Page 74 of Blades Out
But something was wrong. I'd seen it in her eyes, in the way she moved, in the fear she tried so hard to hide.
And she wasn't telling anyone.
I closed the laptop. Sat in the silence of my office, listening to the hum of the overhead lights.
I couldn't ignore that last part. Couldn't walk away knowing she was in danger. Even if staying close destroyed me.
I grabbed my jacket and left before anyone could ask where I was going.
The hallway stretched empty and silent. Most of the staff had already cleared out. Good. I needed this done quickly, quietly, without raising questions I didn't want to answer.
The front desk sat tucked near the main entrance—fluorescent lights humming overhead, security monitors flickering through their rotation. Janet worked the evening shift, organizing paperwork with methodical precision.
She glanced up when I approached. "Coach Ackerman. Thought you'd left already."
"Need to pull some employee files," I said, keeping my voice level. Professional. "Safety and emergency contact updates."
Her brow lifted slightly, but she didn't hesitate. "Sure thing. Which department?"
"Café staff."
She turned to her computer, fingers clicking across the keyboard. "All of them, or specific names?"
"Olivia Bennett."
Something flickered across Janet's expression—curiosity, maybe—but years of working security had taught her when not to ask questions. She pulled up the file, printed it without comment, and handed me the single sheet.
"Need anything else?"
"No. Thanks."
I turned away before she could study my face too closely. Walked back down the corridor with deliberate, measured steps. Didn't look at the paper until I reached my office.
The door clicked shut behind me. I unfolded the page.
Name: Olivia Bennett
Position: Barista
Emergency Contact: Marsha Klein (Social Worker)
My eyes tracked down to the address.
And I went still.
2847 Lexington Avenue, Apartment 3C
The air left my lungs in a slow, controlled exhale that did nothing to ease the pressure building in my chest.
I knew that neighborhood. Everyone in the city knew that neighborhood. Crime reports flooded the local news every other week—break-ins, assaults, drug activity. The kind of place where landlords didn't fix locks and nobody called the cops because half the time they didn't show up, anyway.
Too far from the rink to walk safely at night. Too isolated. Too dangerous for anyone, let alone someone her size, her age, with her history.
She lived there.
Alone.
Fury crashed through me—white-hot, irrational, all-consuming. At the world that put her in that situation. At whatever circumstances forced her into a place where she had to choose between rent she could afford and basic safety. At myself for not checking sooner, for not noticing, for letting her walk out of this building every night without knowing where she was going. At whoever should've protected her and didn't.
