The silver doors slide open to pure quietness—other than the voices and typing and other unknown noises.
I know I should have stopped on First Floor. That way I could swiftly get myself out of here, but I couldn’t. At least not yet. The paper in my back pocket rustles when I touch it to make sure it is still there. I have to know what it is and why Blake wouldn’t tell me who it is. I need to figure out why the newspaper article is titled “WINGS WITHOUT LIFT-OFF”.
Nobody looks up as I stroll across the room. When I get to the spot where I saw the picture earlier, I hesitate. I look around to see if this is the wrong spot. But clearly somebody has moved it because this area of wall is the only place void of any papers.
I start to walk over to one of the people working but stop when I hear voices advancing this way from the large hallway.
“…has some of the attributes. It’s not normal for a regular angel so young to break lights without knowing it. And, to top that, merely because she is angry!” The voices get closer to the door. I quickly sit down at a vacated desk closest to me and place a pair of sunglasses on. Why somebody would have sunglasses in here, I don’t really know.
Two men enter the room seconds later. Wilkinson is with the man who was talking. They stop speaking and command to a man on the other side of the room from me, “Scott, look up ‘Karleigh Varner’. Don’t do anything else until you have every possible piece of information on her.”
That’s me. Why do they want to know about me? Especially every little thing. I obviously don’t even know everything about me.
I look at the computer screen in front of me. A webpage is pulled up. The title of the search is “Oliver Anderson”. I skim through the articles then notice a document window at the bottom. It opens to hundreds of words all about Oliver. A time, place, and date is recorded at the bottom: 1:42 a.m. Rustle Stadium, NC June 15. Today is June 14. A clock on the desk shows 10:18 a.m. Oliver Anderson must be their newest victim. I quickly write the information on the back of the picture in my pocket.
Before I can read anything else, the elevator stops on this floor. I peak over the darkened lenses to see who it is. Of course, it’s Blake. But how?
He searches the room for only a moment then walks my way. “Karleigh….” The way he says my name reminds me of a fourth grader being scolded for eating all the cookies.
I slip the glasses off my face, “Blake. How did you get down here? I blocked this floor when the energy transferred.”
“I overruled it,” he sits down in the chair next to me.
“How? And how did you know which floor?”
“I saw the button reflected on the wall.”
Thinking back to the elevator, the walls are not clear enough to see a reflection. Well, unless you have my eyesight.
“Blake,” I lower my voice so much that only heightened hearing could understand—as a test, “how did you override block?”
“My remote,” he whispers.
My eyes widen incredibly. So it’s true, and he is lying about it! He’s just like me.
“No it wasn’t!” I don’t bother to lower my voice anymore. A few people, for the first time ever, look up at us.
He stands up and pulls me with him. We go through the door that leads to the hall. Out of the five doors, he opens the last set—double doors that are three feet wide, made of red cherry wood.