“Uh, what do you mean?”

“We’ve just landed a very unusual project. The partners think you might be a good fit for it. It involves fieldwork.”

Fieldwork would mean leaving her dreaded cubicle. “Really? That sounds interesting.”

“Wonderful. Brad will bring you up to speed on the details. This project is of a rather sensitive nature. Our client is relying on us to keep it confidential. I really appreciate the two of you being willing to put in the overtime. It won’t go unnoticed.”

Mr. Wheeler had clapped her on the back and shut the door to his corner office. Her smile had dropped at the corners. There was a catch. Brad later explained they would be working over the weekend. For free.

It was total bullshit, Iris thought, gritting her teeth as she threw herself behind the wheel and gunned her rusted-out beige Mazda down the street. At the stoplight she fished a half-empty bottle of Diet Coke from the littered floorboards and lit a cigarette. But what was she supposed to do? Say no?

As the car neared downtown, Iris realized she had no idea where the heck she was actually going. She rifled through her purse to find the address she had scribbled down. Cigarettes, lighter, lipstick, receipts—she tossed the contents of her bag onto the passenger seat with one eye on the road.

A horn blasted. She looked up just in time to swerve and avoid hitting an oncoming garbage truck. Slamming the brakes, she squealed to a stop.

“Shit!”

The pile of garbage on the passenger seat flew to the floor. The missing scrap of paper landed on top. Snatching it up, she read:

1010 Euclid Avenue

First Bank of Cleveland

Park in the back

At East Twelfth Street and Euclid, the clock on the dash blinked 9:15 a.m. Brad would be standing at the door, tapping his foot, checking his Seiko and wishing he hadn’t recommended the flaky new girl for this field assignment. She stuffed everything back into her purse while the red light took an eternity to change.

The building at 1010 Euclid Avenue flashed by her window in a blur of stone and glass. Shit. Her car sped through a really yellow light left onto East Ninth Street and then hooked around onto Huron Street. It should have been the back of the building, but the only signs read “No Parking.” Iris began to panic. Huron would take her all the way back to East Fourteenth Street before she could turn around. There was no time for that. She was already way late for her first assignment out of the office.

She pulled into a narrow driveway that dead-ended into a closed garage door. It was identical to the other blank receiving doors lining the street. Both sides of the sidewalk were empty, and the street was dead quiet. Most of Cleveland was a ghost town on weekends. Overhead, a fifteen-story, soot-stained office tower stretched into the sky. Rotted boards covered half the windows, and the endless rows of brick blurred together. Was this the building? Craning her head up made it feel like it might slide off her neck. Hangovers sometimes take a while to really set in. She squeezed her eyes shut and blew out a slow breath. She had to stop drinking like every night was a frat party. College was over.

Images of the night before flipped by like a broken filmstrip. She had gone to a work happy hour down at some new bar in the Flats. With each tequila shot, the evening had gotten blurrier. Nick had been there. He was the cute interior designer she’d been flirting with at work for weeks. He liked to swing by her desk and chat. For Iris, it was a welcome break from marking up shop drawings with a red pen like a glorified secretary. Who knew what it was for him. She would laugh at his jokes and blush a lot—that was the extent of her skills in the “come-hither” department.

Nick had bought some of the shots. His arm draped over her shoulder, he’d whispered something in her ear she couldn’t quite understand over the throbbing music. Next thing she knew, he was driving her car back to her place. He’d kissed her, and the whole world had spun out of control. All she remembered after that was him dragging her up the stairs to bed and telling her to get some rest. She supposed she should be grateful he acted like a gentleman by not taking advantage of her. But, Jesus. Was she that bad of a kisser?

Something creaked loudly. Iris’s eyes popped open at the sound, and her car lurched. She stomped on the brake to keep from slamming into the receiving door in front of her as it rolled open. Brad stepped out and waved.

“Good morning, Iris!”

“Brad! Hi.” Her voice was muffled by the window. Idiot. She rolled it down and said again, “Hi! How’d you get in there?”

“I have my ways,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “Nah! The security guard showed me where to go.”

Brad was a model engineer, in his crisp J. C. Penney shirt and freshly ironed slacks. He looked like he’d already gone to the gym, had a shower, and eaten a four-course breakfast. Iris, by comparison, looked like she’d been pulled out of a shower drain.

“Can we park here?”

“Yep, come on in.”

Iris’s car followed Brad into a dungeon-like room, which turned out to be a loading dock. There were two grimy truck bays and a broken concrete slab big enough for three parking stalls. Iris pulled her sputtering car next to an immaculate Honda that could only be Brad’s. A sign posted on the wall said “Short-Term Parking, Deliveries Only.” The loading dock grew dark as the small garage door rolled closed behind her. A horrible smell like rotting meat and vomit crawled up her nose and nearly sent her running to a corner to puke. There was a large rusted-out dumpster in the corner.

“Smells great, huh?” Brad joked. He pointed to a red button on the wall by an abandoned security office. “Make sure you close the garage door when you come in.”

“Sure. But how do I get in without you?” she asked, covering her mouth and nose.

“There’s a squawk box next to the garage door outside. Ramone will let you in.”

Iris nodded and glanced around for this Ramone, but he was nowhere to be found.

“Okay. Let’s get started.” Brad pulled a huge field bag out of the spotless trunk of his Accord.

It occurred to her that she hadn’t remembered to bring a field bag or so much as a clipboard with her. That figured. She grabbed her oversized handbag out of her car and threw it over her shoulder, making as if it had more than lipstick and cigarettes inside it. “Okay.”

Brad led Iris through a long service corridor and into a dark hallway. They followed the faint glow of daylight ahead past bronze elevator doors until they reached the main lobby of the First Bank of Cleveland.

Iris gawked at the coffered ceiling soaring fifteen feet overhead. Everything from the inlaid wood panels to the bronze window casements to the giant old clock over the entrance looked handcrafted. The tiles on the floor were tiny and hand laid to form an art deco mosaic with a round rosette set in the center. Two antique, bronze revolving doors faced Euclid Avenue. They seemed insulted by the rusted chains and padlocks hanging from them. Gleaming letters spelled out “First Bank of Cleveland Est. 1903” on the wall over two solid metal doors with swirling cast-bronze handles that led to some other room. The doors were closed.

“What year was all this built?” Iris studied the gilded clock over her head. Its scrolled hands had ground to a halt years ago.

“Sometime before the Great Depression. You never see this type of craftsmanship in postwar buildings.”

“When did it become vacant?” Iris asked.

“I’m not too sure. I think the county ledger said something.” Brad rifled through a file he pulled from his workbag and read aloud, “First Bank of Cleveland closed December 29, 1978.”

“I wonder why,” Iris thought out loud.

A cheap placard on the wall contained tiny rows of black velvet, where loose or missing plastic white letters spelled out the names and office numbers for at least twenty men. On the opposite wall hung the portrait of a severe old man, who glowered at her with red-rimmed eyes as she silently read the name engraved on the frame, “Alistair Mercer, President.”