His eyes track the room. “Where would it be?”
“In a safe place,” I mutter, already crossing toward the back wall, toward the old metal cabinet that looks like it’s been on base since the Cold War. I used it because it’s ugly. It’s unassuming. It’s the last thing anyone would think holds anything worth taking.
I kneel and yank the bottom drawer open.
Empty.
I blink.
No. That’s wrong.
I pull harder, checking behind the drawer, in the corners, along the metal lip.
Nothing.
My heart starts climbing my throat.
“It should be here,” I whisper.
Crewe’s presence shifts beside me. “Where else.”
“I—” I swallow. “I had it. I put it here.”
I pop up and move fast, crossing to my desk, my hands suddenly too clumsy, rummaging through a pile of papers like they might magically produce the one thing that matters.
Pens. Sticky notes. A cracked thumb drive. A little pink stress ball shaped like a brain.
No key.
I rip open a drawer.
Nothing.
Another.
Nothing.
My breathing turns shallow.
Crewe catches my elbow gently, grounding me. “Riley.”
“It’s gone,” I whisper, panic spiking. “It’s gone, Crewe. Someone took it.”
His eyes darken. “When did you last see it.”
“Before the break-in,” I say. “Weeks ago. I haven’t touched it because I didn’t need it.” I laugh once—sharp and humorless. “God. I didn’t think I’d ever need it.”
Crewe’s jaw flexes. He scans the room again like he’s looking for a person hiding in plain sight.
The door opens behind us.
I turn, already tense, and see a familiar face framed by fluorescent light.
Dr. Lyle Hammond.
He steps inside like he’s been running. His coat is half-zipped, hair slightly windblown, worry carved into his features. When his eyes land on me, relief flashes across his face—quick, sincere-looking.
“Riley,” he says, and crosses the room with open hands. “Thank God. I heard you were coming back in.”
