Page 65 of Psychotic Faith
But in the elevator, his finger hovers over the buttons before selecting a different floor entirely. "Actually, let's use the executive boardroom. Tenth floor. Better acoustics for sensitive conversations."
My pulse spikes as the elevator rises past the third floor. Nico's voice sharp in my ear: "That's not the plan. Tenth floor is a complete dead zone. No camera coverage."
The elevator continues climbing, each floor a betrayal of the plan, of safety, of everything I've carefully orchestrated. His bodyguards didn't follow.
"I thought your office would be more convenient."
"Under renovation," he lies smoothly, watching my reflection in the elevator doors. "The boardroom is more comfortable anyway. Complete privacy."
The tenth-floor hallway stretches before us, empty and silent. The executive boardroom door looms at the end like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole.
"Can't be too careful about privacy when discussing delicate matters." He produces a key card, and the lock disengages with an electronic click that sounds like fate sealing.
He holds the door, waiting. Every instinct screams at me to run, but I'm trapped by my own plan, by my need for revenge that's stronger than my need for safety. I step into the boardroom, and he follows, pulling the door shut.
The lock re-engages automatically. He pockets the key card.
Years of obsessive research, every dead-end and late-night paranoia, condensed into this single room. The view from the boardroom is gray and infinite, Lake Michigan’s horizon dissolving into the overcast sky. Neumann stands silent, hands laced behind his back, the tailored suit shifting as he breathes in slow, measured cycles. He’s performing, I realize—his stage the skyline, his audience the unseen world below. He’s always been the star of his own show. I wonder if he feels my eyes on him, or if I’m merely another background extra in his carefully curated life.
But when he speaks, it’s with the bored patience of someone who expects to be flattered. “Miss Winters.” Still not looking at me. “Why are we really here?” The inflection is practiced, the rhetorical weapon of a man who has sat through a thousand deposition threats and focus group interrogations.
My fingers graze the slim black recorder in my pocket, a piece of consumer junk compared to the surveillance arsenal the Rosettis gave me, but good enough for a woman on a mission.I press the button, imagining the LED’s cold glow beneath the fabric.
“Mr.Neumann,” I say, letting my voice carry just enough tremor to sound both vulnerable and plausible. “Thank you for agreeing to meet privately on such short notice.”
He turns as if on cue, rotating with slow gravitas. His smile is warm, wide, absolutely dead behind the eyes. “Of course. Your enthusiasm for our literacy initiative has been quite… memorable. Three fundraising events in eight weeks.” He glances down at my dress, then back up, slowly. “Very dedicated.”
The deliberate pause—letting me stew in the knowledge that he’s studied me as thoroughly as I’ve studied him. I move toward the table, pulling the folder from my bag. The contents are organized: internal emails, falsified reports, a handful of blurry Polaroids from the worst night of my childhood, and a single sheet of yellowed notebook paper in my mother’s handwriting. My hands don’t shake. Not yet.
“I’ve been doing some independent research,” I say, dropping the folder onto the table’s glassy surface with a thunk that echoes louder than my heartbeat. “Your company’s clinical trials from last decade. Particularly the Nervex project.”
Neumann glances at the folder but doesn’t yet touch it, as if waiting for the documents to blink first. “Nervex was discontinued after initial phase trials failed to meet endpoints. A promising molecule, but not a commercial success.” He sits, crossing his legs, perfectly at ease in a $10,000 chair. “I’m curious why you’d find that so interesting, Miss Winters.”
He knows the answer. He’s daring me to say it. I open the folder, spreading out the evidence like tarot cards. The Polaroids first: unsmiling children in hospital gowns, faces stamped with dates and initials. Financial ledgers, highlighted in neon. Andfinally, the clinical trial summaries—blocks of redacted text, but enough left to piece together the body count.
“You didn’t release Nervex, you just rebranded it as LumoSmart. Sixteen subjects died during Phase II trials of the rebranded Nervex.” My voice is steady, surprisingly so. “Seven were children. The cause of death was listed as adverse immune response, but the pathologist reports tell another story.”
Neumann finally leans forward, splaying his fingers on the table. His nails are short, clean, almost feminine. “Is this an ambush?” he asks, his tone conspiratorial, amused. “Will someone from the press pop out of the credenza next, or is this a solo performance?”
“Solo,” I say, and it sounds almost brave.
He flicks through the pages, humming softly. “You must be quite proud of yourself. This is an impressive collection. You never worked for us, and yet…” He looks up, those pale eyes suddenly razor-sharp. “You’ve accessed documents that were sealed by federal subpoena.”
“I have friends,” I reply, letting the ghost of a smile slip into my lips. “And I have the names of the families you paid to stay quiet.”
He closes the folder gently, as if not to damage its spine. “You’re here to blackmail me.” Not a question, but a prod.
“I’m here to make sure you never hurt anyone again.” My hands are on the table, knuckles paling. “My mother was the whistleblower. She died because of your cleanup contract with SafeGuard. You murdered her.”
He considers this, the corners of his mouth curling upward only slightly. “That’s a very serious accusation.”
I see it then: he’s not angry, not even defensive. He’s delighted. The mask slips for a fraction of a second, and I see the boy who once dissected frogs in his garage, the man who watched my mother die and felt nothing but curiosity.
“Do you know what the difference is between a survivor and a victim, Miss Winters?” he asks, standing suddenly so his shadow falls over the table. “A survivor adapts. A victim clings to the past.”
My earpiece buzzes with static. Nico’s voice, tightly controlled: “He’s stalling. His guys are moving on the stairwells.”
I ignore it, focusing on Neumann’s hands, which are now steepled beneath his chin. “You think you’re the first person to try this?” he says, voice gentle, almost paternal. “You’re not even the first this year.”
