Then Thomas leaned closer.
“Wait.”
Marcus stopped.
Thomas pointed to a handwritten note beside one of the inspection reports.
A series of numbers.
3 – 12 – 7 – 19.
Marcus frowned.
“Coordinates?”
Thomas shook his head.
“Maybe room numbers.”
Marcus checked the executive floor map.
There was no Room 3.
No Room 12.
No Room 19.
He turned the page.
Another set of numbers was written beside a plumbing report.
1 – 18 – 11.
Then another.
2 – 5 – 14 – 14 – 5 – 20 – 20.
Thomas stared.
“Those aren’t random.”
Marcus looked at the first set again.
Suddenly, he understood.
“Alphabet.”
Thomas turned toward him.
“What?”
Marcus pointed.
“Three is C. Twelve is L. Seven is G. Nineteen is S.”
Thomas frowned.
“That doesn’t spell anything.”
“Not by itself.”
Marcus looked at the next set.
1 – 18 – 11.
A.
R.
K.
Then the third.
2 – 5 – 14 – 14 – 5 – 20 – 20.
B.
E.
N.
N.
E.
T.
T.
Marcus stopped.
Thomas slowly turned toward him.
“Bennett.”
The room became silent.
Marcus looked down at the pages again.
The numbers were scattered throughout the folder.
He began writing the letters in order.
C.
L.
G.
S.
A.
R.
K.
B.
E.
N.
N.
E.
T.
T.
“It’s not complete,” Thomas said.
Marcus continued searching.
More notes.
More numbers.
They spent several minutes arranging them according to the dates printed on each maintenance report.
Then the message finally appeared.
CLARK BENNETT.
Thomas stared at the words.
“Clark?”
Marcus knew the name.
Everyone in the building did.
Harold Clark was the founder of Westbridge Properties.
He had died nearly fifteen years earlier.
And Eleanor Brooks had worked beside him for decades.
Marcus looked toward the old photographs on Eleanor’s wall.
There she was.
Much younger.
Standing beside Harold Clark at the opening ceremony of Westbridge Center.
Thomas stepped closer.
“Maybe Eleanor was trying to tell us something.”
Marcus looked at the photograph.
Then at the message.
CLARK. BENNETT.
Two names.
One dead.
One alive.
Before Marcus could respond, the lights in the office suddenly flickered.
Thomas froze.
“Power’s back?”
Marcus listened.
The emergency speakers had stopped.
The building was silent.
Then Eleanor’s computer monitor turned on by itself.
Both men stared at it.
The screen remained black for several seconds.
Then white letters appeared.
WELCOME BACK, OFFICER COLE.
Marcus stepped toward the desk.
Thomas whispered, “Don’t touch it.”
Another message appeared.
YOU ARE LOOKING IN THE WRONG PLACE.
Marcus’s jaw tightened.
The man with the briefcase was watching them.
Another line appeared.
ASK BENNETT ABOUT CLARK.
Thomas looked at Marcus.
“This is insane.”
The screen changed again.
A video file opened automatically.
Grainy security footage appeared.
The date in the corner made Marcus freeze.
October 14, 2018.
Eight years earlier.
The footage showed an underground corridor.
The same service tunnel.
A younger Richard Bennett walked into view.
He was carrying a box.
Behind him was another man.
The image was unclear, but Marcus recognized the posture.
The man was older.
Tall.
Thin.
And wearing a dark overcoat.
Harold Clark.
Thomas leaned closer.
“That can’t be.”
Marcus watched as the two men disappeared behind the same steel door where Lena had been hiding.
The footage ended.
The screen went black.
Then one final message appeared.
SOME DOORS SHOULD HAVE STAYED CLOSED.
Marcus’s radio suddenly came to life.
This time, the signal was clear.
“Cole.”
It was Richard Bennett.
Marcus and Thomas exchanged a look.
Bennett continued.
“Get down to Security Control. Now.”
Marcus pressed the button.
“Where’s Ms. Brooks?”
There was silence.
Then Bennett answered.
“I don’t know.”
Marcus’s grip tightened.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No,” Bennett said quietly.
The honesty surprised him.
“But if you want to find her, you need to come here.”
Marcus glanced at the screen.
“Why?”
Bennett took a breath.
“Because I finally know what they took.”
Marcus waited.
When Bennett spoke again, his voice had changed.
For the first time, Marcus heard fear.
“They didn’t steal money.”
Marcus felt his heartbeat slow.
“Then what?”
“A file.”
Marcus looked at Thomas.
“What kind of file?”
Bennett was silent for several seconds.
Then he answered.
“One that was supposed to disappear eight years ago.”
The radio went dead.
Marcus stared at the black screen.
Thomas looked at him.
“So what now?”
Marcus looked at Eleanor’s photograph beside Harold Clark.
Then at the coded message.
CLARK BENNETT.
He suddenly remembered the words spoken by the man in the underground corridor.
You should be asking why Richard Bennett is so desperate to find you.
Maybe the stranger had been lying.
Maybe he had been telling the truth.
Either way, Marcus understood one thing.
Everyone in Westbridge Center seemed to know part of the story.
Eleanor.
Bennett.
The man with the briefcase.
Even Lena.
Everyone except him.
Marcus picked up the mysterious black card and slipped it into his pocket.
Then he closed Eleanor’s folder.
“Now,” he said, “we stop letting other people decide what we’re supposed to know.”
====================
Security Guard Blocked an Elderly Woman From the Executive Elevator—Then He Regret His Arrogance