We squeezed tighter into the darkness beneath the desk.

The office door creaked open.

A flashlight beam cut through the dark office, sweeping across the rows of filing cabinets.

The bright circle of light danced over the framed law degrees on the wall.

It swept across Naomi’s desk, stopping just inches from where we crouched.

“Naomi?” a voice called out.

It was Grant.

His voice sounded thick, strained, and entirely stripped of its usual polished charm.

“I know you’re still in the building,” Grant said, his footsteps moving closer.

“Your car is still in the parking garage.”

He stopped just on the other side of the desk.

I could smell his expensive cologne mixed with the faint, sour odor of whiskey.

My fingers dug into the carpet as I held my breath.

Sienna was shaking violently beside me.

“Grant,” Naomi’s voice suddenly rang out from the doorway of the inner conference room.

The flashlight beam whipped away from our hiding spot, blinding her.

“Turn that light out of my face,” Naomi said, her voice steady and commanding.

“What are you doing in my private office at this hour?”