Chapter 2 - The Man Waiting Downstairs
By eight the next morning, Wren had slept exactly forty-six minutes.
Her apartment in Astoria was narrow enough that the kitchen table touched the living room sofa if one of the chairs was pulled out too far. The radiator hissed like an angry snake. A neighbor upstairs played old Motown records every morning before work.
To Wren, it was home.
Her sister, Emma, sat at the kitchen table wearing pajama pants and a Columbia University sweatshirt she had bought secondhand because actually attending Columbia was still a dream they could not afford.
Emma stared at Wren’s jaw.
“He hit you again.”
Wren opened the refrigerator.
“I’m making eggs.”
“Wren.”
“Two or three?”
“I’m calling somebody.”
Wren turned.
“Who?”
Emma’s mouth opened.
Then closed.
Exactly.
That was the problem.
Evan Harlow had spent eight years becoming somebody other people called when they were afraid.
A decorated detective.
Two commendations.
A photograph with the mayor after helping rescue three children from a hostage situation.
He knew prosecutors.
He knew judges.
He knew officers in three precincts.
When Wren first met him, she had thought his confidence meant safety.
She had been twenty-two.
Evan was thirty-one.
He opened doors for her.
Sent flowers to the hotel.
Remembered her coffee order.
He made her feel protected during the first year after their mother died, when Wren suddenly became the adult responsible for a seventeen-year-old sister while working two jobs.
Then the questions started.
Who called?
Why were you late?
Why did that bartender smile at you?
Then came the first broken phone.
The first hole in a wall.
The first apology accompanied by roses.
The first bruise hidden beneath makeup.
Wren left him six months ago.
Evan had never accepted the decision.
Emma stood.
“We can go somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Boston. Aunt Claire said—”
“Aunt Claire has three kids and one bedroom.”
“Then Philadelphia.”
“And what do I do for work?”
“Anything.”
Wren finally looked at her.
“That sounds easy when you’re nineteen.”
Emma’s face tightened.
“I know it isn’t easy.”
Wren immediately regretted it.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to keep doing this alone.”
“I’m not.”
Emma pointed at the bruise.
“You clearly are.”
Wren looked away.
Her phone buzzed.
Her stomach clenched before she even checked the screen.
Unknown number.
Cute trick last night.
Another message arrived.
You can’t hide forever.
Wren locked the phone.
Emma had already seen her face.
“Is it him?”
“No.”
“That means yes.”
Wren grabbed a frying pan.
“We’re having eggs.”
Emma did not argue further.
Twenty minutes later, a black sedan parked across the street.
Wren noticed immediately.
She stood behind the curtain.
A man stepped out.
Tall.
Gray coat.
She recognized him.
The driver Silas had sent.
Matthew.
He did not approach the building.
He simply waited near the vehicle.
Wren’s phone rang.
Silas.
She stared at it.
Then answered.
“How do you have my number?”
“You work for me.”
“You shouldn’t personally have the numbers of four hundred employees.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, Silas said, “Good morning.”
Wren glanced at Emma.
Her sister’s eyes widened.
Wren turned away.
“Good morning.”
“Matthew is outside.”
“I noticed.”
“He’ll drive both of you.”
“To where?”
“Wherever you want.”
“Silas.”
He heard the warning.
“He will not follow you once you dismiss him.”
“That is still incredibly invasive.”
“Yes.”
Wren was not expecting agreement.
“You could have asked.”
“You were asleep when I arranged it.”
“You could have waited.”
“Fair.”
Again, he surprised her.
“I won’t do it again without asking.”
Wren leaned against the wall.
“Thank you.”
“How is your jaw?”
“Sore.”
“You should see a doctor.”
“I’ll survive.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
She almost smiled.
Then she remembered who he was.
Her employer.
The man whose bed she had slept in.
The billionaire whose private suite she had illegally entered.
“This can’t become a thing.”
“What?”
“You checking on me.”
Silence.
Silas answered, “Understood.”
The absence of argument unsettled her.
Wren looked through the window.
Matthew stood beside the car, deliberately facing away from her building.
“Why are you helping me?”
Silas did not answer immediately.
“Because you were assaulted on my property.”
“Only that?”
“What other answer are you expecting?”
She didn’t know.
“That’s enough.”
“Good.”
He ended the call.
Emma appeared beside her.
“That was your boss.”
“Yes.”
“The hotel owner?”
“Yes.”
“The Silas Wentworth?”
“How many are there?”
Emma’s mouth fell open.
“You slept in Silas Wentworth’s bed?”
Wren glared.
“I told you that part was confidential.”
“You told me you accidentally fell asleep in a restricted suite.”
“I was trying to protect you from unnecessary details.”
Emma stared at her bruise, then at the black car.
“He likes you.”
“No.”
“How old is he?”
“Forty-four.”
“You know his age.”
“Everybody knows his age.”
“I didn’t.”
“You’re nineteen.”
“So?”
“So you think anyone over thirty came from the Civil War.”
Emma laughed.
Wren wanted normal conversation.
She desperately needed it.
But downstairs, the black sedan remained.
And two blocks away, a second vehicle sat beneath a dead streetlight.
Wren never noticed it.
Neither did Emma.
Matthew did.
He touched the small microphone inside his coat.
“Possible tail. Blue Explorer. Plate ending seven-nine.”
Lena Ortiz answered.
“Don’t engage.”
“Understood.”
“Keep Callahan unaware.”
Matthew looked toward Wren’s building.
“What if it’s Harlow?”
“Especially then.”
Across Manhattan, Silas sat inside an executive conference room while twelve board members discussed hotel occupancy.
He was not listening.
Lena’s messages appeared silently on his phone.
Explorer registered to shell company used by NYPD Benevolent Services vendor.
Then:
Harlow entered precinct at 7:12. Explorer driver is another officer.
Silas looked toward Victor Dane.
The chief operating officer sat three chairs away, discussing revenue projections.
Fifty-one.
Immaculate suit.
Perfect corporate smile.
Dane had worked for Wentworth Group for eleven years.
Silas had trusted him for nine.
Then money started disappearing through security contracts.
Private guest information was accessed without authorization.
Two diplomats complained of attempted blackmail.
A celebrity discovered that a supposedly private argument inside her suite had somehow been recorded.
Silas quietly began investigating.
Dane had covered every track.
Until Wren found the broken maintenance panel.
Silas interrupted the presentation.
“Victor.”
Dane looked up.
“Yes?”
“When was the last full audit of restricted-floor service access?”
The room fell silent.
Dane smiled.
“Six months ago.”
“Who supervised it?”
“Security.”
“Name.”
Dane’s smile weakened slightly.
“Why?”
Silas held his gaze.
“Because I asked.”
“Peter Collins, I believe.”
Lena spoke from the end of the table.
“Collins left the company fourteen months ago.”
Victor Dane turned.
“Then I’m mistaken.”
Silas leaned back.
“Apparently.”
That one word changed the temperature in the room.
Dane recovered.
“I’ll pull the files.”
“No need.”
Silas closed his folder.
“I already did.”
Silas rose.
“Meeting adjourned.”
Dane followed him into the hallway.
“Silas.”
Silas kept walking.
“What?”
“What exactly happened upstairs last night?”
So he knew.
Silas stopped.
“How did you hear something happened?”
Dane hesitated.
“Housekeeping gossip.”
“There is no housekeeping gossip.”
“Then security.”
“Security was informed after five.”
Dane’s eyes cooled.
Silas watched him realize the mistake.
“I’m asking because restricted access is serious.”
“Then perhaps you should have taken it seriously eighteen months ago when you signed a report saying the east maintenance passage had been permanently sealed.”
Dane’s face remained controlled.
“It was sealed.”
“No.”
“Then somebody reopened it.”
“Yes.”
Dane studied him.
“Was anything taken?”
“Why?”
“You’re the one investigating.”
Silas stepped closer.
“I didn’t say I was investigating.”
Dane said nothing.
Silas smiled without warmth.
“That seems to be happening frequently today. People answering questions I haven’t asked.”
He walked away.
Ten floors below, Human Resources summoned Wren.
She entered expecting termination.
Instead, the director handed her a paid medical leave form.
Wren stared.
“I didn’t request this.”
“Mr. Wentworth authorized three days.”
“Why?”
“Workplace incident.”
“My injury didn’t happen while I was working.”
The director looked uncomfortable.
“Ms. Callahan, I’ve been instructed not to debate the matter.”
Wren closed the folder.
“I’m declining.”
The director blinked.
“Declining paid leave?”
“Yes.”
“You understand it’s paid?”
“I understand.”
Wren walked upstairs.
She found Silas inside the empty ballroom reviewing architectural drawings.
“You’re interfering again.”
He did not look surprised.
“The leave?”
“Yes.”
“Your face is bruised.”
“My arms work.”
“Impressive medical assessment.”
“I need my paycheck.”
“You’re being paid.”
“I need overtime.”
Something changed in his face.
“Why?”
“That’s private.”
“You use that word often.”
“Because you ask inappropriate questions often.”
Silas put down the drawing.
“What would make you accept three days away from the building?”
“Nothing.”
“Harlow can reach you here.”
“He can reach me anywhere.”
“Not my forty-seventh floor.”
Wren stared.
Silas realized what he had just offered.
“So that’s your solution? I hide in your bedroom?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“The adjoining guest suite.”
“That’s insane.”
“It has independent access.”
“Still insane.”
Silas almost smiled.
Wren’s phone buzzed.
She read the message.
Her face drained.
Silas noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Wren.”
She slowly handed him the phone.
A photograph filled the screen.
Emma leaving their apartment that morning.
The message beneath it contained four words.
Tell your sister hello.
Silas’s expression became terrifyingly calm.
Wren whispered, “Now you understand why I can’t just take three days off.”
Silas looked at the photograph again.
“No.”
May you like
He handed the phone back.
“Now I understand why you’re not going home.”
