Shadow Kissed 03 - Shadowman

the digital shots would quickly prove she’d been there for hours, not the MO of a lost hiker. To come so close . . .
    She held on to the camera and switched to grit. “So I snapped a few shots of the building. It looked cool. Is that a crime?”
    â€œNow,” the man said. “Or I will take it from you.”
    Double damn. No time to pull out the memory card. Layla removed the strap from around her neck and handed over the camera. Wasn’t like she could refuse He-man and She-ra. “Will I get the camera back? It was expensive.”
    â€œThis way,” the woman said, turning back into the woods as she took up the lead. The man maneuvered to take up the rear.
    â€œWhere are you taking me?”
    Neither answered. Crap.
    Layla swallowed hard and followed.
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    Agitation bounced like a bright ball in Layla’s stomach as she followed the male soldier through the ground floor of what used to be the Fulton Holiday Hotel and was now The Segue Institute. She hadn’t counted on getting inside the castle. Inside was a scary place to be, but the soldier didn’t know that she knew it, so she kept her expression modulated to suit her cover story—anxiety mixed with I-want-to-see-the-man-in-charge self-righteousness. And she had in fact requested to see him.
    They passed through several sparsely furnished connected rooms. Afternoon sun fell through tall, arched windows. The effect was lovely, elegant. Her imagination flashed with a scene of fancied-up, turn-of-the-century hotel patrons chatting, strolling, taking tea, a ghostly twist of time. She could almost hear violins, the murmur of voices.
    When they reached a set of beautiful, paneled doors, she asked for the twentieth time, “Where are you taking me?”
    The guard kept his square jaw shut, his ruddy face neutral and composed.
    Great. She could see the headline: JOURNALIST DISAPPEARS IN THE APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS . The last piece with her name on it would be an obituary.
    The guard tapped a code into a panel at the door, and she kept an eyeball on the pattern of his fingers. He typed fast—six digits, the first two a five and a three, the rest obscured by a sudden shift of his body.
    He was definitely not buying her story, though she had the sweaty, bedraggled ponytail to prove it. She couldn’t help it if she got “lost.” If she “wandered” onto the property of a private research facility. If she “happened” to shoot a photo that would’ve accompanied an article that revealed Segue for what it was.
    She attempted to peek around the door before entering, but the guard none too gently nudged her inside. As expected, he closed the door on her plaintive “But, sir, I . . .” and locked her in.
    No luck (or pity) there.
    Layla turned and surveyed her prison. The room was large and solely furnished with a long table of some dark, varnished wood, surrounded by sleek office chairs. The table probably cost a mint, but then, Adam Thorne had a mint to spend. The rest of the room was similarly Thorne-fabulous, moldings edging the walls, as well as ornately framing the flat expanses all the way to the high ceiling. The floor was made up of glossy wood squares, diagonally arranged in alternating deep and lighter tones. A ballroom with a conference table. Okeydokey.
    She shrugged off her backpack, dropping it onto the floor, swiveled the nearest chair out from the table, and collapsed into it. Chairs were lovely things. The long-dry film of sweat that coated her skin cracked with the movement and she caught a whiff of herself. Wow. But very lost hiker–ish.
    Now a wait while they decided what to do with her.
    kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
    Layla leaned forward, her elbows propped on her knees, and massaged her temples. If this kept up, she was going to have a raging migraine.
    She lowered her hands and noticed the pale pink band of skin where her engagement ring used to be. A pang of sharp regret hit her hard. She never should have said yes. Sure, she cared for Ty, but . . . But she couldn’t help who she was, and she couldn’t change either. Calling it off had been the decent thing to do. She had the engagement ring reminder to show for it, and this one she couldn’t take off.
    The only thing left was work. Work kept her focused, her mind from wandering, which was becoming a problem. Work was important. She raised her gaze to the ballroom door. She had no patience for