Page 42 of Bad Girl
Bad Girl.
I wasn’t the good girl anymore. I was hovering somewhere in between—not quite who I’d been, not yet sure what I was becoming. I touched my face where my glasses used to sit. The habit of it. The memory of reaching for something that was no longer there.
This was just the beginning.
Chapter 21
Conrí
She placed the USB memory stick in my hand.
“That is the footage you requested. I don’t know how you’ll find anything when the health and safety officers couldn’t,” Nora said, with the scepticism she reserved for things she considered beneath her efficiency.
“The nightmare is almost over. But the culprit remains at large and I don’t accept that,” I said.
“Okay, Poirot.” She turned to leave.“Oh—your brother called again.”
I’d take Poirot as a compliment. Renowned detective. Fictional, but still. I took what I could get.
“Wonderful.”
I’d get back to Cuán once I sorted out the Nika dilemma.
The floor carpets had been steam cleaned three times. The toilets scrubbed and bleached from top to bottom. And yet—when I walked the corridor I could still catch it. Faint. Persistent. The indignity of it clinging to the walls.
What sort of person poisoned an entire floor of workers?
I was going to find out.
The staff canteen had been ruled out early—shut down, examined, cleared. The kitchen on her floor had come up clean too. Which left something brought in from outside. Something no one had thought to question because people brought things in all the time. Birthdays. Retirements. The general low-level performance of workplace camaraderie.
I shoved the USB into the laptop port with more force than necessary.
The footage loaded. I worked through it chronologically. The cleaners, in and out before six. Marcus at the security desk. The slow trickle of early arrivals after eight.
But then—
There she was.
The timestamp read 6:47.
In her hand was a large rectangular shopping bag.
There was no audio on the footage.
Why was there no audio?
You’re too cheap. Cuán has the top of the range—
Shut up, Kael.
I followed her across the lobby and pulled up the floor footage. She walked into the kitchen. I zoomed in, working through the frosted glass. A white box on the counter. The shopping bag folded neatly and tucked away into her handbag like she’d done it a hundred times. Methodical. Unhurried.
She lifted the lid.
A very large chocolate cake.
Within five hours, Shit-gate had begun.
