Hazard’s heart beat a little faster. He opened a new tab, and then he rummaged through the desk drawers until he came up with the business card, battered and with one corner bent, that Darnell had given him early on. It gave Darnell’s name, and then his position: Director of Ethical Technologies. Hazard typed the company’s name, SquibSquab, into the search engine.

Nothing. Oh, sure, a few entries from Urban Dictionary, links to social media posts where someone had used the tag for something—Hazard couldn’t understand what. But no corporate webpage. Nothing that even resembled a tech company with remote employees who directed ethical technologies.

But Darnell had tech skills, Hazard thought. Just a few months ago, Darnell had helped them break into a protected hard drive. He had claimed someone at work had helped him, but that might have been a lie. Yes, the analytical part of Hazard’s brain said. Yes, tech skills. The same kind of tech skills that might have made it easy to get past the security measures Mitchell had installed. Maybe that had even been how Darnell got inside the apartment. Maybe Mitchell had noticed the cameras weren’t working; maybe Mitchell had called a friend, a tech friend, someone he knew and trusted, for help.

Hazard spun in the chair fast, reaching for his phone. His knee crashed into the desk, and something cracked and fell loose. The phone slipped from his fingers, and his heels dug into the floor as he rolled back in the chair. First, he reached for the Blackhawk holstered under his arm. Then he stopped. He counted to ten. He made himself breathe, slowly and deeply, and then he worked his rigid fingers until he could flex them and pick up his phone. He dialed Somers as he pushed the chair to one side and got onto his hands and knees.

“It’s not really lunchtime yet,” Somers said. “Although I could definitely use a reason to get out of here.”

“John.” Hazard said, the word dredged up like gravel.

“What’s wrong? Are you having a panic attack? Are you hurt?”

“No,” Hazard said, but he couldn’t seem to clear his throat. Couldn’t seem to sound normal. “I’m fine. I just—”

“You don’t sound fine. Where are you? What’s happening?”

Hazard picked up the device. Turned it in his hand. It was a recording device, obviously activated by sound. He didn’t know how long it had been hidden under his desk. Months, he guessed.

“I think I know how the Keeper has been staying ahead of us.”

“What?” Somers’s voice changed; sounds of movement came across the line, and then he spoke again, more quietly. “What are you talking about?”

“John, I think Darnell is the Keeper.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

JULY 3

WEDNESDAY

10:18 AM

SOMERS STOOD IN THE custodial supply closet, listening to Hazard’s reasoning. As the explanation dragged on, Somers found himself taking deeper and deeper breaths. It smelled like wet mop in here. An ammonia smell, too, sure, but mostly wet mop. Didn’t anybody ever clean out this closet? Didn’t anybody get sick of that wet, moldy funk? Couldn’t anybody at the station do their fucking job?