“Oh. Of course.”
“Genevieve.” He lowered his voice out of caution. “It’s just the municipal archives. They’re public records, in a public building. But do be careful.”
Her return gaze was full of worry, but she nodded and turned to go.
“Wait.” He stopped her. “Let’s meet later tonight. Lüchow’s? Ten PM?”
“Not Delmonico’s?” Her expression had lightened to one of mild teasing, but he could still see the concern around her eyes.
“Let’s mix it up,” he shrugged.
“Lüchow’s it is, then. And Daniel.” She turned in the doorway, glancing back at him with wide eyes. “I’m always careful.”
Satisfaction surged through Genevieve as the elevator doors opened with a noisy rattle. She stepped into the dark tenth-floor hallway of the Globe’s massive building and switched on one of the dim electric lights overhead. With just enough light to see, she bypassed the empty offices of the paper’s foreign correspondents and made her way back toward the appropriate records room.
She had found something in the municipal archives, a filing of paperwork relating to the recent formation of a corporation called Lexington Industries by Huffington and Clark. If she wasn’t mistaken, this venture was not listed among some of the other, more publicly known collaborations, in which Clark had financed some of Huffington’s shipping interests. She had no idea if it was significant, but it pleased her to head into her late-supper appointment with something tangible from several frustrating hours of sifting. Perhaps Daniel could make heads or tails of it. She had made careful notes but wanted to double-check on whether the Globe had anything relating to Lexington Industries.
Genevieve consulted the timepiece pinned to her breast as she opened the door to the records room. Nine o’clock. She had just enough time to quickly scan the files of Huffington and Clark, and then in a different room she’d see if the corporation itself had merited a file yet, though she doubted it.
Glancing briefly though the records on both men, she found nothing. Retreating back down the hall, she fit her key to the offices into another room of files. The fifth floor, where her desk was located, was an open space, and there were probably several bleary-eyed journalists rattling around even at this late hour—she’d run into Verna, one of the secretaries, on the elevator tonight—putting the finishing touches on stories for the early edition. But the tenth floor was reserved mostly for the vast files of information reporters could access when they undertook research on a subject, as well as for the offices of journalists employed by the paper who were rarely in town.
Flicking on a light within the small space, Genevieve headed toward the appropriate drawer and hunted through the files. Sure enough, nothing on a corporation called Lexington Industries. She pondered the implications of this as she retraced her steps, turning the light back off and stepping into the hall to relock the door.
Just as a soft click informed her that the lock had hit home, the world around her plunged into blackness.
Someone had turned off the light at the far end of the hallway.
Her heart instantly sped to triple its usual rate. Pressing her back against the door she had just locked, Genevieve tried to make herself as small and quiet as possible.
This was no accident. Someone knew she was alone and wanted her afraid.
She listened.
From the opposite end of the hallway, near the elevator, came the barest scrape of a footstep. Trying to control the sound of her own rushing breath, she strained her ears.
Was that a slight rustling? Was it getting closer?
This standing and waiting wouldn’t do. She wasn’t about to allow herself to become victim to whoever was intent upon terrifying her. Despite how terrified she felt.
Moving as noiselessly as possible, Genevieve slipped across the pitch-black hallway and ran her hand along the wall until she felt the doorknob to the office opposite. She turned it, praying it would be silent. It was, but the door was locked, and she wasn’t about to try her key when her vision was cloaked by darkness.
Another few careful steps, fingers running along the smooth coolness of the wall, and she came to the next doorknob. She tried again, wincing as the knob made a slight creaking noise. No luck; also locked.
Terrified that the noise of the knob had revealed her location, she felt an involuntary shaking begin to take hold of her hands. The feeling of exposure was almost more frightening than attempting to remain absolutely silent in the sightless hallway. She paused and listened again, her heart fluttering like a bird’s.
Another scrape. Whoever was here, they were definitely closer.
Almost numb with panic, Genevieve rushed forward another few steps as quietly as she could until she found another doorknob. This one turned inaudibly in her hand as she stifled a sob of relief.
Now would the door creak on its hinges, or would she have another stroke of luck?
Genevieve bit her lip, waiting, hand on the turned knob. Another shuffling footstep sounded, even closer.
There was no time to wait. Holding her breath and whispering a quick prayer, she pushed the unknown door open as slowly as she could, desperately hoping it led into an office with a lock and not an overstuffed broom closet.
Her luck held, and she slipped into somebody’s empty office. The blinds of the window were open, and scant light from the streetlamps below and moon above offered just enough illumination for shapes to coalesce into forms: a desk, a file cabinet, a chair slightly askew in a corner.
With shaking hands, Genevieve shut the door as quietly as she could and fumbled for the interior lock. She was almost safe.
Unless the intruder also had a key.
Rushing footsteps sounded outside the door. Panic leapt into her throat as she scrambled for the lock, but in her haste her
