The final clip was recorded one hour before I'd arrived:
The elevator doors slid open. He stepped out with his arm around Mary's waist. They stopped just outside our front door—and kissed. Long, slow, desperate. The kind of kiss that made it hard to tell where one person ended and the other began.
Mary's hand slipped inside his coat. I'd never seen her like that. So eager. So hungry.
I recognized him instantly.
Dean Gilbert. Mary's new assistant.
I'd seen his résumé. Twenty-five years old, back from some overseas program.
Six-foot-one, with the kind of face that opened doors.
The video froze on the frame where he dipped his head to kiss the curve of her neck.
I closed the window and leaned back in my chair.
That's when the knock came. Two raps. Not too soft, not too loud.
"Come in."
The door swung open.
And there he was.
Dean Gilbert, in a tailored light-gray suit that showed off his height and long legs. Every hair in place. His eyes carried the sharp confidence of youth—edged with something lazier. Almost arrogant.
He held a folder in one hand.
"Chairman Dickerson."
His voice was clear, all business.
"President Henson asked me to deliver this year-end bonus list for your signature."