Chapter 7: The Corridor Outside
Marcus came back in four minutes.
"He's on this floor," he said.
Nobody spoke.
"Security picked him up on the stairwell camera two minutes ago.
He came up the service stairs, not the elevator.
He's in the main corridor."
Ethan was already moving toward the conference room door.
"How many people does he know are up here?"
"Unknown.
But he came up alone."
"Keep it that way." Ethan looked at me.
"Stay in this room."
"Ethan —"
"Please." He said it quietly, the same way he had said *it does* in the dressing room.
Not an order.
Something else.
I stayed.
He and Marcus stepped into the corridor and pulled the door nearly closed behind them.
Through the gap I could hear the sound of footsteps on the polished floor, then Andrew's voice — still controlled, still performing calm.
"Ethan.
I thought I might find you up here."
"Andrew." Ethan's voice was easy.
Unhurried.
"Congratulations on the award.
I'm sorry I missed the end of your remarks."
"Foundation business?"
"Always."
A pause.
Footsteps stopping.
"I'm looking for Ava," Andrew said.
"She stepped away from the event and I haven't been able to reach her."
"She may have gone home.
She mentioned a headache earlier."
"Did she." Another pause.
Longer this time.
"You've known Ava for almost a year."
"She's an excellent assistant."
"I'm sure she is." Andrew's voice shifted — just slightly, just enough.
"I've always thought it was a generous arrangement.
A woman like her, working those kinds of hours, for a man like you."
"She's very capable," Ethan said.
"I've been lucky to have her."
"Yes." A beat.
"Ethan, I'm going to be direct with you.
I think you and I both know that tonight has become more complicated than either of us planned.
I'd like to resolve that quietly, if possible.
As two reasonable men."
"What kind of resolution did you have in mind?"
"The kind that doesn't involve lawyers, journalists, or licensing boards." Andrew said it without any particular emphasis, as if he were suggesting a different table at a restaurant.
"I know you made some calls tonight.
I know who you called.
I'm asking you to consider whether this is a road you actually want to go down.
Because I promise you, it will be messier than you expect."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a professional observation.
I've been in this city for fifteen years.
I have relationships you haven't mapped.
And I have information about certain members of your foundation board that I suspect you would prefer stayed private."
Patricia touched my arm.
She had moved silently to stand beside me at the door gap.
"He's bluffing," she whispered.
I wasn't sure.
In the corridor, Ethan was quiet for a moment.
"Andrew," he said finally.
"I want to show you something."
The sound of a door opening.
Not the conference room — the main office, across the hall.
"Come in," Ethan said.
Footsteps.
The door closing.
Patricia and I looked at each other.
Two minutes passed.
Three.
Then Andrew's voice came through the wall — and this time the control was gone.
"Where did you get this?"
Ethan said nothing.
"This is — this is a private settlement.
This document is sealed.
You can't have this."
"The document is sealed," Ethan said.
"What I have is a sworn statement from someone who was present.
And a second person who is prepared to give one.
And a journalist who has been investigating the Mercy General complaint process for eight months and needed one more source to go to print."
"You're lying."
"Dana Reeves.
The Tribune.
Would you like her direct number?"
Silence.
Then: "What do you want?"
"I want you to go back downstairs," Ethan said.
"I want you to thank the foundation for the honor.
I want you to say goodnight to Senator Collins and get in your car.
And I want you to have your attorney contact James Whitfield by nine o'clock tomorrow morning."
"And if I don't?"
"Then Dana Reeves publishes on Friday with or without your comment.
The licensing board opens a formal review on Monday.
And the family of the child who d*ed four years ago receives a call from my attorney on Tuesday."
The silence that followed was the longest one yet.
When Andrew spoke again, his voice had changed entirely.
The performance was gone.
What was underneath it was smaller and uglier and somehow more frightening.
"This isn't finished," he said.
"Yes," Ethan said.
"It is."
A door opened.
Footsteps in the corridor — fast, not running, but fast.
The elevator chimed.
The doors opened and closed.
Marcus appeared at the conference room door.
"He's in the elevator.
Going down."
Patricia let out a breath slowly.
My hands were shaking.
May you like
I pressed them flat against my thighs and waited for them to stop.
They didn't stop for a long time.
