James's POVI watched the lift numbers count down on the display above the doors.Then I turned and walked back down the corridor, past the conference room with its scattered chairs and abandoned water glasses, past the assistants' bay where two people were laughing about something on a computer screen, past all the ordinary furniture of a working day.I stopped at the window at the end of the hall.The city spread below in its afternoon configuration — cars, pedestrians, the particular flat light of a sky that couldn't decide on weather.Skyler Hills.I had done my research before walking into her office this morning. I had known who she was for weeks, ever since that night at the bar when I had gone through her phone out of habit — a bad habit, the kind that came from growing up in a family where information was currency and you collected it automatically, reflexively, the way other people collected receipts.I had seen her contact list. Her work calendar. The name Zain Hills appear
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