The building looked forgotten — three stories of stained brick, a faded outline above the doors where a sign used to be.
Four days earlier, Mercer had walked through those doors and vanished. Vance had supplied the address.
Corbin tried the handle. Unlocked.
He didn't like that.
The lobby was empty, lit by grey daylight through dusty windows. A dead reception desk. A row of old chairs.
No struggle. No broken glass. No overturned furniture. The total absence of violence bothered him more than a fight would have.
Upstairs, the offices were stripped — empty desks, filing cabinets, cardboard boxes.
Mercer's office sat at the end of the hall, the door open. Wiped clean. Drawers open and empty. Computer, phone, files — all gone.
Someone had searched the place thoroughly.
Corbin checked the drawers anyway. Top: empty. Middle: empty. Bottom: empty. Filing cabinets: empty.
He pulled out his phone and called Samantha. She answered on the second ring.
"The place is empty," he said. "Tossed clean — drawers, files, everything."
"Then come home before whoever tossed it decides to come back."
"Almost done."
"Corbin—"
"Almost," he said, and hung up.
Then the floor. One plank beneath the desk sat slightly higher than the rest. A thin scratch ran along its edge, where it had been pried up before.
He knelt, slid his knife under the edge, and lifted.
A small black notebook. Worn cover, no name, no label.
He flipped through it. Numbers, dates, initials, addresses in messy handwriting. No key. No explanations.
The last entry was dated a few days ago.
Whoever tossed the room had missed it. He pocketed the notebook and left.
Samantha sat at the kitchen table when he got back. She looked up immediately. "Did you find him?"
"No. And before you ask, traffic is a lie. I don't get stuck in traffic."
"You are traffic." She stood when she saw his face. "But you found something."
Corbin set the notebook on the table. "Mercer's. Hidden under the floorboards in his office. The people who tossed the place missed it."
She opened the cover and scanned the first page. "Dates, numbers, initials — no explanations." She looked at him. "Do you know what any of it means?"
"If I did, I wouldn't have brought it home."
"Fair point."
They worked through the pages for twenty minutes. Then Samantha stopped, pointing at a column. "Wait. These repeat — the same numbers next to different dates. Maybe they aren't dates at all. Look at these: building numbers, street names. These are locations."
Corbin typed one address into his phone. An office building. Another: a warehouse. A third: a storage facility.
"How many of these are there?"
"Eleven."
"Mercer liked redundancy."
"Or options." Corbin typed another address. "A dry cleaner. A print shop. Nothing ties them together except his handwriting."
"These three are banks," she said, tapping a column. "And these two look like payphone numbers, which is very Mercer of him."
"Payphones?"
"Old school."
She tapped one entry, circled twice in the margin. "This one's marked, and it's last. The clinic."
"That's why it's last."
She pointed to the final entry, written just days before. "That one?"
Corbin searched it. His expression changed.
"What is it?"
"A private medical clinic. It closed eight years ago."
"Why keep an address for a place that's been shut for almost a decade?"
"Because I think he's there. Or someone is."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
"Then let's hope it's enough."
"It will be."
He was already standing.
"You're going, and you're taking Vance."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You're getting reckless, and he knows more about Mercer than you do. I don't trust him either — good, keep it that way — but he knows the ground, and you don't want to clear that place alone."
"I've cleared places alone."
"I know. That's what worries me." She stood and straightened his jacket collar, then kissed him quickly. "Just come home."
"Count on it."
Vance pulled up outside the apartment an hour later. Corbin was already waiting on the curb.
Vance rolled down his window. "Where are we headed?"
Corbin handed him a copy of the notebook entry. "Mercer's last location — an old clinic, closed eight years. It was in a notebook hidden in his office. Someone tossed the place thoroughly and missed it."
Vance scanned the paper. "You went back there alone."
"Someone had already done the hard part." Corbin got into the passenger seat.
"What's at the clinic?"
"We're going to find out."
They drove in silence for a while. Then Vance said, "You ever work with anyone before?"
"No."
"Huh." Vance watched the road. "It's going well."
"We'll see."
"That's not reassuring."
"You'll live. Industrial district."
"Of course it is. I'd prefer a map."
"I'd prefer you watching the road."
Neither man noticed the black sedan that pulled out from the curb three blocks behind them, matching their speed toward the industrial district.
The clinic sat on the edge of town — three floors of cracked brick, the lower windows boarded up.
Vance parked across the street. "Looks dead."
"Too clean." Corbin pointed at the alley beside the building. "Dead leaves everywhere except the path to that side door, and those tire tracks are fresh."
"You sure about this?"
"No. Someone's using the place."
"Good." Vance killed the engine. "Honesty."
They crossed into the alley. The rear door was old, but the heavy padlock on the latch was brand new, free of rust.
Corbin touched the cool metal. "Recent. Visits, not break-ins."
"Think he's inside?"
"Someone is."
"I don't like this," Vance said.
"You don't have to. Quiet and fast. Stay behind me."
A faint metallic scrape echoed from deep inside the building.
Both men froze.
"Count them?" Vance whispered.
"Can't. Stay close."
Corbin caught Vance's eye and gave a single nod. The right place — or a trap.