Statements.
Career finished.
Maybe worse.
Taylor looked down at Victoria.
Her eyes opened.
“Elevator.”
He leaned closer.
“What?”
“Don’t… main lobby.”
Gregory heard.
His face changed.
Taylor did not need more.
He turned toward the private service corridor.
Gregory followed.
“Hayes.”
Taylor kept walking.
“I swear to God, you take another step and you’re done.”
Taylor reached the corner.
He looked back.
“Then fire me tomorrow.”
Gregory stared.
Taylor continued.
“Tonight, I’m taking her somewhere safe.”
He walked.
Gregory followed for six more steps.
Then stopped.
That worried Taylor more than being chased would have.
Men like Gregory did not stop because they gave up.
They stopped because another option had become better.
Taylor reached the service elevator.
Victoria stirred.
Her arm hung weakly around his shoulders.
In her other hand, somehow, she was still holding the stem of a half-empty wineglass.
“Can you let go of that?”
She looked at it.
As if she had forgotten.
Then her fingers opened.
The glass fell.
It shattered across the polished floor.
Red wine splashed Taylor’s shoe.
Something else struck the tile.
Metal.
Small.
Taylor looked down.
A silver locket.
Gregory was thirty feet away now.
Watching.
Taylor shifted Victoria carefully and bent enough to pick up the locket.
It had opened when it fell.
Inside was a photograph.
Taylor stopped breathing.
The elevator doors opened.
He did not move.
The photograph was old.
Probably seven or eight years.
Two women stood beside one another at what looked like a corporate reception.
One was younger Victoria Hawthorne.
The other woman had auburn hair pulled behind one ear, green eyes, and the slightly crooked smile Taylor had once believed he would see every morning for the rest of his life.
Megan Hayes.
His wife.
His missing wife.
The mother of his daughter.
Taylor stared.
His grip nearly failed.
Victoria felt it.
She opened her eyes.
Saw the locket.
Saw his face.
Everything changed.
The drugged haze did not disappear.
But panic pushed through it.
“No.”
Taylor looked at her.
“Megan.”
Victoria whispered:
“Taylor…”
“You knew her.”
Gregory started toward them.
Taylor heard his shoes.
Victoria’s fingers tightened around his shoulder.
“She didn’t leave you.”
The corridor disappeared.
All Taylor could hear was that sentence.
Seven years.
Police interviews.
Searches.
Rumors.
People quietly suggesting Megan had run away because marriage and motherhood had become too much.
A handwritten note found in their kitchen.
I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore.
Taylor had memorized every stroke.
For years he believed it.
Hated her for it.
Loved her despite it.
Explained to Sophie that sometimes adults made choices children could not understand.
Victoria looked directly into his eyes.
“She found out what our company was hiding.”
Gregory was closer.
Taylor stepped into the elevator.
Victoria whispered one more sentence before the doors closed.
“And Gregory knows what happened to her.”
The doors met.
Gregory’s face vanished behind polished steel.
Taylor stood motionless.
Victoria in his arms.
Broken wineglass outside.
Silver locket in his hand.
For several seconds, he forgot to press a button.
Then Victoria went limp.
“Damn it.”
Taylor hit the underground garage level.
He placed two fingers beneath her jaw.
Pulse.