Long ago, I had a T-shirt that said, Be Careful or You’ll End Up In My Novel. I wore it a few times, but usually I wound up discussing my biography with the grocery cashier, the nurse at my doctor’s office, or an ultra-conservative neighbor. I eventually gave it away because it was too much of a conversation starter. I never knew what I’d encounter any time I left the house.

The sentiment, though, is very true. Authors are often asked if they’re in the stories they write, and more self-absorbed people will ask if a character is based on them--usually not as that can get an author in trouble, especially since that little sentence on the title page says, “This is a work of fiction and any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.” That’s true most of the time, as we aren’t a group who likes to be sued. And we’re not “deep pockets” like Bill Gates or big corporations. The only thing I usually have in my pockets is lint.

Still, while I never base characters on real people, most of my book locales are places I’ve lived or visited. Sometimes the settings are much more focused based on a single structure or area. Such was the case with A Secret to Tell. My brother had purchased a house in historic Glendale, a westside suburb of Phoenix. When he’d first viewed the house, his agent told him to be prepared for some weirdness.

Yes, indeed. When he went inside, the entire house was fully furnished, and I don’t just mean with furniture. There was Dawn dish soap by the counter, clothes and hats in the closets, linens in the linen closet, and congealed Saran Wrap in the kitchen. It was as if someone had literally stood up and walked out of the house in 1982 (the year the owner died), took the money and jewelry and NOTHING else. Creepy and weird all in one.

My brother is a pack rat so this was like Christmas to him. Much of what he inherited he sold again. Except for the Dawn dish soap. He threw that out. Wise man.

Chapter One

Victor Guzman, Esquire, halted at the sight of a gunman in his firm’s law library. He’d momentarily returned to his office for a file, and as he returned to the library, movement caught his eye through the glass walls. In the split second it took for him to process imminent danger, the shooter turned, saw him and fired. He covered his ears as glass exploded around him. He didn’t realize he’d started running until he saw the red exit sign above the east stairwell door. He barreled through it and headed up the stairs. Before he reached the first landing, he realized his mistake. He’d opened the door, seen the ascending steps and run up instead of down.

He’d never been in the stairwell. He always took the elevators from the fifth to the tenth floor where the other half of the law firm lived, and he’d been conveniently absent from the monthly fire drills. Now he was regretting those choices. While he easily powered up the first two flights, by the time he reached the seventh floor, he was gulping for air and his legs felt like sandbags.

He paused long enough to jiggle the doorknob, but it was locked, as it should be. A company badge only opened the door for the floors rented by that company. Yet sometimes doors were unlocked if the badge reader was broken. But not tonight.

He heard the fifth floor stairwell door crash open. The shooter was following him and he still had three more flights to go. Each step was one step closer to the tenth floor. He was out of shape, and he never should’ve given up that gym membership after the divorce.

Two more flights.

He whipped around a corner, using the handrail to pull himself up. He glanced down. The shooter leaned over the side, pointing the gun upward. He pushed away from the railing just as
the shot reverberated throughout the stairwell. He jumped and grabbed his ears. It was so loud! He hugged the wall and turned past the ninth floor door.

One more flight.

If he didn’t get through the door before the shooter reached the last landing, he’d be dead, shot in the back. He stumbled, the toe of his dress shoe catching a step. He stayed upright but his heart pounded in his chest, pleading for him to stop.

And the shooter was gaining on him.

He saw the door above. He focused on the black number ten spray-painted on the center. Three, two, one. He was there! He slapped his badge against the key reader and pushed open the door as a shot exploded above him. Tiny fragments of concrete rained on his head. He slammed the door shut behind him and glanced left and right. He went left, hoping the shooter would make the opposite choice. The floor was designed like a square donut with the elevators and stairwells in the center. An employee stretching his legs could make a complete circle and return to his starting point. A sea of empty cubicles filled the southern square footage, each one housing a paralegal or a legal assistant. He ran to the center of the maze and dropped to the floor just as the shooter burst through the stairwell door.

He closed his eyes and listened for footfalls but heard nothing. The shooter had gone to the right, toward the conference rooms and kitchen. Victor knew he had a little time before the shooter circled to the south side and began searching the individual workstations. He crawled toward the back corner cubicle, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the stairwell from which he’d just come. He was also closer to the other stairwell, but he didn’t think he had the energy to power down ten flights. And he couldn’t outrun a bullet.

He crawled past several workstations, noticing his paralegal hadn’t bothered to shut down her computer. He needed to call the police but his phone was in the law library. It suddenly dawned on him that each desk was equipped with a landline. He used the desk phones so infrequently that he’d forgotten they existed. He closed his eyes and listened but heard nothing.

He read the nameplate of the nearest cubicle. Sadie Adelstein. He didn’t know her, but judging from the green cardigan hung on the back of her chair, he guessed she was older. He slowly sat up and peered onto her desk. Sadie’s phone was out of reach, shoved behind her computer. Apparently she rarely used her desk phone either. To grab the handset he’d have to stand and pull it toward him, pushing aside five different photos of two young boys Victor imagined were her grandchildren. He frowned. They had a policy about personal photos.

He slowly lifted his frame over the desk, but his large belly prevented him from leaning over the lip of the tabletop. Swift footsteps approached, but they sounded like the click of a woman’s heels and not the smacking of soles against concrete he’d heard in the stairwell. He dropped to the floor. The heels disappeared, and he heard the stairwell door latch softly engage. It wasn’t the shooter but someone else. Who was here this late on a Tuesday night? She had come from the direction of the conference rooms. She must have heard the gunshots, but she’d managed to escape. She’d call the police! He just needed to stay alive until then.

A loud crash from the kitchen sent him scampering along the back wall. The shooter had finished the search of the north side and would start to comb through the cubicles. Victor peered between two workstations and looked longingly at the elevators. They were ridiculously slow and provided nowhere to hide while he waited. If he tried to cross to the north side, to the conference rooms the shooter had already searched, he’d be seen for sure. His choices were to follow the Lady in Heels and dart down the west stairwell or find a secure hiding place. There was a short hallway that led to the storage room and the executive washroom, both potential hiding spots.

He heard the shooter rustling through the aisles between the workstations. Chairs toppled and the violent clatter of personal items hitting the floor suggested the shooter was as interested in vandalism as he was in murder.
He quietly crawled toward the hallway. Sweat burned his eyes and his shirt was soaked. He glanced over his shoulder. As he turned down the hallway, there would be a second when he was in plain sight. He lifted his head far enough to see the hooded figure turn to inspect a back cubicle.

Go!

He hustled around the corner, and once he was far enough down the hallway, he stood and sprinted to the storeroom. He fumbled with his keys, cursing Isabelle, the office manager, for talking him into regular doorknobs instead of the keypad entry ones he’d wanted to order.

“It’s a money saver,” he mocked quietly. “How about a lifesaver?” His hands shook as he tested each key. He knew he had one but he never used it. That’s what subordinates were for. He jammed key after key against the lock’s face but none of them worked.

“Shit.”

As he stared at the ring, he finally remembered he’d given his storeroom key to Hannah, his personal assistant. He glanced down the hallway and saw the executive washroom and the west stairwell. He had to make a choice. Hide in the bathroom or try to chug down ten floors of stairs before the shooter caught up to him. He thought about the Lady in Heels. Certainly she’d call the police.

He decided on the washroom. The door was solid oak with a deadbolt to ensure only those with the proper key could rest in luxury. After flipping the deadbolt latch, he slipped inside the stall. He sat down on the toilet and checked his watch—exactly nine thirty. This was his punishment for working so late. The property managers had made it very clear to him and his partners that they didn’t pay for late night or weekend security. If you had a heart attack working at your desk, you’d better have your cell phone with you because there wouldn’t be anyone nearby to help. That had certainly been true for his partner who’d died at his desk.

He clutched his chest and steadied his breathing. There was nothing he could do now except wait and hope that the police arrived quickly before the shooter found him and broke down the bathroom door.

He wiped his brow. Hurry, hurry. How long would it take them? What if the Lady in Heels didn’t call the police? What if she wasn’t real? He closed his eyes and bit his lip. I didn’t imagine her, did I? No. He’d distinctly heard the click-click of her shoes. He clasped his hands together, praying she would help him. Whoever she was, she’d get a raise.

The smell of industrial cleaner was giving him a headache. The cleaning crew was done and gone by nine, even that slow pig Iselda. Why did the company keep her?

Nine thirty-one.

For a fleeting second he wondered if he should change locations. He was a literal sitting duck in the bathroom, but his logical lawyer brain told him this was the best he could do. The police would be here soon. Maybe they were here now. Some would come up the stairs while another group would take the elevator. He imagined a gunfight might ensue, or a more likely possibility would be that the shooter would flee. His attempt at killing Victor certainly hadn’t gone as planned.

He pondered the identity of the shooter. The list of people who held a grudge against him was long. He’d made enemies as a family law attorney and his recent divorce had been messy. His ex certainly wished him dead. He wiped the sweat from his face with a shirtsleeve. If he got out of this alive, he vowed to be different. He’d treat people better. He’d exercise. Maybe his son Miguel would join a gym with him. He needed to lose a few pounds. He’d stop chasing tail and maybe his ex would take him back.

He glanced at the oak panels of the bathroom stall. This was safe, somewhat embarrassing, but safe. He’d send the Lady in Heels some flowers. It was the least he could do since she saved his life.

He checked his watch again. Two more minutes had passed. Where were those cops?

Then he heard a click and the hinge squeak he’d reported to maintenance three times. He’d forgotten one thing: the shooter might have a key to the executive washroom.