Page 8 of His Wall

My heart was loud in my ears.

"Claire."

"Mr. Cross."

"What are you doing?"

TWO

LEAH

The hand on my face was Torres's.

His palm was warm. The rest of him was cold. He was on the concrete on his back. I had my right hand inside his jacket with the heel of it pressed down on the wet place under his ribs, and the wet was coming up between my fingers faster than I could push down. The fluorescent lights over our heads buzzed and clicked.

His mouth moved.

"Leah."

"Don't talk. Don't — don't talk."

"Leah. Hey."

"Stay with me. Look at me. Stay — "

I had my radio in my other hand. My thumb was on the call button.

"Officer down. Officer down, Sub-Level Two, north ramp. I need a bus. I need a bus now — "

His thumb moved against my cheek.

He smiled. Like he was about to make a joke. Like he had a joke loaded, and the only thing in the way was the blood.

"What are you doing?"

The garage was gone.

Julian Cross was in his doorway with his keys in his palm. The desk lamp threw yellow across the blotter between us. The microdrive was tucked inside my watch strap, cold against the bone of my wrist. My hand was an inch from the closed lid of his laptop, where I had let it freeze, when I heard his footsteps in the hall.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I had spent four months building the version of myself who was about to speak. She was already on. She had been on since I heard the elevator at the end of the hall.

"Mr. Cross." I lifted my hand, slid it to my side, lifted my chin a quarter-inch, and let the rest of me settle into the posture I held at his desk every morning when I delivered his calendar.

He didn't move from the doorway. He looked at me, then at the desk, the bottom drawer, the keyboard, then back at me.

He was running it.

This morning's desk. Now this.

I held still.

"You're here late."

"You told me to prep the board files, sir."

"No." His eyes were on mine. "I didn't."