Chapter 47 · Shoulder On Camera

"It's just linens, sir, we're counting linens—" The lie was out of my mouth before the door even finished swinging open, and it died there because the shape in the frame wasn't a security guard.

It was Grant Whitfield. Cufflinks, cologne, that white-horse smile he wore for donors and cameras.

Joy's hand clamped my wrist so hard I felt my pulse in her fingers.

"Counting linens," Grant repeated, like he was tasting the words. "At eleven forty at night. In your mother's old storage room."

My stomach dropped straight through the floor. He knew whose room it was. He knew before he opened that door.

"Mr. Whitfield." I got my spine straight. "This is staff area. You need an escort."

"I don't need an escort, Lila. I need you." He stepped inside, and the hallway light cut a long yellow rectangle across the shelves, across Joy's white knuckles, across the hem of my uniform where the brass key sat cold against my ribs.

He didn't look at the shelves.