Sam’s wolf grin was back. “I like it when the stakes are high.”
He opened the door a crack. At the far end of the corridor were two men in gray suits. Their gait was calm but deliberate, and something about it unnerved Sam, though he couldn’t say why. The men seemed out of place—not like postal workers. More like security of some sort. If pressed, Sam could use his skills to disorient the men long enough to get away, but that was an absolute last resort. He liked keeping his divining talent—if that’s what it was—a secret. Secrets were protection.
Evie peered over his shoulder. “Who is that? Police?” she whispered, confirming his gut reaction.
“Don’t know, but they don’t look friendly. Come on. We can’t get out that way,” Sam said, shutting the door. “We’ll have to go out the way we came in.”
“Sam. There’s nothing to catch us on the other side. We could break an ankle. What if those men hear us? What if they want to use the lavatory?”
The footsteps were very close now.
“Maybe they don’t even want this office,” Evie whispered.
“Maybe,” Sam said, but he flipped the latch on the door anyway. The footsteps echoed louder, coming closer, then stopped just outside the office. Sam grabbed Evie’s hand, and they dove under the desk and squeezed in together. The space was tight. Evie could only curl up against Sam. His hand rested on her arm and his mouth was against her neck.
The doorknob rattled, then fell silent. It was followed a few seconds later by the click of a key in the lock. Evie took in a sharp breath.
“Easy, Sheba,” Sam whispered, his breath warm on her skin.
Hallway light spilled across the office floor, then receded as the door was shut again. From their hiding spot under the desk, Evie and Sam could see the gray trouser legs and black shoes of the two men as they moved silently around the abandoned office. File drawers were opened and shut. One of the men stood in front of the desk, very close, and Evie’s heart hammered so hard in her ears, she feared it could be heard plainly. Sam rubbed his thumb in small circles against the inside of her wrist. It was meant as a reassuring gesture, but it sent shivers up her arm and made her head buzzy.
One of the men spoke. His voice was bland, almost soothing. “See anything that looks like a prophecy?”
“Not unless it’s written in dust,” the other man said. His voice was quieter and raspy, like a broken whisper.