“Afternoon, Mrs. Pierce,” he said.

“Good afternoon, Frank,” I said, keeping my voice calm and even.

I took the elevator to the fifth floor, where Pierce Development occupied the entire west wing.

The receptionist was away from her desk, leaving the lobby empty.

I walked down the carpeted hallway, my footsteps muffled by the thick pile.

The office doors were mostly closed, the quiet murmur of telephone conversations drifting through the glass panels.

I reached the door to Sloane’s office at the end of the hall.

The nameplate on the wall read: *Sloane Barrett, Director of Operations.*

I could see her shadow moving behind the frosted glass of the door.

She was packing.

I could hear the distinct sound of paper rustling and the drawer of a filing cabinet sliding shut.

I took a deep breath, smoothing the front of my wet coat.

I reached out, turned the brass doorknob, and stepped inside.

Sloane turned around quickly, a thick stack of manila folders in her hands.

Her eyes widened slightly when she saw me, but her face quickly smoothed into her usual cool, professional mask.