The Penthouse Witness

The service corridor smelled of bleach and stale coffee, the fluorescent light buzzing like a trapped fly. You had the overnight shift at Thorne Tower—fourteenth floor, executive suites, the job they gave you because you never asked questions. Through the narrow window above the janitor's sink, the city sprawled below, a circuit board of gold and black.

You'd brought the binoculars out of habit. Boredom. A way to clock the hours.

The black sedan pulled into the river lot at 1:47 a.m. Two men got out. You knew the older one from the magazines that piled up in the break room—Adrian Thorne, sharp-jawed, immaculate even in silhouette. The other man dragged something from the trunk. A body. Limp, heavy, a spill of dark hair over a woman's face.

They swung it once, twice, and let go. The river swallowed her without a sound.

Adrian wiped his hands on a handkerchief. Then he tilted his head, slow as a predator scenting prey, and looked up.

Straight at you.

Your breath caught. The binoculars slipped from your fingers, clattering against the metal sink. Fourteen floors of glass and steel between you, and still you felt the weight of his gaze like a hand around your throat.