Page 97 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
He steps into my path smoothly.
“We’re doing a quick fire drill on the east wing. Need a staff signature so we can keep the elevators free.”
“Ask security,” I say.
I step to the side.
He does too.
“It takes a second,” he says, lifting the page like it’s a peace offering.
The paper is blank.
His pen is not uncapped.
His eyes are wrong.
I pivot to go around him.
Someone else appears at my elbow, too close.
A woman.
Mid-forties, maybe.
She wears a cardigan and a laminated ID on a lanyard that swings.
The photo on it is a blur of someone not her.
“You’re Elisa, right?” she says brightly. “We spoke yesterday. About the patient transfer.”
She pats her bag as if there is a form inside that matters to me.
Her perfume is too sweet for morning.
Her smile travels only as far as her lips.
“I didn’t speak to you,” I say. My voice stays even. “I’m late.”
“We’ll walk you in,” she says, helpful. “There’s an issue with the badge reader.”
Now I look at the badge reader.
It is fine.
The guard is inside, at his stool, reading the sports page.
He has not looked up.
The van’s rear doors widen the smallest possible amount.
I pivot again and start for the main doors.
The woman stays on my right.
The man with the vest drifts to my left.
The sidewalk has turned into a funnel without any walls.
