“Thanks.” I look toward the atrium that Mom loved, before stepping onto the elevator. A week after she died, the guard on duty felt sorry for me and let me sit in the atrium, staring at the glass ceiling and the sweeping staircases. The building was known for them. The City Pride Department took over the building mainly because of the historically beautifully architecture. The head of the department claimed it was only fitting the group be housed in a place designed to inspire.

The elevator dings, and I exit. Unlike the floor where my mother worked, whose halls were filled with murals of their previous projects and displays of working models of redesigned buildings, the eighth floor is stark. It has bare white walls and metal-gray floors. Aside from the whoosh of the elevator doors behind me, everything is dead quiet.

The few times I came to the office with Mom, there was always the hum of conversation or music playing from someone’s speakers, giving the place a sense of life. There are no voices behind the closed steel doors on this floor. It feels sterile. Vacant. Unwelcoming.

Clutching my tablet tight to my chest, I take three slow steps down the hall, then stop in front of a door marked “ARCHIVES.” It has a black scanner box next to the handle of the door, similar to the one the guard operated in order for me to get to this floor. The high security was another difference from Mom’s level.

“Merriel Beckley?”

I jump and spin at the sound of my name. A red-haired man with a fussy-looking goatee stands in the middle of the hall. He is wearing a dark blue suit with black shoes that shine as if they were bought at the store today. A door that was closed just moments before now stands open not far from him.

“You are Merriel Beckley?”

I swallow hard and nod.

“It is good to meet you. I’m Victor Beschloss. Marcus Webster explained to me your interest in the City Art Program. I’m glad you found the time to come by. It must be hard to be back in the building where your mother worked.”

I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “I’ve never been to this floor before. It’s . . . quiet.”

Mr. Beschloss smiles. “The offices on this floor are utilitarian by nature. We’re not the creative types up here.” His smile fades. “Your mother was very talented and very . . . driven.”

Driven. It isn’t the first word I would have associated with my mother, but I suppose that trait would be important to the people on this floor.

He sighs and turns toward the open door. “I’m sorry to say I don’t have much time. So if you would please follow me . . .”

My footsteps echo in the hallway as I trail behind him into an office lined with windows on the far side. There are large tablet screens on each of the other walls—all displaying one of the two news channels with the volume muted. There is also a dark gray couch that runs along the wall next to the door. In front of it is a glass coffee table. If the decorator wanted to make this office look as intimidating as possible, he definitely succeeded.