Page 14 of Prey

Chapter 8

Grey

He didn’t say goodnight.

At 6:45, Cain walked past my desk without a word. No see you tomorrow. No good work today. Just the soft drag of his shoes, the whisper of his suit jacket, the fading scent of his stupid cologne. The elevator dinged, the doors closed and he was gone.

But his words from this afternoon are still inside my skull, nesting there like something alive.

We’re not done with our conversation.

You’re valuable.

You’re invested.

I sit at my desk until 8 PM. Then 9 PM. Then 10.

The building empties. The lights dim. The cleaners come and go, nodding at me like I’m part of the furniture. I want to believe I can stay if I keep being perfect. Invisible. Useful. But perfection has never kept anyone.

At 10:17, I stand up.

I don’t go to his office this time, I’ve already been there. Already touched his things. Already left a piece of myself on his desk that I can never take back.

No. Tonight, I need more. I need him to have something of mine he can’t ignore.

His address is in his personnel file. I memorized it months ago. The penthouse on Madison, Floor thirty-two. It's the kind of building where doormen wear white gloves and pretend not to see what’s happening in the elevators.

I take the train, I could drive, take a cab, do any number of things that would leave a trail. But the train is anonymous. Full of people who don’t look at each other. People like me.

I get off at the 62nd Street, walk three blocks. The building appears between two others, taller, darker, it’s windows reflecting the city like eyes. I walk past the doorman like I belong here. Chin up, pace steady. The way Cain walks through the world, like every surface was built for his feet.

"Evening, sir." The doorman nods.

I nod back. Don’t stop to explain or give him a name. Names are how people track you down later, when they decide you’re a problem.

The elevator requires a keycard.

I have one.

Not the one I took from Cains desk, that one is for the executive floor at work. This one is different. This one I made myself, using the serial number I copied from his own keycard three months ago while he was on a conference call.

The elevator lights up , the doors close and then I’m rising. The hallway on floor forty-seven is quiet. The carpet so thick my shoes make no sound. Sconces on the walls, warm and low. A single door at the end of the hall, black, unmarked, closed.

I walk toward it. My heart is calm. My hands are steady. My mind is clear. This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is why I’ve been patient. Tonight, I get to be inside his life.

The lock is electronic. Keypad. His birthday? No. Too obvious. His ex-wife's? No. He hates her. The year he made partner? I type 2017. The lock blinks red. The year he got divorced? I type 2019. Green.

The door opens. I laugh, low. Of course it’s the year he got divorced. Is he lazy to change it, or does he want me to know?

Stop. Don’t start that again. He doesn’t know.

His apartment smells like him. Not just the cologne, though that’s here too, lingering in the entryway like a ghost. Something older. The smell of leather and paper and the particular warmth of a space where one person lives alone.

I close the door behind me, I want to hear if someone comes. No one is coming. He’s not here. I checked the calendar. I checked the GPS. He’s at a dinner downtown.

The entryway opens into a living room, huge windows. The same view as his office, but higher. Wider. The city sprawled out below like a circuit board, all lights and movement and distant noise.

The living room is immaculate, beige couch, glass coffee table. A bookshelf full of things I want to touch. Photographs I want to study. Objects I want to take but not yet.