He flashed me another luminous smile, his teeth straight and perfectly white. Once he had stepped out the door, I set the printer on the chair and let out a long, slow breath.

My hope was that Wendell and I could wrap this up in a matter of minutes. All I needed to do was go over the contract, get some signatures, and present the check. As I waited, I glanced around the room, noting the healthy ficus tree in the corner, the obligatory diplomas on the wall. To my right was a lovely portrait painting I had noticed earlier, and I walked over to it to get a better look.

The painting was exquisite, though somewhat dated. It featured a fresh-faced young woman in her early 20s, a half smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes. She sat in a wicker chair, a fuzzy kitten curled in her lap. Judging from her clothes and hairstyle, the painting must’ve been from the early 1950s.

As I was turning away from the painting, I froze, my heart suddenly in my throat. On the floor, nearly hidden behind the massive desk, Wendell Smythe was sprawled facedown across the floor.

I ran to him, grabbing his shoulder and turning him toward me. His eyes were open, his skin the odd pallor of a dead man.

“Wendell!” I yelled, shaking his shoulders. When he didn’t respond I put my fingers on his neck and then his wrist, feeling for a pulse.

There was none.

I ran to the door and threw it open, startling Gwen, who was still on the phone.

“Quick!” I said. “Call 911! It’s an emergency!”

She stood, dropping the phone, one hand to her mouth. I dashed back into the room and over to the lifeless man. She followed me into the room and used the phone there, yelling in a frantic voice to the operator, “Hurry! Please hurry!”

I started CPR, even though I felt sure it was in vain. As I worked—15 pumps, two breaths, even and strong—I noticed that the trash can was on its side, its contents scattered on the floor beside him. Among the balled-up papers and pencil shavings were a syringe and some medical-looking implements. Glancing toward the bathroom door, I called out, but there was no reply.

I looked at Gwen as she hung up the phone. Her hands were visibly trembling, her face as pale as the pearls on her ears.

“Who else was in here besides him?” I asked her, breathing hard as I pressed rhythmically against Wendell’s chest.

“No one,” she rasped. “W-why?”

“Because someone’s in there. Is that a bathroom?”

“Yes. It has an exit out the other side, though.”

“Do you know CPR?”

“Y-yes.”

“Take over.”

She was frozen in shock. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her down next to me—that seemed to jolt her into action. She leaned forward over Wendell’s body and slid her hands into place on his chest, taking over my rhythm. I got up and ran to the bathroom door, knocking loudly. There was no reply, but I thought I could hear movement from the other side. I tried the knob, but it was locked.