“For asking questions about an account that doesn’t belong to you.”

Down the hall someone let the copier lid slam, and the sound traveled through the floor.

“I understand you just fine,” I said.

“Good.” She walked away, then paused at the far end.

“And the supply closet by the stairwell isn’t a records room.

It’s stenciled four-oh-two, and it’s padlocked for a reason.”

I hadn’t asked her a thing about the closet.

The number was painted on the door in gray stenciled block letters, the hasp was brand new, and the lock hanging from it was brass.