“Freya."
Jackson said her name like a verdict. He took three quick steps across the pavement. Monica moved to block him.
“Back up," Monica said.
Jackson's eyes never left Freya. “Why did you run?" he asked. “Why didn't you come home?"
Freya stood very still. “Don't touch me."
He reached anyway, fingers closing around her wrist. “We're talking," he said. “Now."
Monica grabbed his sleeve. “Let go."
“Security," the receptionist called from the revolving door. “We need security."
People slowed—employees leaving work, a couple on the sidewalk, a courier with a box. Phones lifted, sly and quick.
Francis pushed through the glass doors. “What's happening?" he asked, voice sharp.
Jackson didn't look at him. “Personal matter," he said. “Stay out of it."
Francis stepped down to the top sta
