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Closed doors lined either side of a soundless corridor. The air was stale. My heart pounded against my breastbone. What was I trying to prove anyway? That my suspicions were unfounded, or that they were? Or was it something else I needed to prove to myself? I was in a stare down with the Chloe I’d once been, full of dare and impulse, against the receding woman I’d become. I stepped lightly to muffle the sound of my heels against the tile.
Behind me, the elevator dinged, a warning that someone was getting off on the floor. I reached for the nearest door. Locked. I zigzagged across the hall, groping for any open door. All were closed to anyone without a mobile code. A knob finally turned on a door tucked in an alcove, a coffin-sized kitchenette. I slipped inside and twisted the door lock. Silver decanters glinted on the counter against the thin light from beneath the door. I heard the drone of conversation in the next room.
“I’m well aware it’s a sensitive matter.” I heard a man speak with a rough, baritone voice.
A reply. I could barely make out his words, but the timbre of the voice was unmistakably Scott’s. I felt a surge of relief, followed by a dark foreboding.
“Do you want it in blood?” said the man with the gritty voice, a smoker’s voice. “I’m aware of the security ramifications of your research. I’m also aware of what news like this could mean to the project.”
The voices were eclipsed by a sound in the outer hall, a rattle at the kitchenette doorknob. Security. I fought to harness my hyper breaths. There was nowhere to hide. I froze and wrung my eyes closed. The air was maroon with the scent of coffee. Keys jangled outside the door, and I pictured a guard sliding a key into the groove. I pinched the lock lever hard between my fingers and strained to hold the lock in place against the key.
“Damn it,” I heard a man say. Muffled voices receded down the hall. I released a controlled sigh.
“...is what everyone would prefer to believe.” Without the clang of keys, I could hear the voices in the next room. “Fortunately, no one asked any pointed questions.” The clipped diction was that of John Brookings, Dr. John Brookings.
“We can’t afford to bank on random chance or people’s denial tendencies.” It was Scott.
“I can only imagine what the press would do...” John Brookings spoke.
“Don’t even go there,” Scott said. “That’s not an option.”
“You can say it’s not an option, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen,” said the man with the serrated voice.
“Spare me the nuanced bullshit,” Scott said. “Just do your job. I want it clear. For the good of the project, and all it represents, we need to make sure this Leroux kid stays dead and buried.”
“I’m confident it’s under control,” the man said. “You don’t have to convince me that it’s the right thing.”
“What’s the status on Leroux’s toxicology report?” Scott asked.
“I’ve talked to my source in the coroner’s office,” the man answered. “It’s already taken care of. We’ll make this go away fast.”
The room fell silent until Scott spoke again. “In the end, the outcome will reveal a greater wisdom at work here. I know these are hard choices, but we can’t afford to lose sight of the larger context. This is much bigger than any one individual. The end will justify the means.” There was no trace of uncertainty or regret in Scott’s tone. “John,” he said, “How bad is the breach in protocol?”
“Some subjects in the test group missed two treatment rounds,” Brookings answered.
I stood dazed, barely grasping the cryptographic exchange that followed about neurotransmitters, mind mapping, and synaptic reuptake. They spoke of people in terms of chemical composites…random samples, nothing more than raw subject matter.
How could that cold voice belong to my husband? The end does not justify the means. No research could be that important. My ribs tightened around my lungs and seemed to fall away. The boulder looming over my head came crashing down along with my dreams.
I was alone—again.
