What does someone with resources like Bailey Kirk know about me? Should I tell him about my visit with Joe, the box of your belongings? No. I think I’ve decided that the quicker I get away from Bailey Kirk, the better off I’ll be. Maybe.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says, as I approach.
“I keep my promises.”
We fall into step, walk up the busy sidewalk past a deli, an unmarked metal door, a posh residential lobby, a few shops, a small vegetable market. I wasn’t really paying attention when I was here the other day, having no intention of going into your office. So I’m not sure of the address, but I remember that you said there was a black awning. But as we walk, I’m not sure which building it was. I didn’t see you come out.
We walk down the other side, and back again, not speaking. He hasn’t asked about the vacation rental or whether I’ve heard from Joe, so I don’t offer up the information. I’m still not sure about him, what he knows, or what I’m ready to share.
Finally, I come to a stop under an awning that we’ve passed already.
“Maybe this is it,” I say.
“You’ve never been here before,” he asks. There’s skepticism in his tone.
“No,” I say, feeling defensive. “We were taking things slow.”
He holds the door open for me and we walk inside. Glancing around the lobby, which is unremarkable in both size and atmosphere, Kirk’s eyes finally come to rest on a camera mounted in the far corner of the lobby, a round white eye with a blue lens. There’s no doorman.
A directory on the far wall lists company names and there it is: Blackbox Cybersecurity. Eleventh floor.
I point to the listing, white plastic letters plugged onto a black board. “This is it,” I tell him.
He calls the elevator, still having exchanged the bare minimum of words. While we wait, I feel his eyes on me. When I look over, he doesn’t look away. I can’t read his expression.
“Are you okay?” he asks. There’s a kindness to the question that surprises me.
“Yes,” I lie. “I’m fine.” The truth is I’m scared of what we’re going to find upstairs.
When the elevator arrives, we both climb on. My shoulders are tense, pulse racing. Maybe there will be key-card security and an abrupt end to this errand; in fact, I’m hoping for it, aware that my heart is stuttering with dread.
But when he presses the button for the eleventh floor, the elevator starts to move. We stand awkwardly side by side as the red light travels, illuminating one number after the next with a pleasant ding. He is close, barely an inch between us, though there’s plenty of room for him to be farther. I am aware of his heat, of his scent. A kind of warm sandalwood, maybe.
The ride seems long, the elevator slow.
What will we find when it opens?
Will you be sitting at a desk, diligently working, embarrassed for me to see that you haven’t disappeared at all? That you’re just done with me?
Maybe you’ll bluster with embarrassment. Maybe you’ll rage. Perhaps you’ll cut and run from this detective who has questions about a missing girl, someone you dated. How will you answer the thousand questions I have?
Will it be a busy office? Posh and populated with smart people sitting behind big computer screens. Maybe it will be gray and run-down, flickering fluorescent lights, rickety furniture.
But it’s none of these things. It’s just an empty space, lights out—a reception desk, a small room filled with a scattering of white, modern desks, and ergonomic swivel chairs, some file cabinets. We step into the small foyer, and the elevator doors close behind us. Quiet, the aura of abandonment hums.
“You’re sure this is the place?” asks Kirk, with a frown.
“No,” I admit. “I’m not.”
“Hello?” he calls out, but his voice just bounces around the empty space.
He walks into the main area, starts looking in desks. Not knowing what else to do, I follow, feeling like an interloper.
The desktops gleam with newness; slim drawers clean and empty. Everything seems unused, one of the chairs still with remnants of shrink-wrapping. There are no personal items—coffee cups or framed pictures. Even the wastepaper baskets are pristine. I lose myself for a time, looking for any other little piece of you. I’m wearing your watch. It’s far too big for my wrist. When I put it to my ear, its ticking is loud, a beating heart.
We open closet doors, peer into an empty conference room.
I’ve been tingling since I saw that article, felt the newsprint against my fingers. I run from my past, want nothing to do with the person I used to be. She’s dead and gone. For the first time in a long time, I can feel the darkness breathing on the back of my neck, a hand reaching from beyond the grave.