’s abusive to his own son, who’s powerful enough to bury secrets—to bury me—and I’m walking away, unharmed.