Page 5 of Black Heart
Hunching over so I’m hidden by the rows of cubicles, I stealth-crawl back to my computer and detach my USB, pocketing it before Dawson’s door rams open.
My clenched jaw catches my gasp. I melt to the floor, huddling under my desk.
A tall man in a dark suit emerges. But from this angle, I can’t see his face.
“You have very little time left,” he growls over his shoulder at Dawson. “If you so much as?—”
The man stops, his head turning toward my desk lamp.
“Is someone else here?” he barks.
My muscles tense. I could run, but they’d see me. I could stay hidden, but they’d find me. Either way, I’m fucked.
The man’s hand disappears into his jacket. I bite down on a whimper.
“Dumb interns,” Dawson’s scratched, raw voice responds in his office. “They’re always leaving shit on before they leave, like a high electric bill will really stick it to the man.”
Heavy footsteps approach my cubicle. I press against the wall under my desk, my mind going blank with terror, the USB drive burning a hole in my pocket.
The steps pause. A shadow falls across the cubicle entrance.
My fingers curl, ready to claw or flee. The man’s hand reappears from his pocket, holding a pistol.
Dawson pokes his head out.
“Hey,” he says to thegun-wieldingman. “The office cleaning crew will be in here any minute. If you don’t want to be seen, you’d better make yourself scarce.”
I see enough of the man to watch him pocket his gun and straighten his suit before receding out of view. “This warning is the last courtesy you’ll receive, Dawson. Next time, it’ll be far less friendly.”
Huddling my knees to my chest, I wait for the elevator todingits presence, taking Mystery Man with it to the ground floor. Yet I’m still not alone.
I listen to the sounds of Dawson collecting himself, clearing his throat multiple times, and muttering hoarsely under his breath as drawers bang and keys jangle when he steps out of his office and locks the door behind him.
His silhouette comes next, the edges illuminated by the city’s lights through the windows as he passes by at a fast clip, his briefcase clutched close to his chest.
Thank God for Dawson’s inflated ego—he’s so convinced everyone jumps at his commands, he’d never imagine I’d still be here after he told me to leave before two o’clock.
After the second elevator ding comes and the doors slide shut behind Dawson, I allow my shoulders to relax and lift my head. But I still don’t move.
Fifteen minutes pass before I’m comfortable enough to slide out from the cover of my desk and take the same route Dawson and Mystery Man did to exit to the ground floor.
The rain pelts my back as I slip out a side door, the wet rivulets seeping through my thin jacket. I quicken my pace, head down, hurrying through the empty streets. Thecobblestones shine slick under the streetlamps, the fog swirling around my feet.
My mini-Coop is parked a half a block away. I pay for street parking because the garage is for full-time employees only, and right now, I’ve never been more thankful for that.
The engine rumbles to life, its vibrations slinging through the driver’s seat like the fizzing of my blood as I navigate my way home, checking the rearview mirror religiously, praying that I won’t notice headlights through the wash of rain. It becomes more of a terrifying possibility the farther I drive from the main expanse of Greycliff and into the narrow, winding road that snakes along the peninsula’s spine, a precarious path lined with gnarled trees bent from the relentless sea winds. The road is an undulating ribbon of asphalt, offering glimpses of the rocky shoreline on one side and dense, tangled woodland on the other.
The lighthouse itself, an imposing structure of weathered stone and iron, rises stoically from a grassy outcrop up ahead. Its base is encircled by old, salt-stained boulders that have borne the brunt of countless storms like this one. The narrow piece of land it stands on extends into the restless sea like a slender finger. I speed toward it like one that beckons me closer.
With the help of the blanket I keep in the back seat because of the constant temperature drops, I scuttle into my home with it draped over my head—a plaid, wet-blanket-ghost seeking safe harbor.
I discard the blanket and peel off my damp clothes in the small entryway, my skin prickling with a residual chill. Clad in my bra and underwear, I wrap a quilt that’s draped on the couch around my shoulders and light the stone fireplace that dominates one wall. I’m happy to report that the small house retains its historical charm by having no central heating.
The tempest rages outside, but in here, all is still but for the crackling of the growing fire.
Curling up on the couch facing the flames, I drag my laptop onto my lap.
It hums to life, casting an electronic glow that battles with the dancing light of the natural fire. With trembling fingers, I stick my USB in and click open the files, dreading what I’m pretty sure made it onto the stick in addition to Dawson’s subtle groping.