Page 9 of His Good Girl

I did not know whether to laugh or throw my phone down the stairwell.

The Uber driver’s name was Roger, and he had the peaceful expression of a man who had transcended traffic through either meditation or despair. His car smelled like pine air freshener and coffee. I spent the ride in the back seat with my folder clutched against my ribs, watching the city slide by in streaks of wet brick and glass. People moved under umbrellas with coffees in hand, stepping around puddles and one another. Delivery trucks exhaled exhaust at curbs. Buses sighed and lurched. A woman in a camel coat strutted across an intersection with such an aggressively savage purpose that I briefly wanted to ask her to adopt me.

I texted Jules a screenshot of Benjamin Mercer’s last message.

Jules:‘Later would be revealing’ is poetry.

Me:I am going to be murdered by an assistant.

Jules:Not murdered. Professionally tenderized.

Me:Why are you attracted to everyone who insults me?

Jules:Because they see you.

I locked my phone and looked out the window because that was unfairly close to true.

Rowe Tower appeared before I was ready for it. It was not the tallest building in the city, but it behaved as if height were beside the point. Dark glass climbed in angled planes, catching the low clouds and breaking them into steel-blue fragments. At street level, the entrance was all black stone, bronze, and revolving glass doors.

Roger pulled to the curb at 8:51.

“Big day?” he asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

I looked at the building, then down at my folder, then at my own pale face reflected faintly in the window.

“You could say that,” I mumbled.

Inside, Rowe Tower smelled like polished stone, expensive coffee, and chilled air. The ceiling soared above me in a pale grid of light. Suspended models of bridges and towers hung in glass cases along one wall, beautiful in a way that made beauty feel like math. Apparently, Rowe Tower did not observe Sundays the way ordinary businesses did. Men and women in suits moved through the lobby with badges swinging from lanyards, their footsteps quiet on the marble, their conversations low and purposeful. I stood just inside the entrance for half a second too long, holding my folder against my chest, and felt every inch of my not-quite-dry hair.

The security desk was staffed by two men who looked like they had once been carved out of larger men. I gave my name. One of them checked a screen, looked me over without expression, and printed a visitor badge.

“Avery Hale,” he said. “You’re cleared for the forty-seventh floor. Mr. Mercer will collect you.”

Collect me. Like luggage. Or evidence.

I clipped the badge to my blazer and turned toward the elevators just as a man stepped into view from behind a pillar with the timing and dramatic flair of a stage entrance at a burlesque show.

Benjamin Mercer was not what I expected, though in fairness, I had expected something impossible to satisfy. A tall, severe manwith silver glasses, maybe. Instead, he was compact and wiry, probably somewhere in his early thirties, with dark hair combed neatly back, and brown eyes. He wore a gray three-piece suit. He carried a tablet under one arm, two phones in one hand, and a paper coffee cup in the other. He had the air of a man who would carry your backpack up a mountain, then lecture you for packing inefficiently the entire way.

“Ms. Hale,” he intoned regally.

“Mr. Mercer?”

“Benjamin Mercer officially. Ben in emergencies. Mr. Mercer when someone is trying to impress me. You may choose based on confidence level.”

“Ben, then.”

His eyes swept over me from damp hair to my heels. “Aggressive choice.”

“I’m running on panic and half a mint.”

“That is common in this building before ten. You are four minutes early. That is not impressive, but it is less disappointing than anticipated.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome. Most nepotists arrive late.”

I blinked. “Most?”