Chapter 3: The Name on the Termination Forms
Abby was halfway down the service elevator when her phone buzzed.
She didn't recognize the number.
She almost let it ring.
But something made her answer.
"Ms.
Mercer." The voice was calm, male, unhurried.
"This is Marcus Webb.
I'm Mr.
Cross's personal assistant.
Mr.
Cross would like you to come back to the penthouse."
Abby looked at the mop handle she was still gripping with her free hand.
"I finished the clean.
Everything's been—"
"He's aware.
This isn't about the clean."
The elevator opened onto the parking garage.
Abby didn't step out.
"Did I do something wrong?"
A brief pause.
"He'd like to speak with you directly.
I'll meet you at the lobby desk."
She rode the elevator back up with her cart, her heart doing something uncomfortable in her chest.
The lobby attendant barely looked at her.
Marcus Webb was already waiting — a trim man in his forties with a quiet face and a tablet under one arm.
He walked her to a private sitting room off the main corridor, offered her water, and left before she could ask a single question.
Julian Cross walked in three minutes later.
Abby had seen photographs of him in the building's corporate directory.
The photographs had not prepared her for the way he filled a room without raising his voice or changing his expression.
He was somewhere in his early forties.
He wore no tie.
He sat down across from her and placed a manila folder on the table between them.
"Ms.
Mercer.
How long have you been with Prestige Residential Services?"
"Six years," Abby said.
"On and off."
"On and off."
"I've had some gaps." She kept her hands in her lap.
"Between placements."
Julian opened the folder.
He turned it so she could see the top page.
It was a termination form.
Her name was at the top.
Below it, a signature she recognized immediately.
Derek Holt.
Operations Manager, Prestige Residential.
"Does that name mean anything to you?" Julian asked.
"He's the one who let me go.
Three times." Abby looked up.
"Different reasons each time.
Never anything specific."
"The reasons were fabricated."
The room went very quiet.
"Excuse me?" Abby said.
"Derek Holt has been systematically removing certain employees from high-value client placements.
Employees he identifies as likely to report irregularities." Julian's voice didn't change.
"You were placed in this building twice before.
Both times, Holt pulled you before the second week."
Abby stared at the form.
"Why would he—"
"Because this building has a problem." Julian closed the folder.
"And you have a habit, apparently, of leaving notes instead of taking things that don't belong to you."
The silence stretched between them.
"You were watching me," Abby said.
It wasn't an accusation.
It was just the shape of the truth, finally visible.
"Yes."
"The money was a test."
"Yes."
Abby looked at the folder, then back at him.
Something moved behind her eyes — not anger, not quite.
Something older than anger.
"How many people took it?"
Julian held her gaze.
"Thirty-one tests.
Thirty people took the money."
"And the thirty-first left a note."
"And the thirty-first left a note."
Abby exhaled slowly through her nose.
Outside the window, forty floors below, the city moved without them.
"What do you want from me, Mr.
Cross?"
Julian leaned forward slightly.
"I want to know what you saw in this building during your previous placements.
Before Holt pulled you."
Abby went still.
Because the answer to that question was not nothing.
And she had spent two years telling herself it was nothing, because she needed the work, and because nobody with her address and her bank balance reported things about people with his.
"That depends," she said carefully.
"On what?"
"On whether you're asking because you already know the answer, or because you need me to say it out loud so you can use it."
Julian Cross looked at her for a long moment.
Then, for the first time since she'd walked into the room, something shifted in his face.
Not quite a smile.
But close.
"Both," he said.
Abby picked up the glass of water Marcus had left.
Her hand was steady now.
"Then I'm going to need a few minutes," she said.
"Because there's more than one thing."
Julian sat back.
May you like
"Take your time."
What Abby told him next was the thing Derek Holt had spent two years making sure she'd never get the chance to say.
