The Eighth Day

Chapter 3

A forty-two-story granite building in the financial district of lower Manhattan harbored the offices of Lark Morton. Any other day, Shawn would have taken a taxi to work. This day, however, he chose to cover the four miles on foot to clear his head before he got to the office.

The surrealism of the morning clung to him with the persistence of a shadow as he strode along the sidewalk beneath an array of multicolored holosigns, head down and briefcase clutched in his grip. His thoughts drifted to the man with the rumpled shirt and unwashed hands and his cryptic warning.

They're watching you.

But who? Shawn scanned the crowd. It seemed as if every passing stranger shot a furtive glance in his direction, averting their gaze when he caught them looking. He was probably imagining it. Probably.

A man in a suit strode by and, as he passed, locked eyes with him. Shawn's breath caught in his throat, and he was unable to look away.

Someone collided with Shawn. "Yo, watch it, asshole!" they yelled.

Shawn stumbled and turned to find a young man with orange hair and a nose ring glaring at him.

"Bitch," orange hair said and shouldered past him.

Shawn scanned the crowd, but the suit was gone.

He started walking again, his thoughts returning to the morning's madness. Wanting to believe it had been a dream, he let his hand wander into the pocket of his jacket and closed around the business card Detective Sam Harrington had given him. He held it up. No smoke and mirrors there. It was real.

He shifted his focus to the vehicles that crept along the street, their windshields reflecting a contorted cityscape. He imagined faces behind the glare, peering back at him and tracking his progress. A black SUV rolled by, and Shawn thought he recognized it. Maybe it was circling the block, keeping tabs on him. He noted its license plate as it sped down the street, but he didn't see it again.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw a man in a dark suit trailing behind him. Another stranger in the crowd, or was he being followed? Shawn slowed his pace, and the suit ebbed past him, head bent and absorbed in his smartphone. Or pretending to be.

Eventually, he found himself staring up at the massive glass facade of the building at 35 Nassau Street. He looked down at his shoes, up and down the street, back at the behemoth towering over him. Trepidation wrapped its hands around his throat.

Your name isn't Shawn Jaffe. You aren't from Ohio, and you're not an investment broker. Come with me, and I'll explain everything.

Who could he trust? He didn't know.

At last, he let out an explosive exhalation and marched through the revolving doors and into the lobby.

A massive digital display stretched across one wall and listed the building's numerous businesses and corporations and their corresponding floors and office numbers. Lark Morton was on the thirty-fifth floor. In the rear of the lobby, Shawn took a short flight of stairs to a balcony, where the golden doors of the elevators reflected the light of the sun. He pressed the call button, and as he waited, he imagined someone lurking inside the elevator. He pictured the stranger who'd warned him earlier that morning. He'd have the same small dark hole in the breast pocket of his shirt, and he'd stare accusingly at Shawn with dead, unseeing eyes. He'd be holding a gun, the same one that had killed him, and he'd extend his arm and pull the trigger in Shawn's face.

But the elevator was empty. Shawn took a deep breath to calm his racing heart and stepped inside. He pressed the button for the thirty-fifth floor, and the maglev elevator floated upward soundlessly, buoyed along its guideway by magnets; the illuminated numbers above the doors informed him of his progress.