Page 35 of Flint’s Strike

On screen, Nate brings up another diagram and highlights a section of the floor plan with the remote.

“Now,” he says, all business again, “want to see the thing that’s been driving me up a wall since six thirty this morning?”

I lean forward despite the protest from my ribs.

“Absolutely.”

A grin tugs briefly at the corner of his mouth.

“Good. Because either I’m missing something obvious, or this building didn’t make sense.”

And just like that, we’re back where we belong. Working the problem together.

Chapter Thirteen

Parker

Nate clears his throat like he’s about to present a dissertation, then reaches for a set of rolled up floor plans near the end of the table. “Start here.”

The three sheets of thick paper catch on a stack of reports, sending documents labeled with green Post-It notes scattering. Inspection reports, occupancy certificates, permit applications… Not to mention enough handwritten notes to wallpaper the entire room.

Nate’s filing system is intense on a normal day. Whatever happened in this room over the last three hours is something else entirely.

The blueprints on the monitor match those in front of me, except the paper copy has been marked up so heavily it looks like Nate fought with it and lost.

Considering the highlighter smear on his right cheek, maybe he did.

I take another sip of coffee and follow one of the red lines he’s drawn through the building. It traces an evacuation route from the second-floor break room, through a corridor, and around a corner. Frowning, I go back to the start and follow it again.

“Nate.”

He doesn’t look up from the legal pad balanced on his knee. “Not bad, Parker. It took me twenty minutes."

I study the plan a third time, convinced I’m reading it wrong. “That’s not a fire escape. It’s a utility room.”

“Yep.”

I glance at the stack of inspection reports sitting next to his elbow. Then back to the blueprints.

“A utility room isn’t an exit.”

“Not unless there’s some sort of inter-dimensional time machine in there.”

I set my coffee down and pull the original inspection report from the pile. It doesn’t take long to figure out what Nate’s known for hours.

Before the building was certified for occupancy, the secondary egress routes had to be verified. Yet one of those approved routes ends in a utility room with no windows and only a single door.

“How does this happen? How does no one notice?” I sit back, ignoring the dull ache in my ribs.

Nate finally closes the legal pad and tosses it onto the table. “That’s what’s been driving me up a wall. The building was sold and retrofitted five years ago. That requires another inspection. A mistake happens once. This survived two separate inspections by different inspectors.”

Jerry Hollis died in that utility room. I assumed he’d gotten turned around. Panicked. Lost visibility in the smoke and gone right when he should have gone left. One bad decision amid the chaos of a fire that never should’ve happened.

But that wasn’t the case.

“Hollis… He followed the signs.”

Nate’s gaze lifts to mine.