Page 17 of Only the Devil
Unused office?
The door stands slightly ajar. A sliver of light cuts across the hallway carpet. I push the door wider, expecting an empty office.
Black heels.
Toes pointing skyward.
No one lies down in heels like that.
Time slows.
As I round the desk, it’s like I’m caught in a game, watching on a screen, but there’s no controller in my hand.
A woman lies on the floor, her lifeless eyes gazing at the ceiling. There’s no blood. One arm rests over her stomach, her fingers bent as if she were gripping her middle.
Even without touching her, somehow, I know. This woman is dead. The color of her skin is off. Pasty. Lifeless. I scan the carpet, her hairline.
My hands shake as I reach for my phone. This isn’t a video game where bodies are just obstacles to navigate around. This is someone’s daughter, mother, wife. Someone who got dressed this morning not knowing it was the last time. The room tilts.
Get out. The thought pounds with my heartbeat. Get-out-get-out-get-out.
Chapter 6
Jake
The AC hums overhead. A light flickers in the ceiling panel. The carpet underfoot quiets my steps.
I shake knobs as I pass down the corridor, confirming they’re locked. This isn’t a project I’ll finish this afternoon. We’re going to need to come back tomorrow.
Movement catches my eye. Daisy steps out of an office, leaving the door open. She doesn’t look my way. Doesn’t move toward me.
Just stands there, still.
Even from twenty feet away, I can see something’s shifted in her posture. The feisty tech queen has been replaced by someone who looks like she’s seen a ghost.
“Daisy?” I keep my voice low, but it still echoes along the empty corridor.
She turns toward me then, and Christ—her face is white as paper. Those dark eyes that usually spark with wit are wide and unfocused, like she’s looking through me instead of at me.
Experience kicks my senses into gear.
Threat assessment. Scan for immediate danger.
No sounds except the AC humming overhead and that flickering fluorescent casting weird shadows on the carpet.
All clear.
But every instinct I’ve honed over fifteen years of military service is screaming that something’s very, very wrong.
I close the distance between us in three quick strides, noting how she doesn’t step back or acknowledge my approach. She’s locked in place.
“What is it?” The question comes out sharper than intended. That won’t calm her down. I breathe in, forcing a calmness I’m not feeling. “What’d you find?”
Her lips part slightly, but no words come out. Just this shallow breathing that makes me think she might be going into shock.
Surely they weren’t dumb enough to leave photo evidence just lying around. But whatever she saw in there has shaken her to her core.
“Daisy.” I reach for her arm—not to shake her, but to ground her. “Talk to me.”
