Chapter 22: The Ethics Complaint Is a Countdown

The instrument number was eleven digits.

I know this because I wrote it down three times — once in my notes document, once on the legal pad in orange, once on the back of my hand in the same orange marker because I did not trust the legal pad not to get lost in the next four hours and I trusted my handwriting on paper even less than I trusted it on skin, but at least if I lost my hand I would have bigger problems to document.

I left Floor 44 at 1:07 AM with the signed custodial transfer confirmation folded into my jacket pocket and Neptune's coffee still warm enough to feel in my chest. The elevator opened without being called, which I had stopped noting as anomalous and started noting as a baseline. The lobby was empty except for the overnight security officer at the front desk — not Griffin, a man I didn't recognize who looked up once and returned to his screen with the affect of someone who had seen stranger things exit that elevator at stranger hours, which, given the building, was probably accurate.