One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(38)

I’ve almost given up hope of getting inside when I reach the litter-filled alley that runs along the back of the factory. I step around a discarded air conditioning unit, squeeze by a dumpster, and finally find a small back entrance, probably an emergency exit of some kind. It’s still half-boarded over, but some of the plywood panels have been yanked off. Even from ten feet away, I can see the metal lock was wrenched open with brute force, probably by squatters or graffiti artists looking for a few blank walls to vandalize.

Before I can talk myself out of it — or pay attention to the small voice in the back of my mind whispering, “Um, maybe you should’ve forgiven Luca in time to bring him on this exploration, you idiot” — I steady my shoulders, push the groaning metal door wide enough to pass through, and slip inside the building.

It’s dark.

Not just dark — pitch black.

I blink my eyes for at least thirty seconds, hoping like hell they’ll adjust. They don’t. Frustrated, I finally just yank out my phone and turn on the flashlight app. The first thing the beam of light catches is a huge rat, scurrying across the floor about ten feet away. It takes all my self-control not to curse at the top of my voice, but I’m not stupid enough to draw that much attention to myself. Not when I don’t know what else is lurking in the dark.

I don’t scare easily. With a past like mine, I suppose that’s a given. But being in places with no visibility, no way of knowing who else is breathing your air, watching you move… that’s one of the most terrifying things imaginable.

You never know who you’ll meet inside buildings like this. I learned early, in my time on the streets, abandoned places don’t stay that way for long. All manner of people find their way in — and they aren’t always friendly.

Rubbing the goose bumps from my arms, I force myself to walk further into the factory. Honestly, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. The deeper I get into the space, the more empty rooms I pass through, the more I begin to feel like I’m running a fool’s errand.

They made jet engines, here. Perfected aircraft systems for military and private use. Most of the equipment is gone, of course, sold at auction to other companies or shipped to another of Lancaster’s workshops in some distant part of the country. All that remains is the faint scent of oil, hanging in the air like a mechanic’s perfume.

There’s a fine layer of dust along the concrete floors — if I shine my narrow beam of light behind me, I can see my footprints like tracks through snow. No one else has been here in a while.

The thought bolsters me enough to keep going.

I pass through a room scattered with empty spray paint cans, the white walls tagged with various gang signs and puffy-lettered slogans whose meanings I can never seem to discern. The teens left their mark and vanished, nothing but cigarette butts and empty beer cans as evidence of their presence.

I’m about ready to give up this crazy crusade and turn back when I cross through a wide archway and find the main assembly line. It’s a cavernous room with staggeringly high ceilings — probably where they built the engines — and my pathetic little light barely illuminates the space around me. The dark seems to encroach from all sides. Shadows slither along the walls, the silence pushes back at me like a weight against my eardrums.

I’ve only made it a few steps inside when I spot them. Footprints, disturbing the dust coating the floor. I stifle a gasp as I make out the distinct shape of a man’s boots, their treads perfectly in tact. They look crisp, fresh — no dust dulling their edges or filling in their borders. It’s clear they’re recent.

Someone’s in here.

The panicked thought bursts into my mind without warning. I bite my lip and hold my breath, trying to regulate my racing heart. It’s no use panicking. If someone really is in here with me, they’ve already seen my flashlight. The damage is done.

You used to be a badass, Zoe Bloom. What happened?

Swallowing hard, I grip the phone tighter in my suddenly clammy fist and start to follow the boot prints across the room. They’re concentrated almost entirely in one area, around a wall of pipes on the far side of the room.

If I had to wager a guess — which I wouldn’t because I’m not a gambler — I’d say it’s some kind of cooling unit. Dealing with superheated steel, molding engine parts, they’d sure as hell need one in here, somewhere.

The room doesn’t look vandalized, like the graffitied space I was in earlier. In fact, the pipes are shiny silver steel, so bright they reflect my flashlight beams back at me when I approach. It’s the oddest thing… they look almost new compared to everything else in the crumbling factory.

In the email Lancaster sent to Linus, his Head of Security, he talked about clean up. I don’t know why but I get the unshakeable feeling that this, right here, is exactly what he was talking about.

I just don’t know what any of it means. Which really pisses me off.

Following the footprints, I see they lead from the pipes to a window. I peer through the foggy glass and make out the shape of a fire escape in the alley outside, its metal corroded with rust, its ladder crumbling from disuse. Just looking at it inspires the need for a tetanus shot.

With a careful sweep of my flashlight, I turn back to glare at the gleaming pipes, willing the answers I’m seeking to materialize like a genie from a bottle.

Think, Zoe. What the hell is so special about these f*cking pipes?