There’s another pause. On the screen, a woman steps out of the apartment complex and walks past the parked car. As she turns the corner, the driver starts the engine and trails after her.
“You have a strong soul,” Sam says.
It’s an odd comment, and Edward finds himself blushing, unsure how to answer. “Is that your way of saying I’m bold to meet you here?” he asks.
“It means you must have the stomach for this kind of job.”
He gets the sense that she actually means something else, but he doesn’t know what it might be, and he doesn’t pry. “Well,” he replies, “someone has to do it.”
“What’s in the bag?”
He pushes his glasses up, undoes his satchel’s clip, and starts pulling out his folder of neatly organized documents. “Some evidence for you. I thought you might appreciate seeing the other cases I’ve been working on.”
“These are the ones you mentioned on the phone.”
“That’s correct.”
“Which ones?”
He holds up one of the reports to one side so that she can take it. “More recently, a Grand Central employee you might know. Ashley Hanover? Does that name ring a bell?”
She doesn’t answer right away, nor does she take the report. When Sam doesn’t speak, it seems as though she’s disappeared entirely. Edward puts down the report after a while. He fights the urge to turn around, to check whether or not the seat behind him is actually empty.
On the screen, the car turns the corner to find that the woman it was trailing has vanished. The driver pulls over. His face is wrinkled with confusion.
“And why do you think that’s similar to my mother’s case?” Sam finally says.
“Well, you all seem to run in the same circles.”
“My mother wasn’t connected to the Lumines Group or Grand Central.”
He straightens. “But she was.”
“She didn’t know I work for Grand Central.”
“I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about her.” He frowns. “You didn’t know?”
Sam is quiet.
He clears his throat. “Some years back, your mother was employed in a factory owned by the Lumines Group. She quit two decades ago.”
Her continued silence tells him that this is a revelation for her.
“Your mother worked under a supervisor named Henry Maclan,” he continues, “who was found dead recently at a downtown bar. And Maclan had recently attended a hotel event with Kane Zhukov, who was killed the night after Maclan—under circumstances as strange as those of your mother’s.” He shakes his head. “I have the video of Will with your mother, but I can’t prove that he did anything in particular to her. The autopsy results certainly didn’t turn up anything. Like the others, there’s no evidence of any weapons used. No conclusive agreement on how the victims might have died. So, you see. These are the similarities that I have to investigate.”
“Why?”
He frowns again. “What do you mean?”
“Why do you have to?”
“Well, ma’am, it’s my job.”
“It’s the job of your colleagues too. But you’re the only one to follow through. Why?”
She’s suspicious of his intentions, he realizes. “Because my parents taught me that if I’m going to do something, I’d better do it right.”
“And you still listen to your parents?”
