An hour later she peered out one of the rotting wood windows. The city street below was clogged with pedestrians and cars. The workday was winding down for everyone else, but she still had a long way to go.

The sun was low in the sky, and long shadows stretched across the concrete by the time she headed back to the emergency stairs. She realized as she climbed the steps to the next floor the door was labeled “14” and not “13.” She checked her notes and counted her plans, then climbed back down to the landing below and confirmed it. There was no 13. Bizarre.

Fortunately, the fourteenth floor was identical to the one below it, and she zipped through it in fifteen minutes.

When she reached the very top of the tower, her stomach tightened. The fifteenth floor was where she’d spotted a rogue flashlight from the street below the week before. She considered turning back. The number “15” was stenciled onto the beige metal fire door. Sweat dripped down her top lip. It must have been over one hundred degrees at the top of the stairwell.

She sighted down the deep spiral of stairs to the very bottom. The railings and steps curled down, down, down, until she felt like she might fall. She grabbed the railing and breathed. The stairwell was a chimney drawing cool air up from the basement to the lower floors and sending brain-frying heat to the top.

The suffocating temperature finally trumped her fear. Iris slowly opened the door. It was too dark to see. The sun had gone down, and the glow of the streetlights hovered too far below to reach the top floor. She pulled out her police-grade Magnum flashlight and clutched it like a club.

The dust on the linoleum floor had been recently scuffed up at her feet. She could see muddled footprints, but nothing clear. The intruder might have been standing right there. She shuddered.

Stepping out of the stairwell, she let the door close quietly behind her. She inched her way down the hall, following the beam of the flashlight. It led her past the freight elevator toward the lobby. There was no relief from the heat away from the stair tower, and soon her shirt was drenched with sweat. When she finally reached the entrance lobby, she was greeted by a giant portrait of President Alistair Mercer. Large bronze letters spelled out “First Bank of Cleveland Executive Offices” over his head.

The letters were bolted to a huge slab of marble that stretched floor to ceiling. Behind it she found a large reception desk and waiting room. An enormous crystal chandelier hung overhead, but the bulbs were burned out. Iris tried two different wall panels, and all the lights were dead. Crystal and brass twinkled in the flashlight beam as she continued across the floor.

The heavy French doors adorned with inlaid brass and ebony had no nameplate, but she figured the office must belong to the president of the bank—either that or the Wizard of Oz. Behind them she found an office as big as entire departments on the lower levels. The sheer size of the room swallowed the beam of her flashlight as she concentrated on not tripping over glass end tables and bronze floor lamps. Her eyes got away from her and wandered from the handwoven rugs to the soaring painted murals of the heavens on the ceiling. She banged her shin on an antique coffee table and stumbled into a long leather sofa. Her flashlight rolled under it. Shit.

Down on her knees, she spotted the light behind some wadded-up papers. As she pulled it back out from under the couch, she could see that they weren’t papers. They were wrappers. Food wrappers and crumpled cigarette packs and other garbage. She leapt off the ground and trained the flashlight at the sofa. There was a makeshift rag pillow at one end. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. Someone had slept there.

Between the heat and her heart pounding double time, spots began to float in front of her. She was going to faint.

Far away from the sofa she found a seat at a desk the size of a large bed. Her flashlight darted around the room until she was certain she was still alone—at least for the moment. She looked back at the couch with its pillow. A few more wrappers and what looked like a shirt were strewn on the coffee table. Fear churned in her stomach.

That was it. She was getting the hell out of there and going home for the night. Wandering around in the dark with a homeless person loose somewhere in the building was not part of the job description. Brad would just have to understand.

She stood up and waded back through the giant office toward the service elevator. She paused behind the marble-slab wall and listened for footsteps in the hallway. It was silent.

As she stepped out into the hall, the sound of a door clicking shut made her freeze. It was coming from the direction of the emergency stairs. And her way out.

The sound of approaching footsteps roused her into action. She dropped to her knees and fumbled with the flashlight until it clicked off. The footsteps were getting closer. She crawled blindly across the marble tiles, scrambling between pieces of furniture until she came to a wall. She followed it away from the footsteps and into the first open door she found.

Feeling her way across the office floor over couch cushions, loose pillow stuffing, and a rolled-up rug, she realized the room had been trashed. She crawled over what felt like a large picture frame. Her hands fell through a rip in what must have been a huge painting. Through the door behind her, she could see the beam of a flashlight moving on the other side of the reception room. There had to be a place to hide. She could barely see two feet in front of her as she picked her way over the debris. The desk had been overturned. One of its curvy legs lay splintered on the ground. She squinted into the dark until she found what she was looking for—the shadow of another door. She climbed around a fallen chair and into the executive washroom.

Broken glass scraped across the floor under her hands as she slipped into the room. She squeaked in surprise and pulled herself to her feet. The flashlight behind her was moving farther away. She silently swung the bathroom door closed and backed away from it. The room went black.

Trembling in the dark, she struggled not to hyperventilate. She had abandoned her field bag and flashlight and car keys and everything out by the reception desk.

Shit. Fuck. Damn it. She grimaced and carefully felt her hands for broken glass and blood. She strained to hear the footsteps of whoever it was out there in the office. Maybe they didn’t know she was there. Maybe whoever it was just wanted to go back to sleep on the cushy sofa in Alistair’s office. If she waited long enough, she should be able to sneak out.

The orange halo that hung over Cleveland at night seeped in through the bathroom window as her eyes adjusted to the dark. She could just make out the sink and the shower. The hot air moved in and out of her lungs like sludge. There was no oxygen in the room. Purple spots danced in her eyes. She collapsed onto the toilet and put her head between her knees.

You’re going to be fine, Iris, she told herself. Just breathe.

A cool wisp of air fell on her arm. Iris put her hand up toward it. She felt it again. There was a breeze. She stretched out her hand until she felt where it was coming from. There was a large vent grate on the wall next to the toilet. The cold-air return, she thought to herself. The air shaft must lead up to the roof. She pressed her face to the grille and strained to see a piece of the night sky. There was nothing but black. Still, the fresh air was a godsend, and she rested the side of her sweat-soaked head against the grate.

She strained to hear the intruder on the other side of the door. With all the debris on the floor outside, she’d surely hear it if anyone was coming closer. Maybe the vagrant had passed out and she could make a run for it. Fuck the field bag and the plans. She just wanted to get home in one piece. She listened again.