The elevator dropped her off at the front desk of the intensive care unit. The desk sat empty. It was the morning shift change. Beatrice stepped up to the clipboard and signed herself in as usual. Then she remembered that her “uncle” must have signed in at some point as well. She flipped through the book and was dismayed that the records from the previous days had been removed. She flipped back to the page she’d signed and skimmed the list of visitors. The names of strangers who had been on the floor in the last twenty-four hours ticked by without a glimmer of Mr. Thompson or anyone from her family tree, until a name jumped off the page. “R. T. Halloran” had signed in after 9:00 p.m.

The name of the patient R. T. Halloran visited was left blank. There were twenty rooms in the ICU. She had walked past them many evenings stretching her legs. R. T. could have been there for any one of them. R. T. might not even be Randy anyway, she rationalized. She still couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in her gut. She’d been asleep in the chair next to Doris when R. T. Halloran had been on the floor. She shivered at the thought of Randy watching her sleep.

Beatrice backed away from the list. The hiding place for her bag of clothes suddenly seemed less secure. She rushed down the hall to her aunt’s room and barely cast a glance at Doris before ripping open the closet door.

When her suitcase came crashing out and onto her foot, she let the breath she’d been holding out in a grunt. The shooting pain in her foot was a relief. At least she still had her clothes. She pulled the heavy bag off of her shoe. She couldn’t keep living like this.

By the time Beatrice had washed up in a public restroom, changed clothes, and arrived downtown, it was only 8:15 a.m. The bank didn’t officially open until 9:00 a.m., and the main lobby was empty except for a lone security guard. It was a stroke of luck. The overstuffed suitcase she was dragging behind her wouldn’t draw too much attention. She couldn’t leave it in the hospital closet again. It contained everything she owned in the world, along with Max’s odd files and her aunt’s key.

The security guard at the desk was the same one that caught her rifling through Max’s desk three nights before. She nodded at him and read the name “Ramone” off his shirt as she shuttled her bag through the lobby. Thankfully, he didn’t ask her any questions as she scurried quickly out of his line of sight to the elevator bank.

As she waited for an elevator, she looked down at the worn, brown leather suitcase. It was far too big to fit under her desk. There was nowhere to hide it in the coat closet she shared with seven other secretaries and three accountants. There must be someplace to stow it in a fifteen-story building. Watching the floor numbers light one by one as the elevator made its way down to the lobby, she remembered something Max had told her. The offices on floors eleven through fourteen were vacant. The previous tenants had moved out years ago when the East Ninth Street corridor was expanded.

Beatrice stepped into the elevator and tentatively pressed “12” on the control panel. It refused to light. She tried again and then started pushing all of the buttons from “10” to “15.” None of them would light. She pressed “9” and frowned at the other numbers as the elevator doors slid closed. There was a small keyhole in the control panel. She touched it with the tip of her finger. Could a key lock and unlock entire floors? The keyhole was smaller than a door key. She studied it and then rummaged through her suitcase until she came up with the key ring she’d found in Max’s hiding spot.

The elevator doors pushed open at the ninth floor as she was sifting through the keys. She quickly pressed “2,” and they closed again. She needed more time. One after the other, she searched. Small letters and numbers were etched in the faces—“11S,” “TR,” “WC.” She stopped at a smaller one. It was labeled “E.”

“Elevator?” she whispered.

She slid the key into the elevator control panel. It fit. She turned it just as the door opened outside the cafeteria on the second floor. Beatrice could see the kitchen staff milling around, unloading a delivery. She shrunk against the side of the elevator so no one would see her and pressed “12.” The number lit up, and the doors closed again.

The twelfth floor was gutted. Bare steel columns were spaced around the room like a sparse forest, and fluorescent light bars hung from naked wires. Bare windows flooded the space with daylight. There was no place to hide her bag. A security guard could easily stumble on it and throw it away or figure out it was hers. The dust on the floor made it seem like no one had set foot on the linoleum in years, but she couldn’t risk it. She stepped back in the elevator and pressed “11.”

The eleventh floor looked like it hadn’t been touched since the previous tenant moved out. Gold letters still read “Goldstein & Stack Attorneys at Law” on the door at the far end of the elevator lobby. Beatrice stepped off the elevator and tried the door. It was unlocked.

The office was almost identical to the one where she worked, but the furniture was gone. There were the public restrooms in the hall, the coat closet, the open area for support staff, where she could see shadows of the missing desks in the green carpeting, and a ring of private offices. All of the doors were open, and the offices were empty.

Office to office she wandered, looking for a good hiding place, until she reached the largest one in the corner. It was twice the size of Randy’s, and the sight of it made her stop and gape. Rich wood paneling and thick shag carpet stretched from wall to wall. The ceiling was adorned with gilded carvings and a large mural of a half-naked Grecian goddess in the center. She tiptoed across the soft carpet and into the executive’s private washroom. A thin layer of dust coated every surface. The large porcelain sink had two antique bronze faucet handles—one for hot water and one for cold. She turned one knob out of curiosity. Brown water sputtered out of the faucet and then ran clear. The wheels in her head turned as she eyed the toilet and the shower. She hadn’t had a shower in days.

From the dust, it must have been months since a maid or security guard had been in the room. The elevator behind her whirred to life. People would begin crowding the lobby below her any minute. She was out of time.

She ran back to her suitcase in the elevator lobby. There was a utility closet just down the hall. She dragged her bag over and shoved it inside. Max’s heavy ring of keys jingled in her purse as she ran to the elevator. She pressed the button. It occurred to her too late that she would have some serious explaining to do if the elevator doors opened and some executive found her standing there. She was still debating whether to run and hide when a set of doors slid open. Thankfully, there was no one inside.

Eight hours later, Beatrice was back in the dark ninth-floor restroom, waiting for everyone to go home. Walking through the five-o’clock rush in the lobby with her suitcase would raise too many eyebrows. Besides, she couldn’t even get back to the eleventh floor unnoticed until the office was empty. So she waited. The prospect of going back to the hospital for another sleepless night was unthinkable. She’d rather sleep right there in the toilet stall. At least it would be quiet.

When the glowing border around the bathroom door went black, she knew the lights had been shut off. Another ten minutes passed before she crept cautiously into the elevator lobby and looked around. Everyone was gone. She pressed the elevator call button and waited.

The eleventh floor was dark and deserted. Beatrice felt her way to the utility closet and pulled out her suitcase. It was just where she’d left it. She dragged it across the empty office to the huge corner room, with its luxurious, albeit dusty, bathroom. The orange night sky streamed in through one small window, giving her just enough light to see the ghostly outline of the white porcelain sink.