After watching him for two hours at the bar, I tested my access to the thirteenth floor. There was some persuading of the security officer, but he was easily enough convinced of my desire to work after hours to make a good impression on my new bosses.

I pinpointed three cameras that I need to disable. Luckily, the security system runs on Wi-Fi. One jammer placed on the floor affords me fifteen minutes before any red flags are raised.

Fifteen minutes will be all the time I have to nail my target.

Day two: Instead of testing my access with the security officer again, I hang back this afternoon at my desk as everyone starts to leave for the day. Then I dip into the bathroom and wait. Not the most covert plan, but keeping it simple is the best practice.

I check the time on my phone, and my heart knocks painfully in my chest. Just a flash memory of Alex clicking his pocket watch open, and my body responds.

He’s gone.

There’s a strange melancholy that comes with that awareness. I shake the feeling off and enable the jammer. As an extra precaution, I slide on a mask used by the janitorial staff to shield half my face, then I emerge from the bathroom.

Ten minutes spent searching Ericson’s office computer and I come up with nothing. All his financial records are pristine. Too pristine, in fact, as if he’s purposely curated the numbers to appear like all his other accounts.

“Damn,” I whisper.

I should leave now. Go home and regroup. Spend more time observing my target to formulate another plan to safely get the documents I need. But my heart is pounding. I feel the pressure to get the job done tonight, to make this part of my life done.

So I can move on.

I backtrack out of the programs and erase my digital footprints, then remove the jammer before I exit the building. The whole time, every step of the way, knowing where I’ll end up.

A tiny voice in the back of my head says I should monitor my target longer. Be sure—absolutely positive—about the time he leaves The Sage House. But again, I just can’t—I cannot keep postponing this job.

It needs to be finished.

It needs to end.

And my instincts urge me to the building on the corner where Ericson’s second apartment—the one he keeps hidden from his wife—is located. If Ericson is hiding his dealings with Brewster and the fact that he skims off the top of his not-so-legit clients, that has to be where he’s keeping the evidence.

I’m mentally going through the plan, deciding the best way to gain access to his apartment, very much breaking one of my own rules that insist I never wing it, when I hear a definite whimper from the alley of the building.

None of my business.