Chapter 12: Painkillers in the Stairwell

After working at the bookstore for nearly a month, when my injuries had almost healed, I saw James Donovan again by accident.

At 11 p.m., the bookstore owner asked me to deliver a stack of books to the building across the street.

After several rounds of security checks, I finally entered the building for the first time.

After handing over the books, I was about to leave. The office was quiet—most people had gone home. While waiting for the elevator, I heard faint noises at the end of the hall, like someone in real pain.

The elevator was slow to arrive. I turned and looked down the hallway.

The live-chat clamored for me not to meddle, even suggesting I go to the parking garage and wait for James to get off work.

But that hoarse, pained sound tugged at me. I stood there a long moment, then finally walked toward the end of the hall.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long, lonely shadows on the polished floor. I pressed my palm to the wall for balance, heart pounding. Instinct—or maybe just stubbornness—drew me toward the source of pain, not away from it.