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something about him, a humming energy beneath his skin that I now recognized as the creative force. This man looked far more like a successful businessman than Malcolm did. His dark hair was cut in a sober style instead of Malcolm's wild locks, his skin was pale and his eyes were dark and serious behind gold-rimmed glasses. His coat hung well on his lean body, and he seemed surprised to actually find me when his line of sight crested the stairs.
    “Oh! Miss MacElroy. There you are...”
    I took a step back, even though I knew it was futile. It showed I was weak, too. But instead of pressing his advantage, Mr. Denton suddenly looked contrite.
    “I'm so sorry,” he said, and he spread his hands, showing me his palms. A clear, universal gesture that told me he meant no harm, and I forced myself to relax a tiny bit, but the thumb drive in my underwear was a harsh reminder that I had a job to do. An important job. I didn't have time to talk to whoever this man was.
    “Sorry,” I said. “I was just leaving.”
    “Please!” The word erupted from him and he took a step forward, startling me. The edge in my blood came back. Who was this guy, and why was he here?
    I narrowed my eyes. “Yes?”
    He subsided a bit. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. You are Sadie MacElroy, yes?”
    I lifted a brow. “Who wants to know?” Not the most original of lines, but I felt that, given the circumstances, it was a legitimate one.
    He seemed to relax. “My apologies. My name is Morris Denton. I'm the Chief Technical Officer of Warden Industries. I've worked with Mr. Ward for a number of years and it's my belief that he is innocent of the fraud and embezzlement charges that have been leveled against him.” His British accent was pleasant and lilting, and I had to fight my natural impulse to agree with him on the assumption that someone with a British accent would naturally know what they were talking about.
    “How do you know who I am?” I asked him instead.”
    He colored. “Everyone knows who you are. As Mr. Ward's current paramour and alleged kidnapping victim—” He held up a hand as I opened my mouth to protest. “—which it is obvious you were not, you are in a very privileged position and I have been frantic to reach you. You are well protected by your employer at the moment, but I have to admit I asked someone to watch the house and let me know if you showed up... I thought if you did, I might be able to enlist your help.”
    Oh, really? I wasn't quite buying it. This guy had to be an undercover reporter or something. “Help with what?”
    “With finding evidence of Mr. Ward's innocence, of course.”
    “Why would you think I would know anything about that?”
    His brow furrowed. “I've watched Mr. Ward grow increasingly erratic over the past half year. It was clear something was bothering him. Fleeing the country with a young woman is only the culmination of his behavior, and it is not entirely unlikely that he may have taken you into his confidence.”
    “I wasn't,” I lied.
    His face fell. “But... perhaps, as someone who knew his personal habits, you might have a guess?” I stared at him and he held his hands out, a gesture of vulnerability. “I admire Mr. Ward very much. He has been like a mentor to me. Please, help me?”
    My eyes narrowed, but his face remained placid, pleading.
    “You say your name is Morris Denton?” I said at last. “And you're the CTO of Malcolm's company?”
    He nodded.
    “Then I'm going to have to see some photo ID,” I told him, and crossed my arms.
    I mean, come on. I'm not fucking stupid.
    A flash of something crossed his face, but almost immediately it was eclipsed by a relieved smile. “Of course,” he said. He opened his fine coat and dug into the inside pocket, taking out his wallet. Opening it, he selected a card and handed it to me. I plucked it from his fingers and studied it.
    That was a mistake. The first thing people do when they look at a license is