Chapter 1 - THE MAN ACROSS FROM ME
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was fluorescent light.
The second was the man sitting across from me.
He was looking directly at me.
My stomach tightened.
For one disoriented second, I didn’t remember where I was.
Then the train brakes squealed.
The downtown R train.
Almost one in the morning.
New York.
I straightened quickly.
My handbag had slipped to the floor beside my shoes.
My knees were farther apart than I would ever have allowed while awake, and my skirt had ridden higher than I realized.
Heat flooded my face.
I pulled the fabric down and closed my legs.
The man immediately looked toward the window.
That somehow made the embarrassment worse.
How long had he been watching?
Had he seen—
“Excuse me.”
His voice was quiet.
I looked up.
He was probably early forties.
Dark jacket.
Work boots.
A paper grocery bag between his feet.
Nothing about him looked threatening.
That didn’t mean anything.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
I reached for my bag.
He shook his head.
“Not about that.”
My hand stopped.
He nodded toward the handbag.
“You need to check the outside pocket.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“A man put something in it while you were asleep.”
My skin went cold.
The doors opened at 23rd Street.
Nobody entered our car.
“What kind of something?”
“I don’t know.”
He lifted his hands slightly.
“I didn’t touch it.”
I pulled the bag into my lap.
The outer zipper was half-open.
I always closed it.
Inside sat a black flash drive.
No label.
Not mine.
I looked at him.
“Who put this there?”
“A guy in a gray coat.”
“Where is he?”
“Got off two stops ago.”
My heart started beating harder.
“Did you see his face?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“He sat beside you for maybe thirty seconds.”
I recoiled.
“He touched me?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“He never touched you.”
I breathed.
“He picked up your bag after it fell, opened the pocket, put that in, then took a picture.”
My stomach turned.
“A picture of what?”
“You sleeping.”
I looked down at myself.
The man across from me understood.
His voice softened.
“I stood up after that.”
“What?”
“To block him.”
I stared.
“He moved because I kept looking at him.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I tried.”
“You tried?”
“I said ‘Ma’am’ twice. You didn’t move.”
That frightened me.
I had been more exhausted than I thought.
He reached slowly into his jacket.
I tensed.
He stopped.
“Phone.”
I nodded.
He took it out.
“I photographed him before he left.”
He turned the screen.
The picture was grainy but clear enough.
Gray overcoat.
Dark hair.
Thin face.
Black backpack.
My entire body went cold.
I knew him.
“Owen.”
The stranger frowned.
“You know him?”
“Owen Pierce.”
“What does he do?”
I looked at the company badge still hanging from his belt.
Whitmore Development Group.
The same badge I wore every day.
“He works with me.”
The stranger’s expression changed.
“That’s not good.”
No.
It wasn’t.
Owen was a senior financial analyst on the thirty-fourth floor.
His desk was twenty feet from my office.
At 11:52 that night, I had watched him leave.
He had smiled through the glass.
“Don’t stay too late, Emily.”
I had laughed.
“I’m leaving right behind you.”
Except I didn’t.
Lauren Whitmore, my manager and sister-in-law, sent back the monthly close package at 11:56.
One more revision.
Then another.
I finally left at 12:21.
Owen must have waited downstairs.
Or followed me.
The train moved again.
I stared at the flash drive.
“What’s your name?”
“Jonah Reed.”
“Do you work for the MTA?”
He almost smiled.
“No. Middle-school science teacher.”
That was somehow reassuring.
“Why did you photograph him?”
Jonah looked at the drive.
“Because people don’t usually hide things in sleeping strangers’ bags for good reasons.”
I put the drive into a tissue without touching the metal connector.
Years of working in finance had taught me very little about evidence.
Years of watching crime shows had taught me too much.
“I should call the police.”
“Yes.”
My phone vibrated first.
Daniel.
My husband.
1:04 a.m.
I answered.
“Hey.”
“Where are you?”
“Train.”
“You sound weird.”
I looked at the flash drive.
“Something happened.”
“What?”
“Someone from work followed me.”
Silence.
Not long.
Half a second.
But I heard it.
“Who?”
“Owen Pierce.”
Another pause.
“What did he do?”
“He put a flash drive in my bag while I was asleep.”
Daniel’s voice changed.
“Don’t plug it into anything.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Come home.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“No.”
I stared at the phone.
“What?”
“I mean—come home first. We’ll call the company. Lauren needs to know.”
“My coworker followed me onto a subway and put something in my bag.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Emily, if that drive contains Whitmore files, you need to be careful about how you handle it.”
Something cold moved through me.
“How do you know it contains Whitmore files?”
Silence.
Jonah looked at me.
I lowered the phone.
“Daniel?”
He exhaled.
“I’m guessing.”
“Based on what?”
“You said Owen.”
“So?”
“He’s been working on the internal review.”
I stood too quickly as the train moved.
Jonah reached out but stopped before touching me.
I caught the pole.
“What internal review?”
Daniel said nothing.
“Daniel.”
May you like
Then my husband gave me the first answer that made the subway feel less dangerous than my own marriage.
“The one into you.”
