Chapter 7: Records Room

Cullen took the key from Martin's hand.

"Thank you."

"Lock up after yourselves," Martin said, with a glance at my loose hair and my wrinkled skirt. "Culture matters."

He walked away whistling.

I stood in the corridor with my face on fire.

"He knows," I said.

"He knows we were here late. He doesn't know what we did."

"He looked at my skirt."

"He looked at your skirt because he's a pig."

I fixed my ponytail in the dark glass and followed Cullen down to the basement.

The records room was behind the filing room, past the cardboard boxes, through a steel door with a push-button lock.

Inside, the air was dry and cold.

Gray cabinets lined the walls from floor to ceiling.

A single bulb hung in the middle of the room.

"Where do we start?" I said.

"Personnel. Disciplinary. Anything marked HR."

"Cullen, there must be a thousand folders."

"Then it's a long night."

It took forty minutes.

I found it first.

At the bottom of the last cabinet there was a flat gray drawer marked HOLD in black marker, with no year.

I pulled it open.

Inside were fourteen manila folders, thin, held together with a red rubber band.

On every one a purple stamp had been pressed across the tab.

I read the stamp twice.

CLOSED. MARLOWE INTEGRATION HOLD.

My mouth went dry.

"Cullen," I said.

He came over so fast he knocked a box off the shelf.

"What?"

"Fourteen sealed complaints."

He took the drawer from my hands.

He went through the tabs with a shaking thumb, past names I didn't know, past dates from the last two years.

Third from the back, he stopped.

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