3

The receptionist at the second floor was surprised to see me. Looked like nobody had reported that they needed an IT in person. When I repeated what Aisha had just told me, she turned to her computer.

“Let me check,” she murmured.

She went over a couple of lists and typed something. Her mild frown made me frown too, but I waited in silence. It wouldn’t be a first if they’d forgotten to let her know.

“They’re waiting for you upstairs,” she said, puzzled.

My eyebrows jumped up in surprise. “You sure?”

She shrugged. “That’s what my sup says.” She looked up at me and winked. “Must’ve done something good to be requested from up there.”

“Don’t say,” I murmured, feeling a prink in my belly. “Thanks.”

So I went on to the next flight of stairs, that would take me to the third floor for the first time ever. It was odd. Only the heads of department had their offices at the top of the Square, with their personal aids that included a small IT team, apart from the rest of the company. Regular mortals had nothing to do up there, let alone a junior tech like me.

The receptionist was far from nice and young as the one at the second floor, a stiff woman in her fifties that watched me walk out from the stairwell from over her readers behind a face shield, a masked security guard standing two steps away like a statue.

“Dean Walsh?” she asked before I could say anything. “Conference room twelve.”

She glanced at the guard with a quick nod and the man waved for me to follow him.

“Thanks,” I got to say to her before hurrying after the man.

My brow furrowed again when the guard preceded me around the first bend and all the way down a fancy hallway toward the second bend. I hesitated. That second bend led to the place everybody called the West Wing. Because the west side of the third floor was no less than Big Ellie’s quarters, the sanctum sanctorum only a lucky few were allowed to visit. Rumor had it our CEO pretty much lived there, and the West Wing was more like a penthouse than an office, that included a luxurious private apartment, a gym, a sauna and even a swimming pool on the roof.

I couldn’t help admiring the sober décor and the abstract paintings in black frames on the walls, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. In between the paintings, I saw big pots with exotic plants, and even a couple of sculptures on stone pillars, placed to stand out whether in daylight or under the beam from the LEDs in the ceiling.

The city skyline was visible through the large windows looking out on my right, an awesome sight at that hour, when the sun was coming down and shimmered on the windows of the skyscrapers in the distance.

What the hell was going on? Some big shot had lost their password after their ITs left?

The guard stopped at the last door before the second bend and knocked, waiting for answer from inside to stick his head in and said something. He stepped back, pulling the door open, and waved for me to walk in.

I did. The guard closed the door behind me as I found myself in a wealthy conference room. A lot of windows as usual in the Square, opening to the inner garden on my left. Three large flat screens on the wall opposite the door, a counter along the side wall opposite the windows, with white catering flatware and two coffeemakers. In the middle of the room sat an oval table of thick glass for six tall spinning chairs with black leather upholstery. No extra seats. If you were there, you were to sit at the big table. Else, you had nothing to do in that room.

Two masked men waited for me. One was sitting at the table, face to the windows, a computer open before him, while the other stood by the furthest window, looking out with his hands in his pockets. I noticed a tablet and a phone across the table from the sitting man, that surely belonged to the guy by the window.

The company’s dress code was relaxed downstairs. All of us at the ground floor were authorized to wear jeans and tees if we wanted, but it got fancier as you climbed upstairs. I’d never seen anything but slacks and neat shirts for the guys at the second floor, and dresses for the women. It was urban lore that only Armani and Prada moved around the third floor. These guys seemed to prove the lore right with their flawless suits. Good thing that day I was wearing my khakis and a short-sleeve shirt, because it was too hot for hard denims and a tee sticking to my body.

The man at the table signaled me to step closer as I still tried to figure out what on earth I was doing there. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I was upset, like waiting for bad news.

“Dean Walsh?” the man asked, glancing at his computer.

“Yessir,” I muttered.

The man raised only one eyebrow to face me again, with a little smirk I didn't like to ask,“Or should I say Dylan Wallace?”

A cold chill ran down my spine. How could they know my real name? Did they also know what I'd done?