Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
If the rest of Gibson Grant is a runway show for the Fortune 500, the sub-basement is where they dump the bodies. The air is ten degrees colder, the walls are poured concrete, and there are no windows. The flicker of a fluorescent tube light overhead gives everything a greenish, morgue-like cast. At least there’s no one to sense my arousal down here, which is for the better.
I tap my badge at the heavy steel door and hear the bolt thunk with a slow, deliberate release. Inside, the shelves run floor to ceiling, packed with file boxes, most labeled in Sharpie and covered with a decade of dust. There’s a smell here—paper, but also mold, and something electric from the old fluorescent ballasts humming overhead.
It’s all so different from upstairs that I almost laugh. No one polishes these floors. No one cares if you track in mud. This is where the firm keeps its secrets: things that matter, and things that were supposed to disappear.
I roll up the sleeves of my blouse, trying not to think about the plug in my pussy. The fullness is a constant distraction, but down here, the stakes are higher and the risk is an aphrodisiac all its own. I visualize being caught, imagine Ms. Jenkins or even Shay catching me wrist-deep in forbidden files, and my pulse doubles. There’s no one else around, but I swear the shelves themselves are watching.
I find the Williams section fast. “W,” right in the middle, sandwiched between “Watson, A.” and “Wilson, T.” I scan the spines of the boxes, looking for the one that feels the most radioactive.
Then I see it: “WILLIAMS, S.”—all caps, underlined, with a small strip of red tape at the bottom. The box is heavier than I expect, packed tight. I drag it down to a battered rolling cart and crack the lid.
Inside: folders, photos, court exhibits, even a crumpled manila envelope with my mother’s handwriting. I recognize the penmanship instantly and feel the muscles in my jaw go tight. For a second, I don’t breathe. This is it. The real story, buried in paperwork and buried again in this basement tomb.
My hands are shaking so bad it takes three tries to open my phone camera. I lay the files out, snap photos one by one. The flash is too bright in the gloom, a strobe against the dead gray walls. I keep waiting for the alarm, the running footsteps, but there’s nothing except the quiet rustle of paper and the wet heat gathering between my legs.
I dig deeper. In the bottom of the box is a folder marked “Prosecution Key Witnesses—Final.” I flip through and there, highlighted in yellow, are witness statements. Typed. Re-typed. But I know these documents. I’ve seen copies before, in old news forums and conspiracy blogs, blurry and incomplete. But what’s in my hands is different. Entire lines are missing even from the “official” versions. And some of the discrepancies aren’t subtle.
I hold two pages up, side by side, and my heart hammers. One document clearly contradicts the other. Dates don’t match. Signatures are missing. I recognize a cover-up when I see one; my whole life has been spent looking for the patterns in how people lie, and now, I’ve found it. Concrete evidence that my dad’s trial was mismanaged, and that he died for nothing.
I photograph everything. My hands are slick on the phone, my mouth dry. The thrill of being here, seeing this, is almost sexual. I’m half-crouched, skirt hiked up, phone clutched between trembling fingers, when the overhead lights buzz louder, almost like they’re warning me.
Of course, I don’t listen. I have important work to do!
But the door swings open, and I’m so deep in my task that at first I think I’m hallucinating the heavy, deliberate footsteps. I snap upright, files in hand, pulse pounding in my ears. For a moment, I don’t see anyone in the doorway.
Then he fills it.
Brent Gibson, in a navy suit, tailored so well that he resembles a male model. His hair is perfect as ever, dark locks waving from a high forehead. He takes up the whole width of the door, blocking my only exit as those blue eyes pierce me.
“Ms. Williams,” he growls. “You look busy.”
My first instinct is to hide, but there’s nowhere to go. The man is a wall, and the only way out is through him.
“Oh, hi Mr. Gibson—” My voice cracks. “I was just searching for a file. Shay said I could come down here if I needed—”
The alpha male’s already walking toward me, slow and measured, his eyes never leaving my face. Each step is a threat and a promise.
“Shay isn’t authorized to give you clearance to the archives,” he rasps. “But you’re not really here for paralegal business, are you.”
It isn’t a question. He stops two feet away, towering over my quivering form. His nostrils twitch, and oh god, but can he smell my aching pussy? Can he sense my arousal?