Page 2 of Entity

A chill runs down my spine, and it has nothing to do with how cold I am. It’s quiet for a Friday evening in downtown LA. This place should be crawling with traffic. Craning my neck, I look up at the towering building. It’s so tall it may as well be jutting into space, its apex obscured by rainfall. Purple lights brighten its edges, but it’s otherwise dark; there are no yellow-lit windows to indicate anyone’s there. For all I know, this building is completely empty except for the penthouse, where Ian De Leon lives.

And then it occurs to me that this building looks familiar. I remember it being built not too long ago. A few years, maybe. So many mega skyscrapers have sprung up all over LA that I can’t keep track. It’s like an entire skyline of Burj Khalifas. But something about this particular building pulls at my curiosity, drawing me in.

I press the buzzer again. A sudden lance of fear cuts through me: Am I in the right place? Is this an elaborate scam? There’s been a spate of disappearances lately in downtown LA — am Iabout to be the next? What if I just willingly human trafficked myself?

Heart in my throat, I turn, looking for I don’t know what — a street sign, the lawyer’s car, something to anchor me.

The figure across the street is still there, a tall black silhouette. My breath catches. But as I watch, the figure seems to flicker, dissipating in the rain.

What the fuck? Did I imagine it?

A sound distracts me, pulling my attention back to the building. A square-shaped panel has opened above the buzzer, revealing a clear black plane of glass. I slap my palm on the glass for a fingerprint read, and a red light scans across my splayed hand.

The buzzer emits a loud, abrasive beep, making me jump.

Then nothing.

I glance over my shoulder. The figure is gone. A chill grips my chest, and I place my hand on the black glass again. The red light scans me, beeps loudly, and doesn’t do anything.

“Let me the fuckin,” I mutter, unable to stop the fight or flight response my body is deciding I need right now. Then I realize it might not be a hand scanner.

I lean forward and line up my eye with the black glass. The red light almost blinds me as it scans across my vision.

The glass flashes.

Bzzzt!The door unlocks.

Tingling with adrenaline, I hurry through the door and let it slam shut behind me, the lock clicking decisively into place. I turn to look back into the street, searching for that figure again.

The street is empty, wet, reflecting an impressionistic painting of the cityscape.

“Jesus,” I murmur under my breath. “I need to stop watching horror movies before bed.”

I see an elevator bank to the right and head toward it, choosing not to view the disappearing figure as a bad omen. All that woo-woo shit can be bad for you in high doses; I choose to keep mine confined to my blog. At the elevators, I press the up button and become painfully aware of my bare, chewed-up nails. I should have had them done before I came. The lawyer’s nails were pristine, shiny, and rich. Ian De Leon is going to take one look at me and throw me out.

“You can’t even affordrent, Kit,” I say aloud, chiding. “Let alone a manicure. That’s why you’re here.”

But if I’m being honest with myself, I would have taken the gig for free. Anyone would. My writing career is about to take off in a way I could never have done on my own. In reality, I should have had to fight off thousands of award-winning writers and journalists just for a chance to write this book for Ian De Leon. But he came tome. He wantedme.

Ding!

One of the elevators opens.

I step inside, pressing the button for the penthouse.

My trench drips steadily on the floor as I ascend 153 floors.

It’s utterly quiet in the elevator but for the low hum of upward movement. I’m trying to wring the water out of my coat when an uncanny sensation comes over me. For a second, I feel like I’m having a déjà vu. Like I’ve been here before, in this very elevator, my pale fingers twisting the dark green fabric of my second-hand trench. But not just that — I feel like I’m going underwater, like I’m falling, sinking deep, my eyes and ears filling up. And for a split second, I almost think…

I almost think the whole world flickers out of view. As if every light in the universe had gone dark, and—

My ears pop painfully.

The sensation is gone.

And the elevator comes to a smooth, almost imperceptible stop. There’s a soft chime, and the doors slide open.

I hesitate for a breath, disoriented. I’m not used to riding in such fast elevators. The altitude change really did a number on me. But I’mhere. And that excitement, the reality of it, washes away my anxiety.

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